

# ANTI LIFE

ALLEN KUZARA
Copyright © 2016 Allen Kuzara

All rights reserved.

ISBN:1533526702

ISBN-13:9781533526700
This book is dedicated to my lovely wife Gena on her birthday.

# Part 1 - Novos
## Chapter 1

COLONEL JOHN ALVAREZ was suspicious of success. Docking in enemy territory wasn't supposed to be this easy. If they had been detected, there wasn't any indication.

Alvarez opened the access hatch and gave the signal. The five-man crew exited their craft and fanned out into the arrival bay. After taking their places, they looked back at Alvarez and waited for further orders.

Colonel John Alvarez was young to be in a command position. Too young, but these things happen in war, especially with an untrained force of guerrilla fighters.

The station was a ghost town. Alvarez expected as much. The message that Novos Corp intercepted stated the space dock was temporarily understaffed, maybe even unmanned. The garrison of troops normally stationed there had been redeployed to a nearby skirmish.

I hope they're right, Alvarez thought. By this point in the Fight, the Statists had become brutal with off-worlders. He didn't know if it was true, but Alvarez and everyone on this mission believed the same thing: Statists took no prisoners. They wouldn't bother taking space rats down to Earth.

Through covert surveillance, this station had been monitored by Outer-Five corporate settlements from day-one of the Fight. The Global Union of Nations, commonly called the Statists by the Outer-Five, had set up a self-imposed embargo, a blockade orbiting the Earth. Its function was two-fold: to eliminate trade with the Outer-Five, and to keep off-worlders from hitting vulnerable targets on Earth's surface.

It was believed that if they could find an opening, a weakness in the blockade's defenses, that it would be simple for the Outer-Five to shove ballistic missiles down the throats of the Statists defenses and hit key targets on the planet's surface. So far, the Statists' defensive strategy had worked, but they were relying on a highly leveraged position; almost all their armament systems were in geo-sync orbit. "Crack the shell," General McKinley had said, "and the egg will run."

Fisher broke the silence. "Looks like nobody's home."

"I-I-I bet we could make it back for Donaldson's game tonight," said Jitters, the youngest squad member. He was barely a teenager. "H-h-he promised me a t-t-two-to-one handicap if I came."

"Don't celebrate just yet," Alvarez said. "Everybody keep quiet and keep your eyes peeled. Let's get this over with."

Alvarez led the men to the single hallway that exited the bay. He knew where he was and where he was going. If you'd seen one elevator station, you'd seen them all. He looked at the walls. On top of the industrial-gray primer was a mosaic of scrape marks and paint chips deposited by unwitting transport drivers. It would seem beautiful if it wasn't a common feature of all commercial ports. These places were designed for utility, without aesthetic considerations. They just had to work.

Alvarez felt exposed. He had little cover to hide behind, and everything was over-sized to accommodate the massive containers, parts, and machinery that were transported daily to and from the planet's surface.

As the team traversed the hallway, ceiling lights flickered. Their path grew darker with each step. Alvarez reassured himself; the Fight made poor house-keepers of us all, he thought. Parts of Novos looked no better.

They turned a corner and realized how much they had relied on docking bay lights to illuminate their way. Alvarez reached for his rifle's light attachment and turned it on. The others followed his example.

He looked down the hall into virtual darkness. He hesitated as he raised his light, fearful of drawing unwanted attention. The hall, he knew, would open up into a storage bay. He spotted vertically stacked shipping containers.

To his right was a set of windowless bay doors. The momentary gladness Alvarez experienced from not having to travel further down the hall vanished and was replaced by new anxieties. What was behind these doors? He knew there was an elevator terminal, the connection point between earth and space. Almost everything and everyone got off world via an elevator. Ship propulsion was simply too impractical, inefficient, and expensive to use for transport on any world with significant gravity.

He knew what he had to do in there: get in, set charges, and get out. The real question—the one that mattered now—was whether the terminal was unmanned as Novos had promised.

Alvarez ordered his men to line up against the wall on both sides of the bay doors. He wished for a quick or quiet way to enter the terminal, but there wasn't one.

Here's the moment of truth, Alvarez thought. He engaged the wall console, and the doors split in the middle, slowly and loudly pulling apart.

"Go!" Alvarez shouted as he entered the room. His eyes scanned for movement, for threats, but found none. He stopped, and his men nearly ran over him. There in the center of the room, unguarded, was the space elevator terminal.

There was a problem. The cradle—the compartment that carried people and supplies up and down the elevator—wasn't in the station. It had to be down below, somewhere between them and Earth. Their objective was more than just blowing up the elevator terminal. They needed to plant one detonator in the station and send a second one down the cable with the cradle. The two explosions would disable the terminal and disrupt the elevator's geo-sync stability. The station would be crippled.

"Fisher, call up the cradle," Alvarez commanded. "Jitters, go sweep behind those shipping containers. Make sure we're alone." He turned back and faced the hangar doors. "Mendez and Stewart, guard the entrance. It's our only way out of here."

He walked toward the massive wall console, an array of computers, monitors, and communications hardware. Their job was simple enough, as long as they had no guests. He needed to check the rest of the station. Some of the commands he entered were executed, but others required a key code. He couldn't access visual reports. He continued to search the accessible files trying to gather as much intel as he could.

"It's all clear, sir," Jitters said, coming up to Alvarez.

"Confirmed," Alvarez answered, his voice rough. He maintained his focus on the console, scanning as many files as he could access.

He recognized the sound of the atmospheric lock opening and the elevator cradle entering the station.

"It's up, Colonel," Fisher said.

Alvarez turned to see Fisher with his back to the elevator. He wore a dumb grin. Something blinked red behind Fisher. On the cradle Alvarez saw a plasma detonator.

"Get down!" Alvarez shouted. He tackled Jitters, landing behind one of the shipping containers. He heard the nauseating hum of the detonator charge up. Then a bluish-white light permeated the room as the intense energy dispersed.

_It was a trap_. The words echoed through Alvarez's mind as he jumped to his feet. "Jitters, get up," he said while tugging his arm. Jitters didn't move. He couldn't have been hit by the blast, Alvarez thought. They were behind the containers, and Alvarez was on top him. He must have been knocked unconscious.

He peeked around the container and saw Statist troops flood the room. There were too many to count. The lack of blast fire told him that Mendez, Stewart, and Fisher were already dead. The detonator got them.

He gritted his teeth, toggled his rifle to wide-spec, and spun around the corner. With the element of surprise, he mowed down a handful of troops. But he was hopelessly outnumbered, and the volley of return fire forced him to retreat.

Somehow his mind ignored his immediate concern and puzzled over how he had gotten there. It was an ambush, he decided. It was a carefully crafted snare. And he was caught in it. Whatever intel Novos had intercepted was bad. He had been set up. Now, it was only a matter of time before he was dead or captured.

What was the difference? Statists don't take prisoners of war. He wasn't a soldier in their eyes, because he didn't fight for a nation state. He was less than human to them, he thought. Why was he waiting? Maybe he could take out two or three more before they got him. If he did nothing, it would only be a matter of time before one of those goons tossed a detonator his way.

That was it, he thought. There was an idea, the only glimmer of hope. There was a way to finish the mission. To live, to survive, was an impossibility. But there was a chance he could finish the job and take those jack-booted thugs out with him.

"I'm coming out!" he shouted. "I surrender!"

The blast fire ceased. He heard one of the troops yell, "He's giving up. Cease fire."

He knew what he had to do, but his legs wouldn't move. He heard the same voice again. "Come out with your weapon above your head."

Maybe they do take prisoners, he thought. Probably they would torture him—Statists called it interrogation—in order to extract information. Then they would kill him. That's what he counted on, anyway.

He slowly stepped forward. His heart pounded in his throat, and his knees threatened to give out from under him. He heard the same voice again. "Put your weapon down and get on the ground!"

Alvarez heard the command, but it sounded distant. It was as if he was underwater listening to poolside shouts. He couldn't bring himself to look up, to face his accusers. Instead he stared at the elevator terminal. The discharged detonator, blackened but otherwise intact, sat on the cradle. The plasma burst was devastating to organic tissue, but metallic structures were immune. He moved slowly toward it. His foot hit something. He looked down to see part of Fisher's torso. The blast had blown him into pieces.

The shouts continued. "On the ground! Move any closer and you're dead!"

Alvarez stopped. His weapon was high above his head. To his right was the elevator terminal. He could see underneath the cradle, fifteen feet down to the closed atmospheric lock. He got down on his knees slowly, his rifle still above his head. Like an act of worship, he lowered it to the floor.

"He's got a detonator!" shouted a different soldier.

Alvarez held a live explosive device in his right hand, previously hidden behind his rifle stock. With the primer initiated, the device would activate three seconds after it left his palm. There was no turning back now.

He had made two correct guesses: the troops would let him surrender, and they wouldn't fire when he revealed the detonator. Their abhorrence for him and his kind was only surpassed by their desire to live. Alvarez promised himself that he wouldn't make the same mistake they had.

"Disengage your detonator, or we'll shoot!" screamed the first man.

An empty threat, Alvarez thought. If they were going to shoot him, they would have done so already.

The Statists troops, without receiving the command to do so, slowly backed away toward the entrance. Alvarez glanced at the elevator beside him. One toss down the shaft, and the terminal would be disabled. But if the explosion didn't kill him, the Statists would.

The soldiers' shouts became an unintelligible clamor. Some stomped their feet, while others made broad gestures with their hands and weapons. Alvarez sat, crouched on the floor. His upper body levitated inches above the ground, still in worship-pose. His hand, gripping the grenade, shook as he mustered courage. His next move would be his last. _This is it_ , he thought.

Suddenly, blast fire ripped up the air beside Alvarez's head, and two of the troops fell dead. Jitters was awake. Wasting no time, Alvarez tossed his grenade into the center of the mob and dove over the rim of the elevator pit. He heard the explosion right as he landed, shattering his ankle on the atmospheric lock.

"Wake up. John, wake up," said a gentle voice.

Alvarez squinted. The room was dark except for light coming through cracks in the window blinds. His eyes now focused, Alvarez saw Nadia, his wife, leaning over him.

"You're having a nightmare," she whispered, stroking his arm.

"That was no dream," he said slowly. "That really happened."

"The explosion?" she asked, but she already knew the answer. "That was fifteen years ago," she pronounced sympathetically.

She glanced down to the foot of the bed. Alvarez's arms still reached for his ankle, his body writhing in phantom pain. Then he relaxed his downward reach and self-consciously eased back into a prone position.

"John, I'm sorry," she said before looking away. This wasn't the first time this had happened, and Alvarez thought she was running out of ways to console him.

Her eyes drifted about the room, then widened when she saw the time. She sat upright, clutched Alvarez's arm, and said, "You're going to be late for work.

## Chapter 2

ALVAREZ WAS A BEAR. His body, still asleep, refused to obey his mind. He swung his legs out of bed. They were heavy, unstable. His mental fly-wheel was no different. Part of his consciousness kept clicking over, drifting back into dream-land.

What propelled him forward, the essential catalyst evoked by this and other similar situations, was anger. Anger for oversleeping. Anger because there was no one else to blame. Anger because he still hadn't learned his lesson.

Why didn't the alarm wake me?, Alvarez thought. He glared incredulously at the time-stamp on the wall console and tried to recall events from last night. They had fallen asleep watching vid-feeds. He must have forgotten to set the alarm. Why was it when he stretched out a little, indulged in a bit of fun, he seemed to always pay a dear price? A new injection of guilt fueled his anger.

There was no point in thinking about it now. The moment called for action. He grabbed a shirt and pair of pants and tried dressing as he moved from the bedroom. He threw on the shirt quickly, but the pants were another story. Still struggling with his bad leg, he banged into the hallway wall and a picture frame crashed to the floor. He left it, afraid to look and see which one he'd ruined.

At the kitchenette, a mug of coffee waited for him. He grabbed it, thankful that at least something was on time, even if he wasn't.

He rang the bell at the front door and heard the quiet hum of the service elevator running up to his apartment. Even after dreamless nights, the residential elevator always reminded him of his mission with Jitters.

This one central shaft was connected to all parts of the orbiter. Like a jack-in-the-box, the elevator made a loud clang that startled Alvarez. Then a much softer bell rang as the apartment and elevator doors, now synchronized, opened.

Alvarez stepped in and felt the air temperature drop. It wasn't frigid, but his skin told him he was no longer in his cozy apartment. The air smelled stale, slightly metallic.

Unlike the crude cradle on space elevators, ones in residential orbiters were rather sophisticated. Their inner compartment had a flat floor on which to stand, but the walls and ceiling were spherical. The inner unit was self-righting and glided against an exterior shell, which was bound to the shaft and followed faithfully on its tracks. Passengers maintained their orientation, despite relative changes in angle or pitch.

Alvarez spoke his destination, "Transit station." The elevator rushed down the chute. He hoped he was the only passenger along the way.

There was an elbow-shaped curve near the end of the shaft. Without slowing, the elevator made the sharp turn with ease. Alvarez's only indication of the turn was the slight sense of weightlessness he experienced as the computer lagged in recalculating the elevator's artificial gravity. The AG system under the floor had to adjust to the track's new trajectory.

The low-pitched hum became softer as the elevator slowed to a stop. The bell rang, the door opened, and Alvarez stepped out onto a platform where a handful of people stood.

The transit station resembled a large garage or tech bay. It lacked the furnishings and aesthetics that the rest of his orbiter possessed. Its utilitarian look was yet another reminder that Alvarez was on his way to the grindstone.

Above the transit pad, numerous vid-feeds played on wall consoles. Sensors detected eye contact and with little interference to bystanders, projected focused sound toward the interested viewer. As he glanced at each screen, he heard the program's volume elevate.

"Congratulations to Amanda and Terrance Day who are expecting their first bundle of joy..." a local feed.

"Taking time to plan your death isn't most people's idea of fun..." an advert feed.

"Got more certs than time? Or maybe you have more time than certs. You need little of either with First Novos Fellowship..." a religious feed.

"You gotta lotta nerve coming back here, Snake Eyes. I thought you were in prison..." an action feed.

He jumped from screen to screen and finally stared at the least obnoxious vid-feed he could find, the one with the arrival timer. The next transit would arrive in less than thirty seconds. He hated being late, and he hated not being able to do anything about it. He had to just stand there and wait.

On either side of the transit pad were massive bay doors that served as both airlocks and access ports. Alvarez heard the hiss of atmosphere flooding into the access port to his left. The bay door opened and the transit shuttle, already grounded, rolled forward via gears in the station's floor.

"Here's our soup," said one of Alvarez's neighbors. He recognized the man but couldn't remember his name. The transit was shaped like a giant soup can turned on its side, which was how it earned its nickname. The only defect in the metaphor was in the transit's flattened landing surface.

The shuttle doors opened, and Alvarez and the passengers entered. There was a woman and her son already onboard. He recognized their faces too. Alvarez's son Adam had a play-date with them a few weeks ago. They lived on Tatum, the orbiter before Nakasaw on the relay loop. Alvarez grimaced a smile in their direction. He was too tired for small talk. As the passengers took their seats, the transit exited through the airlock.

Alvarez looked out his window, trying to spot his apartment as they passed by. The orbiter was a blur, the transit moving too quickly for him to focus on individual windows. But as they moved further away, the larger structure revealed its shape.

Each orbiter was unique, but they all followed the same L-shape design: an upper rotating tower adjoined to a stationary lower base. The bottom structure formed a wide rim that always faced the nearest star. This rim contained all locales that required continuous light: the transit station, social halls, a pseudo-park, and the primary solar array.

All space architecture was designed with light in mind. Solar arrays were the primary source of power for most permanent structures. Only vessels that routinely moved out of orbit still used nuclear reactors.

People wanted light for more than just power. They needed it to help regulate their circadian clocks, to help their minds and bodies know when to wake up and go to bed. Artificial light played a part, but there was always a premium placed on real starlight. It wasn't until people settled in space that they realized the true extent of their dependence on light.

Unlike Novos station, Alvarez's orbiter wasn't built for maximum solar aspect. It was designed to utilize both light and darkness. People were still terrestrial creatures, after all—best suited for life on a revolving planet.

The cylindrical upper section of Nakasaw orbiter was a residential tower. It rotated on a twenty-four-hour cycle, a crude but effective way to simulate earth's turning. Some orbiters were stretched to thirty-hour cycles or longer. Even in space, there weren't enough hours in the day.

In the Nakasaw orbiter, each unit received twelve equal hours of light and darkness. It was an eternal equinox. Residents didn't share floors with neighbors that were horizontally adjacent to them. Instead, neighbors shared the same vertical row. They experienced the same starlight at the same time, the same mornings, and the same nights. The light-experience of adjacent residents was offset by one hour.

People set their day by which vertical floor they lived in. As if scattered on opposite sides of a planet, people on different floors were effectively in different time zones. Consequently, there were no official workdays, no real night-shift, and perhaps most importantly, no rush-hour traffic. Instead there was a steady flow of people coming and going at every hour. Businesses utilized workers around the clock which added to production. The same machines, laboratories, hangar bays, etc. were used continuously instead of sitting idle while a primary work force slept at night.

Alvarez's coffee wasn't working. He kept nodding off. His mind floated off onto different tangents. He thought about his move to the Nakasaw orbiter. It was farther away from Novos than their previous orbiter. But the longer commute allowed for a better quality of life. He didn't have to be gone for weeks or months on missions. He came home each night to his family. But everything comes at a price. The price Alvarez paid, besides his commute, was moving to a cheap orbiter and working a perfunctory desk job.

Those orbiters last on the transit relay were the cheapest places to live because of the premium placed on short commutes. Nakasaw was one of the longest commutes to Novos, sometimes running more than twenty minutes. Perhaps more than material wealth, time was the most sought after commodity. But time and certs weren't the only considerations in choosing an orbiter. Some shared aesthetic values, and some were oriented around religious or philosophical beliefs.

Alvarez woke with a jolt. He had become good at sleeping upright and, somehow, not spilling his coffee. Out his window he saw the Thompson orbiter, the next residential structure on the relay route. He watched as a transit exited the station. Rather than continue on the relay route, it headed straight toward Novos.

"Must be direct transit," Alvarez muttered to himself. Direct transits were the express shuttles. They were for VIPs only and went to Novos without making stops along the relay route. You couldn't buy a ticket, but it was free to ride if you were high enough on Novos Corp's pecking order. When Alvarez was a mission colonel, he rode direct transit exclusively.

Stepping down to a desk job was hard for many reasons. The longer commute took some getting used to. On the bright side, Alvarez had learned to snooze en route. It was terrible quality sleep, dozing off in his seat, but he took what he could get.

Alvarez rested his eyes, drowsy but no longer able to sleep. Between caffeine consumption and an incessant beeping that sounded over the shuttle's PA, Alvarez was awake.

He knew the sound. Everyone did. It meant they were approaching their final destination, Novos. He shook his head in disbelief. He must have slept through the last three stops.

He stood up, stretched his legs and back. Looking out the window, he noticed they were hovering outside the docking bay at Novos. He wondered what the holdup was. Other passengers were getting impatient.

"There must be another shuttle still docked," the woman standing next to him said. Alvarez checked the time. He should have been in the lab six minutes ago.

Another passenger said, "All roads lead to Rome, but all transits lead to Novos." The man chuckled at his own comment. He looked from face to face for someone else to share in his mirth. No one laughed, and no one made eye contact with the irritating man.

This catch-phrase was one of Novos's old slogans that had lost its levity years ago. That had become a fulfilled prophesy. Currently, nearly every transport traveling in the sector was heading to or from Novos station, where most business and factory production took place. People worked in orbiters doing service jobs: retail clerks, utilities engineers, maintenance techs, educators, etc. But all of the primary production took place at Novos.

The one exception was farm orbiters. Growing food didn't require a great deal of technology or energy. Novos had more than enough starlight to grow plants and to power solar arrays. What Novos didn't have was plenty of wide-open spaces. Even so, Novos was an intermediary hub for most farm techs, a transfer point between home and fields.

Alvarez looked out over Novos station. It lacked the rotating towers of a residential orbiter, and it outsized one by an order of magnitude. The dish-shaped station was tilted vertically and had two sides: the dark side was flat and had a central docking bay. The other side was concave and faced the sun.

Even though transit shuttles were the most common sized crafts to dock, the bay could handle the entire range of Falcon-class ships. Larger Atlas-class vessels had to dock on the exterior hangar bays located on the structure's outer rim, which was thicker to accommodate the construction demands. Ship activity on the dark side resembled a bee hive's alighting board, highly congested but synchronized. The dark side was only relatively dark; its Christmas-tree-of-lights were on continual display.

The side facing the sun appeared tranquil, even serene by comparison. Its surface was a smooth, iridescent monolith of solar arrays that was unobstructed by ships or other shadow-casters. Maximized solar collection was its function and the reason for its slight concave design.

Initial structures in early space settlement resembled globes, cubes, or cylindrical shapes. A remnant of the latter design was still apparent in residential orbiters. But as time passed, designers began to realize the utility gained by building structures for maximum solar aspect. Novos and most other primary stations in Outer-Five settlements used a similar dish-shaped design.

Laboratories and offices tended to require less contiguous space and were usually located near the center of the dish, the thinnest segment on the station. The main docking bay being at the center of Novos meant Alvarez didn't have far to go.

There was a murmur from the passengers, too disgruntled to be a cheer. Alvarez saw a craft exit the docking bay. It wasn't a design he had seen before. Larger than a common Falcon-class ship, it barely squeezed through the bay doors. The insignia on its hull read NC Constance. The bloated ship awkwardly navigated out of the station, fired its main thrusters, and was away.

Alvarez's shuttle zoomed in to take its place. Passengers scurried out onto a platform. To everyone's dismay, the transfer corridor was backed up with other travelers. Something had disrupted the normal, efficient flow of the security corridor at Novos.

It must have been that ship, Alvarez thought. Fortunately, the science lab wasn't far from the transit station and would only take Alvarez a couple of minutes to get there post transfer.

He filed in line and joined the slow creep toward the security booth already in progress. The transfer agent in the booth wore the standard light-blue uniform. Her cap read N.T.A., which stood for Novos Transfer Agency. The cap's short brim, a vestigial characteristic from days on earth, was an iconic expression of Outer-Five fashion. Unless you're on Terra Firma- unlikely for Outer-Five settlers- there was little use in shading your eyes from above. Most middle-class to affluent settlers could afford auto-tint retinal lenses that adjusted quickly to diminish the intensity of direct rays. This and numerous other realities had slowly changed clothing styles of Outer-Five settlers, widening the gulf between them and the Statists.

He watched the next shuttle come in. It must have been a direct relay, because the handful of passengers walked through the express check-in, bypassing the soul-crushing waiting game everyone else had to play. The corridor's sole purpose was to slow people down, corralling them so that surv-tech had time to process faces and biomarkers.

The agent monitoring her console for alarms or suspicious activity looked bored, her eyes glazed over. She worked as an over-glorified toll-booth operator. Security was a rouse. She was really there to charge passengers for their transit; Novos automatically deducted certs from their accounts. Any unauthorized passengers or visitors were stopped and processed by agents, an uncommon event.

Certs were stock certificates issued by Novos Corp. They, along with certs from other settlements, functioned as currency. Their value floated against the value of other certs, scarce commodities, and the cost of various goods and services. Although corporate settlements issued the certs, they had no way of controlling their value. It was up to people to determine how many certs they were willing to pay. When corporate settlements issued too many certs, creating an imbalance between their currency and the underlying assets they were supposed to represent, markets devalued their certs against other more stable currencies. There was no free lunch, and only through the creation of real value did corporate settlements flourish.

When a settlement made unpopular or risky policy changes, certs often traded at discount to commodities and other corporate certs. Many people traded commodities such as precious metals or more utilitarian commodities like enriched isotopes that fueled reactors. But those were private transactions. The only officially recognized currency were Novos certs.

Alvarez passed the security booth. He attempted to make eye contact with the agent, but she was in a hypnotic daze, staring at but not really seeing her screens and consoles. The passengers exiting the transfer corridor splintered into a thousand paths toward a thousand destinations. Past this point, movement was quick and unrestricted. Alvarez was in luck. In front of him was a PTU, personal transfer unit.

PTUs were floating balls of glass with only enough room for one passenger. Novos's central computer monitored the whereabouts and activities of all persons on the station and placed PTUs in anticipation of transport needs. People outnumbered PTUs, but the mainframe continuously integrated transfer data into the predictive algorithms. On the rare occasion a PTU wasn't present, people could summon the nearest available unit with a couple strokes on their wrist console.

PTUs used no motors, jets, or propulsion systems of any kind. Instead they achieved weightlessness and high-velocity travel by disrupting the artificial gravity system. Novos mainframe set their exact course, maneuvering around persons and objects more quickly than a human pilot could.

The dumbed-down explanation given to Alvarez was that PTUs weren't propelled at all. Technically, they fell—forward, backwards, up, down, any direction—as they glided on the surface between weightlessness and gravity. Alvarez was just glad they worked.

Entering the PTU, Alvarez spoke his destination, "Science Lab – division three." The translucent door closed behind him as he strapped himself in. He closed his eyes in anticipation of the dizzying trip, the blur of external objects, that would ensue. Unnoticed was the coffee floating above his unsealed mug. The unit zoomed forward, and the hot brew splashed backwards against his neck and lab coat collar. Alvarez first winced, then yelled out of frustration. Despite the translucence of the PTU, its speed provided anonymity—small comfort it was.

The unit darted through the maze of vertical and horizontal tunnels. Arrival times varied depending on how proximate destinations were to the transfer corridor.

By the time Alvarez had cleaned up his mess, he was at the science lab. He passed the reception desk and entered the main laboratory, which in division three was more office than lab. People's heads—their backs turned—filled cubicles lining the walls.

Alvarez covered his tracks, looking over his shoulder and trying to avoid detection. But it was no use. Waiting for him at his workstation was his boss, Bob Richards. Alvarez was thirty-five years old, and Richards—as far as Alvarez could tell—was in his late twenties. Both Alvarez's age and, especially, his distinguished career as a mission colonel seemed to aggravate Richards' insecurity. He over compensated by riding Alvarez's tail for anything and everything he could.

Alvarez tried being assertive. "I don't know what happened. This morning I..."

Richards interrupted, "Just because it's your last day of work doesn't mean you can come in late. And why don't you wear a clean lab coat for once? You know you have to catch up on a lot of work, including data reports on the sensory probe."

"I'll get right on it, sir." Alvarez said. The last word caught in his throat. He didn't want this job, and he certainly didn't want to take orders from this middle-management dweeb.

Why _couldn't_ he come in late on his last day? Alvarez wondered. He was done with this place, wasn't he? Even an unexcused absence on his record wouldn't amount to anything in the big scheme of things.

Alvarez decided it was because of who he was, or at least who he told himself he was. He finished things, regardless of how hard or easy they were. He didn't back out of his promises, and he didn't cut corners on a job, even soul-sucking data processing positions like this one.

Alvarez sat down at his cubicle, accessed his console, and started opening data files. The first he came to was from a sensory probe stationed in a far, outer edge of Novos territory. Unlike most cases, he enjoyed processing these. They were a link to his former life.

The data-burst was from a probe named NC-108D. The raw data looked like it was broken or damaged. He tried what few tricks he knew to get it working but to no avail. Reluctantly, he hit the call button for Richards who was looking over people's shoulders, making comments, and trying to substantiate his existence. He stomped over to Alvarez as if he was being torn away from something important. In reality, he lived for moments like these—when he could make subordinates feel stupid. Despite the appearance of urgency, he was in no hurry. Alvarez knew Richards would enjoy every minute of this encounter. Richards had a half-eaten breakfast sandwich in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Arriving at Alvarez's workstation, he noisily slurped his coffee. He annoyed Alvarez at all levels.

"What is it this time?" Richards asked.

"It's the data from the sensory probe. It seems incomplete."

"Did you reformat it via Telos before trying to open it?"

"That's the first thing I did."

"Did you check if the cohort is still entangled?" Richards said with a mouthful of sandwich.

"Yes, it's unaltered. All I can figure is that the data was corrupted on their end."

Richards took another bite. "I'm pretty sure that is a manned probe. Let's see if there was a video feed."

Alvarez scanned through the list of files on his screen. "There it is," he said. "It looks like some of it is still intact."

The console screen went black. Richards said, "I don't get it. That should work."

"Listen," Alvarez said. He turned up the volume.

"Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo," said a voice.

Richards, about to take another bite, put down his sandwich. "Is that the probe technician?" he asked.

The voice repeated, "Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

Richards swallowed hard his last bite of half-chewed food and said, "I'm calling Brennen."

## Chapter 3

SPACE-ARCHITECT DAVID PARKER was aboard his newly finished vessel, the Constance. He was joined at the helm by a skeleton crew: a systems operator, navigator, and three sensory technicians. The navigator and operator flew the ship, and the three techs collected and analyzed performance data in real-time. Usually the rest of the ship would be staffed with mechanics and service technicians scattered about in various compartments. Today, it was empty. If they broke down, Novos was close enough to send help.

Parker turned from the observation window and approached the systems operator. "Run another diagnostic test," he said.

"Yes, sir," said the operator. She—already engaged with holographic projections—seamlessly switched controls and initiated the test. The computer chirped. "Everything checks out," she said. "Oh, and thruster efficiency is above expected norms."

Parker bit his lip. He was the nervous type, tall, slender, and with a habit of standing with his arms crossed. The Constance was his crowning achievement. It was the most dynamic ship he had ever built. Novos intended to use it both as a show-piece to taunt other corporate settlements with and as a marketing ploy to attract migrant settlers.

Despite its versatility, Novos commissioned the construction of the Constance for a specific goal: interstellar exploration. It had to be both fast and highly capable. Every space saving feature was included, and all of its sensory technology was state-of-the-art.

The lynchpin of the design was Parker's new engine. It wasn't really an engine in the traditional sense of the word. Every design had thrusters, the stereotypical rockets responsible for propelling ships at sub-light speeds. Parker's engine innovation was a more efficient warp-field generator, the key element that had turned occasional moonwalkers into interstellar life-forms.

Though large stations and orbiters depended on solar arrays for primary power, ships capable of IST relied on an isotopic reactor core. No amount of solar efficiency could satisfy the energy demands of a fully spun warp-field generator.

It took Parker over two years just to get the formulas for the warp field right. Only then could he design the rest of the craft. This was simply the nature of spacecraft modeling.

Architects were known as control freaks for the same reason they were so highly paid; these hard to find personalities had to be able to hold and consider each design element with the next phase of production in mind. Perhaps scarcer than the requisite math and physics knowledge was the ability and willingness to push forward toward a single goal, in isolation and without external validation, for years on end until completing the job. The kicker was that many of the projects were flops or, at the last minute, corporate sponsors would pull funding. Successful architects had to be able to endure the long commitments and fickle, uncontrollable rejections as just another part of their job.

Although Parker's warp field generator design was unique, the basic technology had been utilized for over fifty years. The generator harnessed a natural phenomenon that had been observed but misunderstood since the dawn of air travel during the first half of the twentieth-century.

Early witnesses to the phenomenon were called frauds. Some skeptics tried to rationalize them away, but the most common response was to ignore them, denying their existence altogether. When passengers experienced missing time, impossibly shortened travel times, or disappeared around the Bermuda Triangle region, they were unwittingly coming in contact with warp fields, i.e. tears in the fabric of space-time created by a coalescence of electromagnetic fields. The frequent super storms in the North Atlantic created perfect conditions for naturally occurring warp fields.

Travelers to the Bermuda Triangle who disappeared were often in the wrong place at the wrong time and were destroyed in the tear. On occasion when they weren't killed instantly they were transported; people usually ended up in an inhospitable location, e.g. miles beneath the earth's crust, in the far upper layer of the atmosphere, or in the outer edge of the solar system.

A small minority of travelers caught in the warp field vortex were propelled forward in their original trajectory, arriving at their destination impossibly ahead of schedule. Documented accounts began to build, and they all repeated similar themes. People flew into channels formed by clouds, fog, or highly charged storms, and the tunnels would collapse behind them. Ejected out of the vortex after a handful of minutes, they found themselves one-hundred or more miles ahead of schedule.

Like many revolutionary breakthroughs, warp fields were just waiting to be found and harnessed. Their discovery represented a paradigm shift for scientists who had been trying to solve the IST problem, but were looking in the wrong place. The answer wasn't to travel faster; it was to shorten the distance. And warp fields did just that.

Unlike thrusters, generators didn't propel ships forward. Instead, they created special conditions that tore the fabric of space-time itself. Once a warp field was created, IST was more than a possibility; it was an irrevocable consequence. The precise parameters of the warp field's formation started a chain reaction determining how far, how fast, and in what direction travel would occur. Once the field formed around the ship's epicenter, there was no turning back and no further requirements of energy. Warp field generators theoretically allowed vessels to travel anywhere in the known universe, provided they were properly calibrated and had enough power.

The generator operated in two polarities. Primary polarity allowed for the rip in space-time. Reverse polarity permitted an underappreciated but vital function: inertial dampening. Without it, humans couldn't survive the intergalactic splat they would experience exiting IST. Physicists agreed that ships coming out of IST with an inertial dampener failure would crunch in less time than it took for nerves to relay pain signals to the brain, a meager consolation.

Dampeners were also employed during hard landings. With both applications, the math and timing had to be near-perfect. Hence, only a computer could execute the sequence correctly.

The Constance possessed research capabilities equal to what was normally only equipped on the heaviest Atlas ships, but it was fast and had the external appearance like a mid-ranged Falcon ship. Besides improvements in IST efficiency, there weren't many other innovations onboard. Rather, the Constance was a collection of the best available technologies, bundled into a sleek, potent design. Parker's new ship, if it proved to be successful, was a game-changer.

"Sir, we're nearing Novos space dock," said the navigator. "Should we initiate docking protocols?"

Parker said nothing. The crew looked around nervously, waiting for a response. The navigator prodded, "Sir?"

The Constance was close enough to Novos for Parker to see inside some of the windows of already docked vessels. At the last possible moment, Parker said, "Veer off. Take us out for another go-around."

The navigator with his hands on the holographic controls rolled the craft sharply up and to the left. The anti-gravity and inertial dampeners worked flawlessly.

The Constance climbed vertically along the dark side of Novos until it reached the rim of the station. Then it changed trajectory, righting itself on a new axis towards the nearby star. The starlight pierced through the helm's observation window. Although the windows were automatic—the computer's radiation filter adjusted light to optimal frequencies and intensity levels—they weren't fast enough to keep the crew from squinting.

A blinking red light appeared on the systems operator's console. She said, "Sir, we're receiving a comm transmission."

Parker nodded, silently giving her the go-ahead. A voice came over the comm. "NC Constance, this is Novos aviation control tower. You have altered your flight plan. Are you in distress?"

Parker replied to the aviation technician, "No trouble here, Novos. We just need to run a few more tests."

"Confirmed," said the aviation tech. "Please file a new flight plan immediately."

"Affirmative. Parker, out."

Parker walked to the navigator's console and looked over his shoulder. "Are we repeating our original itinerary?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. We're approaching the second way-point."

"Set in a new course for these coordinates." Parker walked to his command console and forwarded a set of prerecorded way-points. Parker smirked. "Let's take a look at some unfamiliar real-estate."

A sensory technician turned in his seat. "Which tests were you wanting to run, sir?"

"Tests?"

"You told the aviation tech that you wanted to run additional tests."

"Oh," said Parker. He looked a little embarrassed. "There aren't any tests. I wanted to play for a little while longer."

The rest of the crew smiled knowingly. Space-architects had a reputation for being arrogant, cert-mongers. They often named their ships after themselves and possessed god-complexes. Parker wasn't like that, despite being one of the most sought-after designers. He loved his work. He did it for the joy of creation. This test flight was his only chance to see his creation in action.

"We're nearing your waypoint, sir," said the navigator.

"Time?" asked Parker.

"Just under two minutes."

Parker's eyes lit up like a child's. "For a ship this size only using thrusters—I think that's a record."

"I'm getting a great view of Deterran Seven," said a sensory tech.

"That's not the view I came out here for," Parker said grinning. This side of him surfaced on brief occasions when his self-conscious, anxiety-riddled mind was overtaken by the awe of the moment. "The starboard side's view should be even better," he said.

The same sensory tech brought it up on the primary viewer. The skeleton crew sat silently with reverent awe. They were close enough to the frozen dust ball to observe the rocky details enveloped by its tail. "This is the last time any of us will see this rogue comet," Parker said. "It's scheduled to collide with an asteroid belt on the far side of the system early next week."

The comet was massive relative to the Constance. Deterran Seven's sun had caused its nucleus to heat up and outgas the intense blue and white plume. The system's operator said, "It's so beautiful, and so huge. It's hard to believe it could ever die."

After a few moments, Parker turned to the navigator. "Let's bring her home."

## Chapter 4

CYNTHIA BLACK WAS a workaholic, like most of the senior scientists at Novos. She looked at the clock. Her lab shift had ended an hour ago. This is my life, she thought. She was free to go home, but she wouldn't. Not yet, anyway. There was no one to go home to. And if she left her work unfinished, she would be up obsessing over it all night.

Her dysfunctional behavior had functioned quite well for her. It was why she was there. As senior chemist at the Novos Laboratory, she was given extreme latitude to do her research. Novos knew she would produce. She didn't really care about the certs, notoriety, or power. What she wanted was freedom to do her work. If she was a prisoner, as her friends had told her, she was within a prison she had worked very hard to build. Long ago, she had learned the power of delegating responsibility to her subordinates. They received the mundane assignments: log entries, performance reports, data continuity statements, etc. As long as Black kept them in line, she was free to explore. Her current focus was improving adhesive compounds so they would be less brittle in cold, vacuous space conditions—space glue as she liked to call it.

The door rang. Without looking up from her console she said, "James, could you get that?" There was no answer. She looked up where her assistant was usually stationed. She had forgotten; she sent him home an hour ago.

Unlike other parts of Novos station, the science lab didn't have a second or third shift. People with Black's credentials were hard to come by, and it was determined that dividing science teams into separate shifts was counter-productive. There was too much of a disconnect bringing the next shift up to speed. Plus, these men and women tended to be introverts. Putting them into even more segmented conditions broke down the already tenuous lines of communication.

"This better be good," Black said as she got up from her console. She walked to the door and unlocked it by waiving her hand over the bio-scanner. She turned and stepped back to her console as the door opened behind her. "Yes?" she said sternly with her back turned.

Bob Richards stared at her, unable to find his words. Black was young with startling good looks, the stereotypical knock-out blonde. Her lab coat and dark-rimmed glasses did little to hide her attractiveness. She was used to this kind of thing. "What is it?" she asked again.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Black," Richards said clumsily. "I was looking for Dr. Brennen."

"You're in the wrong place. He's in the other wing of this lab," Black said, still looking down.

"Yes, I know that. I tried his door, and I couldn't get anyone to answer. I tried to reach him several times today, but he won't return his messages."

"Are you sure he's here?" Black asked.

"The computer says he's on Novos station, but I don't have clearance to get more information," he said.

Cynthia Black's brow furrowed. "Why do I get to clean up all his messes?" She checked the time again. "If I know Michael, he's still in his lab." She stood and walked to the door. "Come with me."

The two traversed the corridor that connected the chemistry and biology wings. Unlike the cubicles Richards managed one floor below them, here was where the real science was done. His floor was kept busy with processing and archiving data, a mindless, soul crushing job if ever there was one.

Richards nervously tried to continue the conversation. "I would have entered Brennen's lab, but my bio-markers won't get me in."

"You would have broken into a senior scientist's lab without permission?" she said.

"No, I mean..." Richards trailed off, his foot in his mouth.

After letting him squirm for a moment, she said, "Bio-markers won't be a problem now. I can access every lab on Novos."

They reached Brennen's lab. On the door was a message: WORK IN PROGRESS. DO NOT DISTURB.

"Was this here earlier?" asked Black. Richards nodded yes.

Without ringing the door, Black scanned her hand, and the door whooshed open. Michael Brennen sat at the far end of the lab with his back facing the door. His jet black hair contrasted against the collar of his white lab coat, part of which dragged the floor beneath his chair.

"What do you want?" Brennen said without turning around.

"You're such a child," Black said.

"Cynthia, didn't you see the sign?" he said coolly.

"Those signs only work if you answer the numerous communications people send you," she said. "At the very least, your assistant could handle some of the messages. Where is he?"

"Fired him last week," Brennen said, still engrossed in his work.

"I'm surprised they didn't quit first."

"I guess I really should turn that door-ringer back on," Brennen said as he turned and stood to face his accusers. Michael Brennen was the senior biologist at Novos. His primary research was in entropic systems, the transfer of energy between living organisms. He and Cynthia Black had a volatile working relationship, which was common for two high ranking persons in parallel fields. Black could usually find a way to work with people. But Brennen was an exception. His arrogance was insufferable. He treated people like doormats. The problem was he was _that_ good, irreplaceable. And he knew it too.

Despite his slow, almost robotic movements Brennen had a powerful presence. It was his lack of emotions, his calloused attitude towards everyone and everything, that was so unnerving.

Black looked at Richards. "It's your turn," she said.

Richards stepped forward. "Michael..."

"It's Dr. Brennen to you," Brennen interrupted.

"Yes. Um...Dr. Brennen, I need to show you something. We received a data-burst from one of our research probes, but it was mostly corrupted.

"You barged in here because you're having computer problems?"

"No. There's nothing wrong with the computer. It's the data itself. It's either incomplete, or it was corrupted before it was sent."

"So, just have the probe technician do another report. Look I really don't have time for this kind of thing, and neither does Dr. Black. I know I'm your immediate supervisor, but if you can't handle these kinds of bumps in the road by yourself, then we're going to have to reconsider your position here as manager," Brennen said.

Richards came unglued. He blurted out, "Just watch the video!"

Brennen exhaled impatiently and gestured palm-up toward the console. "Be my guest," he said. Before Richards had gotten to the workstation, Brennen was already looking at other work, lab results laying on the counter beside him.

Richards accessed the workstation and initiated his account. "I'm going to start it right where things get interesting," he said.

Brennen continued to act disinterested, but something he heard caught his attention. He placed his work down hastily, his eyes locked onto the vid.

"Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

## Chapter 5

ALVAREZ EXITED the PTU and stepped into the transfer corridor. It was quitting time, and he was glad. Unlike the old days, he was through when the whistle blew. There was no more staying late or taking work home with him.

He looked at the faces of people arriving for the next shift. Their eyes were dull and hollow the way his were eight hours ago. But it was different now. The drudgery was behind him, at least until tomorrow. He caught himself. There is no tomorrow, he thought.

There in the docking bay, the ticker showed the relay would arrive in less than thirty seconds. He sat on the bench. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone at an adjacent bench acting peculiar. The man wouldn't stop fidgeting. Alvarez knew the best course of action was to ignore him, not to make eye contact. Novos security would probably pick him up before long, he thought.

The relay shuttle docked. Alvarez stood and approached the open doors. A voice stopped him.

"C-c-colonel Alvarez, is that you?"

He turned and looked for the person speaking. Officer titles were uncommon these days, no longer issued by Novos. They were a remnant from the Fight fifteen years ago and only used now out of respect for veterans.

"Colonel, it's me," said a young man wearing a goofy grin. "I-I-It's me, Jitters. I can't believe it's you. How long has it been, sir?"

Alvarez recognized him now, the fidgety guy on the bench. The last time he had seen Jitters, the kid was only about nineteen years old. "You've grown up young man," said Alvarez. Alvarez couldn't remember Jitters' real name. He had received the nickname from his habitual consumption of substances: coffee, coca-tea, nicotella—you name it. If it got you up, Jitters was on it.

"Colonel, I haven't seen you since the mining expedition out in the Delta quadrant."

"I guess that's right. Didn't you quit Novos right after that trip?" asked Alvarez.

"Yeah, I did some work over at Trinity for a few years. L-l-long story short, I'm back."

Alvarez saw the relay shuttle leave. "Weren't you going to catch the relay?" asked Alvarez.

"Oh, no. I'm riding direct. I don't have to ride slow soup anymore." Jitters seemed to realize what he had said.

Alvarez let out a big laugh and said, "Jitters, you still put your foot in your mouth. Don't you?"

"I-I-I'm sorry, Colonel."

"It's okay, but that slow soup was my ticket out of here." Alvarez slapped Jitters on the back. Jitters seemed to relax a bit. "So, where are you staying?" asked Alvarez.

"At the Stanton orbiter, but not tonight."

The Stanton orbiter was one of the finest residencies certs could buy. It was up-scale and the second stop on the relay route. "Where are you headed tonight?" said Alvarez.

"I'm meeting a buddy way out on the Century orbiter. Then we're taking a private shuttle to a refueling station halfway between Novos and Trinity. The last time I was there we played shatook all night. I-I-I won three-hundred certs!"

"Sounds like there's more than fuel out there."

"That's not the half of it," Jitters said. "Y-y-you've gotta see these girls. I don't know where they come from, but they're all drop-dead gorgeous. You've never seen anything like it."

"Sounds expensive."

"Nothing's free, sir. You told me that on many occasions."

The refueling stations were strategically placed throughout the Outer-Five territories. Some of them were owned by the Outer-Five corporate settlements, but most were owned by individuals and partnerships.

All of the corporate settlements were near stars or luminous planets. But the refueling stations were usually placed in near darkness, minus their artificial lights. At first these stations served their given purpose, midway points between settlements. Soon, however, they took on a new character. Alvarez thought it was telling that people were still driven by their circadian instincts. People preferred performing certain activities—gambling, drinking, and sex—in the dark.

"Sir, why don't you come with me on the direct transit? I'm sure there's enough room."

"No," Alvarez said. "You know how they get bent out of shape about these kinds of things. If I ride direct with an unauthorized bio-marker, those transfer agents will cite me. I won't have any certs left after this pay period."

"Oh, come on. You could earn it all back at Shatook. You used to play a pretty mean hand. C-c-come on. We've got a lot of catching up to do. Let's go just for old time's sake," Jitters pleaded. A bell sounded signaling the direct transit's imminent arrival.

Alvarez knew he wasn't the same man Jitters remembered. He decided to splash a big dose of reality into the conversation. "I'm a family man now. I can't party down all night like we used to. I'm not a kid anymore, you know."

Jitters squirmed. "Oh, that's great, sir. H-h-how many kids?"

Alvarez didn't think Jitters was sincere. The slightest notion of being tied down with a family seemed to terrify him. "Just one, my eight-year-old son Adam."

"I'm happy for you, sir," Jitters said. The direct transit entered the station. "W-w-well, Colonel, look me up the next time you're in the embarkation bay at Novos. I'm always there or away on a mission."

Alvarez smiled, then added, "or playing shatook on a refueling station." The two shook hands, and Jitters was away.

Alvarez was glad he ran into Jitters. He hadn't seen any of the old crew in some time. It was bitter-sweet. The old days were hard. The years following the Fight were a period of rapid change and dislocation. The way people survived, or at least the way Alvarez survived, was to take every job that came your way.

Alvarez was a nostalgic and sentimental person, but he kept most of it to himself. He knew in reality that things weren't as nice as he remembered them. You always forgot some of the bad, or at least you shaved off some of its intensity. And what was left was romanticized. He was committed to remembering the truth.

"I don't want to go back there," he said out loud. He looked at the timer up above him. Five minutes remained before the next relay would arrive. This may cause him to be late for Adam's third grade graduation ceremony.

After the relay transit arrived, Alvarez got on board and made himself comfortable. It was unusually vacant with only one other passenger at the other end of the cabin. Sometimes Alvarez watched entertainment feeds or listened to music on his commute. But lately he had been doing nothing. He liked the silence, the lack of tension. It was important to enjoy not being challenged.

Out his window, he saw Novos's massive solar array, the primary power and lifeblood of the entire settlement. Solar power on earth was utilized, but the efficiency was so much greater in space. There was no atmosphere to block the intensity of the rays. And instead of two or four hours of solar exposure, energy production was continuous.

In space, there was an added bonus for using solar power; the lack of interruptions in energy production meant there was little need for extensive battery systems. There was no need to save power for the proverbial rainy day. Maintenance was one of the few reasons for a disruption, and even then, it was simple enough to work modularly. One segment would be taken offline for repairs, and power from remaining panels was redirected through other channels.

The console in front of Alvarez's seat whirled with a red light and soft bell. It was a call for Alvarez. One of the pluses of corporate transportation was that you could be reached at any moment by anyone via the central computer. It knew your exact location at every moment. The minus was that there was nowhere to hide.

He thought about ignoring it. There wasn't an identification icon from the caller. It might be Nadia. But probably it was someone from work. He ought to answer it just to be safe. He engaged the console with his hand. Instantly, a holographic two-dimensional picture was projected.

"Hello, John. I hope I didn't disturb you," a gruff voice said.

"General McKinley. Not at all. To what do I owe this pleasure?" Alvarez replied. General McKinley, a man about sixty, was Alvarez's commanding officer during the Fight. He was also the man who hired him at Novos and who recently gave him the desk-job he requested.

"John, I meant to have you come by the office today. I was hoping that we could catch up, maybe even grab a bite to eat."

"That would have been nice, sir."

"So, am I understanding you correctly? You're done with Novos?" asked McKinley.

"It's not really about Novos, and I'm certainly not trying to burn any bridges. I just need a break. I need to spend more time with my family. I've got a lot of catching up to do after all those years away on missions."

"John, that's why we gave you that desk job."

"I know, and I appreciate you doing that for me. But I just can't make myself do it anymore."

"Out of the pan, into the fire?" asked McKinley.

"No, it was like going from the frying pan to the deep freeze. The hours were good, but it was all so..."

"Pointless?"

"Yes. It was all paperwork. I felt like a place holder. It was a job for a job's sake. Any computer could have handled ninety percent of my work. It took no initiative, no creative problem solving, no talent to do the job. The worst thing was how people around me acted—pretending it was important."

"John, people have to legitimize their existence. Most people have to make a big juicy rationalization at least once per day."

"As usual, you're right," Alvarez said. "But I don't know how to do that. I'll do what I have to do to take care of my family, but lying to myself isn't going to be part of the equation."

"I get that, but we'll hate to lose you. You always have a place here. You know that, right?"

"Thank you, General. That means a lot."

"So, where are you headed now?" asked McKinley.

"Nadia has a vacation all planned out right after Adam's graduation ceremony this evening. I think she wants to try that new terra-formed moon off of Beta P-36."

"My goodness," laughed McKinely. "That's virgin territory there."

"All the better," Alvarez said. "I've got to get away for a while. I don't even know what we'll do there. A whole lot of nothing would be fine with me."

"What about in the long-term? Any career goals?"

"I've not signed a contract with another settlement if that's what you're asking. I've really not given it enough thought. All I know for sure is that what I've been doing—mission commands and paperwork—isn't going to work anymore."

"I don't mean to pry, but how are you going to make ends meet?" McKinley asked.

"We put enough certs back to make it for a while. I think we have enough to make a new start. You know I've toyed with the idea of buying stock in one of Novos's farm orbiters."

"Colonel Alvarez, the farmer!" McKinley said laughing. "I can picture it now. You'll be busting the humps of those farmhands like you did your grunts way back when."

"Whatever I do, I need to be the one who makes the decisions that matter. I need to get my hands dirty, and a little peace and quiet wouldn't hurt either."

"Well I hope you find what you're looking for, John. What do I have to do to get you back after you get this out of your system?"

"I'm not shuffling more papers."

"No, I mean commanding missions again."

Alvarez thought for a moment. He loved doing missions. It was what he did best. But it was nearly a deal-breaker at home. He couldn't miss any more of Adam's childhood. "Just one thing," he said.

McKinley's brow lifted in amusement. "Yes?"

"Enough certs for Nadia and I to start over."

## Chapter 6

THE CONSTANCE WAS docked in one of Novos's many hangar bays, a more suitable location for the hefty ship. Docking at the transit station earlier in the day was to prove it could be done. It was an exciting feature of Parker's design but not the most practical way to load people and supplies aboard.

The hangar bay was on the outer rim of Novos station. It, like the main docking bay, faced out into the darkness of space. Since usually only Falcon-class ships were capable of entering the transit station, bigger Atlas-class ships had to be stationed in the larger hangar bays. Although the hangars contained atmosphere, freeing workers from spacesuits, AG was absent. Weightlessness was helpful for certain stages of the construction process, e.g. moving and assembling massive parts and components, and the hangers didn't have to be reinforced to support the mega-ton vessels. But loading people and smaller items was a hassle.

The Constance was dwarfed by the two massive ships aligned on each side of it. The bay was full with the roar of machinery, pounding of high-powered tools, and the yells of men and women attempting to be heard over the racket.

Like worker ants, crew and technicians streamed in and out of the Constance carrying tools, supplies, and other equipment necessary for deep space travel.

The Constance, similar to other Falcon-class ships, had remnants of wings and an elongated, shuttle-like construction. In contrast, Atlas-class ships were bulky, rectangular, and utilitarian. Since they weren't designed to land on planets or dock in transit stations, aero-dynamic aesthetics were pointless.

David Parker held onto the causeway's rail outside the Constance. He kept finding jobs to assist with, even though technically, he was done with the ship. The spacecraft production process was standardized across most Outer-Five settlements: ships were commissioned, a space-architect made the design, and then production engineers took over. After the design phase, the space-architect had little involvement with the rest of the process. The propulsion engineer, mission leader, and others continued to work out the bugs before the ship was part of the corporate fleet.

Parker, because of his imminence in the industry, asked for and received the proviso to take his ships out for their first run. But now that was over. After today Parker would have nothing to do with his latest creation.

He felt like a retiree on his last day of work. People congratulated and praised him, but they soon moved on to carry out their work duties. The longer he outstayed his welcome, the louder and clearer the message became; life and the Constance would go on with or without him.

Terra York pulled herself up the causeway rail to where Parker was. "It's kind of sad, isn't it?" she said.

"What do you mean?"

"You spent who knows how many months or years working on this thing, and then suddenly it's out of your hands."

A little surprised by his transparency, Parker looked at her warily out of the corner of his eye. "It's not too far removed from what coastal ship builders used to experience back in the first millennium," he said. "In shipyards they built vessels destined for water. Once launched, there was no going back onto dry land."

"Well, technically there was," York teased.

"Shipwrecks don't count," he said. "You know, you're the lucky one. If I didn't love creating new designs so much, I think I'd be happier as a mechanic."

"I'd have to agree. Getting to go out with new ships, breaking them in, and fixing the bugs is way better than being stuck back here on Novos. You know, I do some designing myself, except there aren't any blueprints for what I come up with," she said.

"What kind of designs? New craft?"

"No, mostly just fixing the mistakes made by space-architects," she said giggling.

Terra York was Novos's chief mechanic. Despite her tomboy appearance, she had a softness that appealed to Parker. In the short amount of time they had worked together, York and Parker had found kindred spirits in each other. They both loved the same thing—spacecraft.

Terra York was an exception to the norm. In space travel—research vessels, research probes, and interstellar travel especially—women were the minority. In a voluntary society without state mandates, quotas, etc, the space exploration industry was highly segregated. No corporate settlements prohibited women from doing extended IST missions. But it was usually only the men that were desperate or dumb enough to subject themselves to the isolated, perilous, and inhospitable conditions of space missions.

York defied more than gender norms. She beat the odds by growing up in an unincorporated fleet of marauders—opportunists that salvaged, stole, or worse to survive—and then scratching and clawing her way into one of the highest paying fields in the industry. She had more than fortitude though; hers was a special combination of skill and talent. She comprehended complex architectural blueprints but could also go beyond the math intuitively fixing things in ways that were beyond rational explanation.

"Did you have a chance to look over the data from our test run?" Parker asked.

"Yes, everything checks out. I am a little concerned about the energy-transfer coupling. It looks fine now, but until we take her out longer, we won't know if it's going to overheat."

"You're right," said Parker. "That little blip on our sensor wasn't enough to cause a problem over the short distance we flew, but it's enough to concern me about Inter-Stellar-Travel."

"I guess that's why Novos puts new designs through the gauntlet."

"I suppose you're right. I'm sure it will be ready for primetime after a couple of months of further testing," he said.

"Parker, you know she's amazing, right?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty proud of her, even with the bugs left to tweak," said Parker.

The conversation grew silent. They watched people continue to swarm in and out of the Constance.

"I guess it's time for me to call it a day," Parker said. "Let me know how she does."

"Will do. Don't you worry. I'll take good care of her," York assured him.

Parker swallowed the emotional lump in his throat. He turned and started to descend the causeway. From the hangar bay exit, a man approached him. "David Parker?" he inquired.

"Yes?" Parker replied, startled.

"General McKinley needs to see you immediately."

## Chapter 7

ALVAREZ STOOD GRIPPING the steering wheel with one hand and his almost empty mug of coca-tea with the other. The marine craft he had rented two hours earlier was quiet despite its great velocity. He should have been sleepy, but he wasn't. He took another sip and knew he would pay for it later. But he didn't care.

The computer could drive for him, but he liked to hold the wheel. After being stuck at a desk for three months, it was good to do something physical again. Relaxing was difficult, so mindless, tactile activity helped.

The sun wouldn't rise for another forty-five minutes, and until then the navigation console was his eyes and ears. He stared at the map and the tiny icon representing his boat as if somehow his focus made the craft travel faster. It was like watching the minute hand on a clock not seeming to move unless he looked away.

He lifted his eyes to the darkness around him. The ship was a beacon lit up with consoles, running lights, and two front beams. Except there was no one on the seas to see it.

He reflexively glanced at the palpable, black emptiness and enormity of the sea. He willed himself to move his eyes, waiting as the fear slowly subsided.

Alvarez allowed his thoughts to drift in a million directions. Though his mind was splintered, it produced a pattern. Two categories surfaced: memories of old missions and the question of what he would do now that he had quit his job. He was nostalgic about the old days. He missed the people and the sense of urgency he felt while in command.

He knew why he quit though. Adam—his son--was growing up, and Alvarez couldn't leave him for weeks or months without a father. Even worse was the very real possibility of not returning home from a mission. The statistics were clear. Alvarez couldn't let Adam grow up the way that he had.

His focus shifted back to his view. A soft orange glow appeared on the horizon marking the beginning of the new day.

Alvarez heard footsteps as Nadia came up from below deck. She was beautiful. Her dark hair caressed her bare shoulders, accenting olive skin she inherited from her Persian mother. Alvarez could tell she was in a great mood. Absence of stress will do that to a person. She approached him and put her hand on his arm.

"How far have we gone?" she asked.

"About three-fourths of the way."

Nadia had planned the entire vacation. Alvarez had been pleasantly surprised when he had learned the details. Usually he found himself in cosmopolitan Inner-Three cities or on some pleasure orbiter. Not this time. She had picked his ideal getaway, a remote beach vacation far from everyone and everything.

The beach was on an uninhabited island on a nearly uninhabited moon that was terra-formed by Novos Corp a number of years earlier. Travel and vacation accommodations were part of Alvarez's compensation package. He earned three vacation weeks per year, but it had been two years since he had taken one. Now, even though he hadn't planned it this way, he would complete his last six weeks of his Novos work contract on the beach. I hope that's enough time to figure out my next move, he thought.

"Did you get enough sleep?" he asked.

"Yeah, I feel great now. I don't know if it's from getting enough rest or from my excitement about the trip," she said.

It couldn't have been from sleep as their chartered shuttle had not reached Beta P-36's transit station until two a.m. Afterward they had taken the moon's space-elevator—a standard procedure in all but the most remote parts of explored space—before the three-hour boat ride. Alvarez didn't want to do the math on what time it was back on Nakasaw orbiter. He was just glad the sun was rising. Maybe the rush from his coca-tea would last after all.

Nadia sipped her coffee, held onto the rail with her other arm, and looked out peacefully at the view. There really wasn't much need to hang on. The craft had a two-part, composite hull allowing it to skid across the top of the waves like a rock skipping across the surface of a pond. Despite this constant gyration, passengers felt very little motion. The suspension system absorbed almost all of the shock.

Nadia's peaceful expression changed. She looked concerned. "John, are you sure you're through with Novos?"

"No. But I'm done with that desk job."

"You hadn't been there that long. Another month, it might have gotten easier."

"It was easy from day one. The tasks weren't difficult. What was hard was dealing with Richards."

This was a recurring conversation. They both knew where it was going, so they stopped. Finally, Nadia said, "I know you weren't happy. I think it will just take time to get used to doing anything besides commanding missions."

"You're right. It will."

"You don't want to go back, do you?"

"Part of me will always want to be out in space, but I'm not going to do that to you or Adam again," he said. "The problem is figuring out what to do next. I've never been in this position before. I've always had an obvious next step. Either it was a tremendous opportunity that I couldn't say no to, or I had to deal with hard circumstances."

"Like during the Fight," Nadia said.

"Right. At least we have choices now." Alvarez placed one arm around Nadia and held the wheel with the other. The sunshine warmed their faces. He closed his eyes, seeing the orange and red colors through his eyelids. There was something about real sunshine that just couldn't be duplicated in space. Maybe it was the atmosphere's filtering effect on the UV radiation, or maybe it was the ionized air. Designers argued that they achieved identical results in orbiters, but for Alvarez the feeling was different.

Alvarez watched Nadia, keeping his eyes mostly shut to hide his glance. He knew they would be okay. They had been through a lot together. Although their marriage wasn't perfect, they were both committed. But not knowing where his paycheck would come from next month gnawed at him. Nadia was an artist—ceramics mostly. Her work helped, but it wasn't enough to live on. Theirs was a common coupling, a highly specialized industrialist with a skilled artisan.

They had savings, several months' worth. But Alvarez needed a plan. The idea of buying a share of a farm orbiter was attractive, a romantic notion for sure. And Nadia could work from anywhere. But Alvarez had never farmed in his life. His only real skills were leading men through cold deep space conditions and completing an assignment. He was a finisher, but that life was behind him, and now he had no idea where he was headed.

"Is Adam up yet?" he asked.

"He's been up for about thirty minutes. He's playing _that_ game," she said. Alvarez peered out toward the horizon. He could just barely make out their destination, the island that looked like a faint brown smudge above the green-blue water. He released the wheel of the craft. Instantly, the computer sensed his release and engaged the auto-pilot.

"I'm going downstairs," he told Nadia. "Let me know if I'm needed. The auto-pilot should be able to finish the rest of the trip."

Alvarez descended into the main living quarters. His eight-year-old son sat on a couch. On his head was a helmet covering his eyes and ears. He waved his hands wildly in front of his face. At times his whole body shifted from side to side, small seizure-like jerks.

Alvarez walked up to Adam without making a sound, but it wouldn't have mattered if he had. In one swift motion, Alvarez pulled Adam's helmet off.

"Hey, what'd you do that for?" demanded Adam.

"You've had three months to play games. It's time for you and me to do some serious fishing."

Adam's expression softened. A new spark was in his eyes. "Right now, Dad?"

"Soon. We should land on the beach in a couple of minutes. You know, I don't think your mother planned it this way on purpose, but fish usually bite in the morning or early evening. There's a pretty good chance we could catch our breakfast."

"Really?" the boy beamed. It was times like this when Alvarez knew he had made the right decision quitting his colonel's position. Adam needed his father.

"I don't see why not," he answered. "But we have some training to do before we get out there. Has anyone ever shown you how to bait a hook?"

"Dad, I know all about it. Cast-off is a virtu-fishing tournament. But nobody uses bait and hooks anymore," Adam said, dismayed.

"Cast-off?"

"The game," Adam said, pointing at his helmet on the floor.

"Oh, the game. If they don't use bait..."

"These," Adam interrupted. He reached over to what looked like a brief-case lying on the floor. He opened it and pulled out an object shaped like a snake. Proudly, he lifted it above his head.

"How are we going to catch fish with that?"

"This is the new Sportsman's Trophy-hunter 3000. You operate it with my Virtu-kit. We're guaranteed to catch more fish with this, Dad. It's like swimming as the ultimate fish predator."

Alvarez smiled. "Son, there's more to fishing than catching fish. I'm glad you've been practicing, but I'm going to show you how to fish the same way Grandpa Jack showed me."

"Okay, Dad," said Adam. Alvarez had told Adam the Grandpa Jack story several times before, about the last time he'd seen his father alive and how he'd only been a couple years older than Adam was now. The Grandpa Jack story was a primary reason why Alvarez had quit his Colonel's position.

Alvarez heard the hum of the vessel's engines change. Then a dull thud came from the hull. "I think we're there," he said with a grin. The two raced up the stairs to see.

Nadia was packing a picnic basket. "Now, Adam," she said, "be careful getting off the boat."

"I will, Mom," he said as he ran down the ship's now separated helm, level with the beach. Adam jumped off and yelled, "Whoohoo!" The boy sprinted along the water's edge.

Alvarez grabbed Nadia, kissed her, and then picked her up over his shoulder. "John, what are you doing?" she screamed. He carried her toward the water. "No!" she cried as he threw her into the approaching wave.

"Now we're on vacation," Alvarez said.

"Come on, Adam. Let's get Dad," Nadia shouted after resurfacing. The two chased Alvarez a few seconds until he admitted defeat. Down on his knees Alvarez heard the wave approach from behind before it crashed, burying him under water. The currents tore at his body, and sand and seaweed abraded him.

The three were all smiles and wet head-to-toe. Each crawled from the water and collapsed where the tide broke. The sun warmed their faces as the sea tried to retrieve them unsuccessfully.

Adam moved first. He jumped to his feet and disappeared up the beach. Nadia, eyes closed, searched for and found Alvarez's hand beside her. They were still for a moment. An eight-year-old's joyous exclamations battled intermittent crashes.

Nadia opened her eyes. "Are you sure about turning off the electronics?"

"Absolutely positive," Alvarez said.

"But what if someone gets hurt, or the boat malfunctions?"

"Then we'll turn them back on. All of life's a gamble, sweetie. And that includes staying in our nice, cozy orbiter for too long. It makes me crazy. You remember that study about longevity and terrestrial contact, don't you?"

"Yes, I guess I worry too much."

"So, what's the plan, my lovely tour guide?" asked Alvarez.

"I'm going to set up the cabana while you and Adam try to catch breakfast."

Alvarez gave her a peck on the cheek, then walked to Adam who was writing in the sand with a big stick. "Kiddo, I need you to look for the perfect fishing spot, while I get our gear."

Adam dropped the stick, turned, and shouted "Okay," as he ran up the beach.

Alvarez returned to the ship and grabbed the two rods and his tackle box. His name was on it, written by his nine-year-old self. He walked back to the beach and found Adam who was picking up seashells and tossing them in the water.

"Did you find a good spot?"

"I think so. It looks like there's a reef formation out past the breakers. Should be a perfect spot."

"Reef formation? You learned about reefs in third grade?"

"No, not in school. From Cast-off."

Alvarez shook his head. "I guess that game taught you something after all." He looked but couldn't tell if there was a reef out there. He knew Novos put down artificial structures to imitate natural reefs. They had to if they wanted a reef ecosystem to develop in less than ten-thousand years. "Here son, this was your Grandpa Jack's rod." Adam took the rod cautiously, like it was a priceless relic. In a way it was. Adam was a sweet kid that way.

"I don't know how I got so lucky with you," Alvarez said. Adam smiled without looking up. "If we had arrived just a little earlier," Alvarez continued, "we would have had time to dig for sand-beetles. Live bait is always better."

"Ewww!" Adam squeeled. "Don't you mean dead bait?"

Alvarez gently ignored him. "But since the sun is already up, let's use my old stand-by." He lifted two bucktail jigs for Adam to see. Adam bit his lip, a doubtful expression on his face. The bronze hook was only partially hidden by the white tail feathers, and the generic eyes on the lure appeared to have been painted by hand. Alvarez took out a couple heavy tungsten-shots.

"What are those for?" Adam said.

"To get the lures where the fish are." He pinched the dull-gray sinkers onto the lines. "Okay Adam, I'll let you cast first. Hold the bale arm with your finger like this, and let it go when you cast it."

"I'm going to see how far I can throw it!" Adam said.

"Just don't throw the rod."

Alvarez tried to correct his hand placement, but the boy grew impatient. "I got. I got." Alvarez stepped back as Adam whipped the rod backwards, his eyes fixed upward on the lure. He shifted his gaze forward and assumed a posture of great determination. Swiftly he cast his lure in a near-perfect arc. Adam jumped with excitement.

"Hang on to it," shouted Alvarez.

"Where'd it go?"

"It's still in the air." Alvarez covered his eyes with one hand and scanned the horizon.

"What's that?" said Adam pointing with his rod.

Alvarez looked and saw in the distance a ship coming towards them. He stared for several seconds, his mind not producing an explanation. "Reel it in, son. And get back to Mom."

In under a minute, the ship was on shore. A man wearing a red Novos Corp uniform stepped off the boat. "Are you John Alvarez?"

"Who are you?" Alvarez said.

"We've been trying to reach you. What's wrong with your communications?"

"I thought I was on vacation."

"Your comms—didn't you receive..."

"They're off," Alvarez said bluntly. "What do you want?"

"McKinley says we need you now."

"I don't work for McKinley anymore."

"Yes, about that. McKinley said to remind you about your contract's reactivation rider."

Alvarez was stunned. The reactivation rider was a clause built into everyone's contract, at least people that flew missions. He thought it would have been left out when he changed positions but...

"Look, I know you're supposed to be on vacation," the man said. "But technically you are still employed by Novos. McKinley has decided to reactivate you for an additional six weeks."

Alvarez had never heard of anybody getting reactivated. It was too expensive for Novos. The clause had a payout for three times the certs normally paid for hazard duty, a veritable fortune.

"I just talked to General McKinley yesterday, and he said nothing about this."

"Something came up. You're to be briefed back at Novos."

"You don't have to do it," Nadia said.

She was right. The worst that could happen would be that Novos would seek judgment via private arbitration. If he was found guilty of breach of contract—and he would be—the court would enter the infraction on his record. There was no prison cell waiting for him. They couldn't fine him. But it would be a huge blemish on Alvarez's record, his reputation, his credit. He would have a hard time gaining employment from any of the major corporate settlements from then on. A relegation to work in refueling stations, piracy, or non-corporate space trade was almost unthinkable.

Alvarez looked at Nadia. She was holding back tears. He said, "This is the last time."

## Chapter 8

THE MAN FROM Novos Corp said little to Alvarez during the long trip back to Novos. As their shuttle approached the station's dark side, Alvarez realized they weren't headed for the main transfer station.

"Hey, what's going on?" Alvarez said.

The man looked out the window but said nothing. Somewhere on the outer rim, the shuttle docked at a transfer station that was unknown to Alvarez.

"Colonel Alvarez, please follow me," the man said. Alvarez didn't know why the man kept repeating the same order. After their encounter on the beach, Alvarez had been compliant.

The two exited the shuttle. The station was void of all the strenuous check-in and processing procedures Alvarez expected to see. Instead, there were two armed guards at the entrance to the main corridor. They made no physical or verbal gestures, unalarmed by Alvarez and the uniformed man.

"Where are we going?" Alavarez asked.

"To Novos Corp central command."

Alvarez didn't know whether to feel like a VIP or a prisoner. He kept waiting for a PTU to zoom to their location, but none came. He figured they must be in an off-grid section of the station.

He noticed the artificial gravity. Scientists argued there was no quantitative difference between terrestrial gravity and AG, but he always noticed a difference after being on-world. It was a disconcerting feeling, but he knew he would soon adjust. He would forget about it after a few days. _A few days,_ he thought. How long would he be gone?

At the end of the corridor, Alvarez and his escort reached a door, ostensibly for an elevator. That meant there was only one entrance and, apparently, one exit. Inside the elevator, there were no buttons, no console, and no vidfeeds. Without the uniformed man speaking a destination, the transport started to move. Alvarez wasn't sure, but he sensed they were moving upward.

As they exited, Alvarez recognized their location. He turned back and looked at the elevator doors with suspicion. In all the times he had visited General McKinley's office, he hadn't noticed these doors hiding in plain sight. Or if he had, he never thought they were for an elevator. The secretary behind the desk said, "They're waiting for you. Go right in."

"Have a good day, Mr. Alvarez," the uniformed man said.

Alvarez said nothing. He entered the office and found McKinley along with two other men sitting at a long boardroom table. The three stood to greet Alvarez. McKinley, despite his years, possessed a powerful presence. He was unquestionably the largest man in the room, broad shouldered and a head taller than the rest.

"John, thanks for coming in," McKinley said.

Alvarez was usually nervous in these situations. But today, he was ticked. "Didn't have much choice." He paused, then added, "Sir."

"I know, I know. I hated to do it this way. But you'll understand why in a minute." He gestured with his arm. "This is David Parker. He's the best space-architect we've got."

Parker's eyes were fixed on the floor, and his arms were wrapped around his waist. He hesitantly looked up at Alvarez and extended his hand. Alvarez still wasn't in the mood for socializing, but he had a hard time mistreating strangers. For all Alvarez knew, he and Parker were in the same boat. They shook hands, and Parker quickly sat down.

McKinley continued, "This is Dr. Michael Brenn..."  
"We know each other," Alvarez interrupted.

Other than smirking, Brennen didn't move a muscle. Unfazed, he continued reading over documents.

"Well then. Let me get down to business. Time isn't on our side. There was an incident with one of our space probes, NC-108D. John, that should sound familiar to you."

"Should it?" Alvarez said. He recognized it, but he didn't feel like playing along. He wondered if they were trying to pin a problem on him, or convince him to fall on the sword for the corporate settlement.

"I know I told you not to take your work home with you, but surely your memory is better than that. Anyway, this is a probe that we've had out in deep space monitoring a star which was behaving in an atypical way."  
"Atypical, how?" Alvarez said.

McKinley turned to Brennen.

Without looking away from his documents, Brennen said, "It's getting younger instead of older."

Alvarez didn't care about any of this. It was none of his business, and it didn't affect him. "Can you get to the point where you tell me why I'm here?" he said.

McKinley took a deep breath. "The reason is because of this video. It's some of the only data that we were able to recover from the probe's last data-burst. Most of it was lost or corrupted, but somehow the video feed got through. John, you've seen the first part of the feed. Dr. Brennen and his team were able to restore the rest of what I'm about to show you. After you see it, I think you'll understand why I couldn't brief you remotely."

The screen behind McKinley's desk came to life, and the room darkened. There was a time stamp at the bottom of the screen that read 2171:322. A young man's face appeared. To Alvarez he looked like he was in his early twenties. He wore a white suit, the kind that clung to one's body like long underwear. It covered his head, ears, and neck—a one-piece, fitted shirt.

The man spoke into the camera. "This is James Metchikoff—technician for research probe NC-108D. Today is solar day..." he looked at the wall beside him. "...three-hundred twenty-two, and today is the one-hundred and fifth day of my mission aboard the probe."

Alvarez detected a Russian accent. He noticed the tech had no trouble remembering how many days he had been there. The day of the year was another story. The single manned missions were the most strenuous tests of the human psyche. Only the bravest or most desperate people took those commissions.

"We've been researching the nearby stellar events to confirm our astronomical readings and to determine, if possible, the cause of the phenomenon. As mentioned in previous logs, all readings here have confirmed our initial observations from the Winston Observatory. The star appears to be developing in reverse direction from all previously observed life cycles. It's gaining in mass and—by all appearances—getting younger. The reason for this entry is that we've picked up an anomaly that had been hidden until now. We recently got our first glimpse of it when we adjusted orbit."

Alvarez noticed that the technician kept using the words _we_ and _us_. Loneliness causes people to develop peculiar affects.

"The anomaly occurring on the other side of the star appears to be some sort of energy burst," the probe tech said. "At least, that's the assumption we're working from. Thus far, the probe hasn't come in contact with the burst, but we have witnessed a greenish-blue wave of light emanating from the far side. What's most unusual is that the burst seems to occur periodically, with a precision of regularity that's uncommon in cosmic phenomena. Novos, you should be getting the data with this entry. See for yourself."

"In less than one solar day, our new orbit should have us on track to intercept one of the bursts. We don't anticipate any danger to the probe. The emanating waves appear to be relatively weak in magnitude. All of the asteroids and debris struck by the wave appear to maintain their original trajectory. We will be pointing all of our array toward the source of this pulse, and will make a new log entry to report findings. Metchikoff out."

The screen flickered before the technician reappeared. The time stamp read 2171:323.

"This is a follow up post. We aren't in impact-range of the burst yet, but we are getting new readings. The wave possesses unusual characteristics. We can't help but wonder if some of them are artificial patterns. In the same way frequencies are encoded into lasers, these waves appear to have properties of both light and—I'm guessing—ultra-high frequency radio waves. We've pinpointed the origin of the burst, but we should study the wave phenomenon more carefully before approaching its source. Metchikoff out."

The screen flickered again. The time stamp remained at 2171:323.

"Novos, something's off. These numbers don't make sense." His speech was hurried, and his Russian accent was more pronounced.

"When you get this, please confirm the data is rational. We're checking the sensor calibrations to be sure these readings are correct. Also, new developments with the energy pulse. The wave appears to have mass, somehow. It's so slight that it was undetectable until the pulse impacted the probe directly. The way we noticed it was from the AG system. After the pulse hit, the gravity felt off-kilter. Diagnostics showed that the probe's mass had increased by several hundred grams.

We don't think we need to tell you guys what the significance of this might be, but we'll say it anyway; if this burst is carrying matter near the speed of light...well, this isn't supposed to happen without a hyperspace window being opened. And certainly not with the regularity that is happening here.

We're going to collect a sample from the outer hull. We can't get a visual through observation windows or cameras, but there has to be something out there. We will dust the hull and see what we find. Metchikoff out."

The men around the board-room table shifted in their seats. Even Brennen who had seen all of this before seemed riveted. The screen flickered again and with the same time stamp.

"We finished the spacewalk and have followed all of the decontamination protocols. We collected a dust-like film from the hull. We're still in the re-pressurization bay as an extra precaution. Vials will enter the main quarters after the patho-scans are complete. Five vials were obtained from various parts of the probe's exterior. I'm waiting to restore artificial gravity until after they have been processed."

There was a beeping sound. The technician looked down at his console. "Whatever's in these vials appears to be uncatalogued. It's not a pathogen, or any substance for that matter, that we've seen before."

He reached over to the handle on the wall and opened the scanner door. Carefully, he grabbed individual vials and placed them on his workstation. Despite his care, he unwittingly brushed against one of the vials on the table as he reached into the scanner. After all the vials were removed from the scanner, he fastened them in place on his workstation. Both Parker and Alvarez winced as they saw the undetected vial float out of view. The tech looked into the camera and said, "Attempting to restore artificial gravity."

The probe's lights flickered as AG came back online. Then Alvarez heard the sound of shattering glass. The technician looked over his shoulder at the floor. "Nyet!" he said. He looked back at the camera with bulging eyes. He made little gasps, like a wheezing hiccup.

"It looks like," he gasped, "one of the vials broke. We're (gasp) going to restart the decontamination (gasp) protocol to kill off pathogens. I'm going to up the radiation intensity. Our suit (gasp) should protect us."

He looked away from the camera. His cheeks were drawn tight and his lips were pursed together as if he was unsuccessfully trying to open his mouth.

"Afterwards, we (gasp) will start the analysis of the undamaged vials and send the data with this transmission." Another pause. "Metchikoff out."

The screen flickered again. Beads of sweat pooled up on the technician's brow now partially covered by his spacesuit's helmet. Alvarez noticed he wasn't gasping, but he was still breathing hard.

"We finished decontamination procedures," he said. The timbre of his voice transmitted through his suit's comm system sounded metallic.

"We were only able to do some preliminary tests on the samples. Before we could finish, the probe's navigation controls went off-line. We can't seem to access them. There's no immediate danger, and the probe is still in a stable orbit. But we don't know why we lost navigation."

The technician had a defeated demeanor. He looked down as if he forgot he was still recording. A warning bell sounded, and his eyes refocused on the console. "Novos, (gasp) life support appears to be faltering. We don't know if the instruments are reading correctly or..." He trailed off. "Something isn't right. We need an immediate extraction. Bozhe moi. We will (gasp) continue to work the problems, but send rescue. Don't know how much time we have."

Then the screen went black. Parker said, "What happened? Is that the end of the feed?"

"No," Brennen said. "Listen carefully."

Alvarez cocked his head to one side. The probe tech was still breathing. The faint sound grew louder, turning into wheezing.

Barely audible, the probe tech spoke. "Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

A pause. Then louder, "Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

"Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

"Gospod' Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo."

The screen flickered and an automated voice said, "End of transmission."

## Chapter 9

THE SCREEN DIMMED, and the lights in McKinley's office came back on. There was an awkward silence. Alvarez didn't know what to make of it all. His mind was still processing, spitting out random inconclusive thoughts. He looked around the table. Parker had a faraway look in his eyes. Even McKinley and Brennen, who must have seen the video before, were reverently quiet.

McKinley broke the silence. "Any questions?"

"Only a million," Parker whispered.

"What was that nonsense at the end?" Alvarez asked.

"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner," Brennen said.

Alvarez said, "That's very nice, Michael, but..."

"He's interpreting the Jesus prayer," McKinley said. "It's the Russian Orthodox version of the Catholic last rite." Again, everyone was silent.

Finally, McKinley said, "We've got to go to the probe."

"Sir, that's over a week away by interstellar travel," Alvarez said. "There's no way that man would still be alive when we got there."

"We don't know that," McKinley said. "He may have life support back online."

"He would have contacted us," Parker said.

"Not necessarily," Brennen retorted. "He may have life support but be unable to get comms back."

"Regardless," McKinley continued, "we have to go. This is the first time anything like this has ever happened to a Novos probe. This could be really damaging to our recruitment program, not to mention the loss of assets in space."

"I feel bad for this tech, but I'm not concerned about Novos recruitment" Alvarez said.

"You better care, John," McKinley said. "Unless you've divested all of your wealth, your investments, your certs into non-Novos denominated assets...If the markets get a whiff of this, it could bring us all down."

"You assume he has investments," Brennen added.

McKinley ignored him. "I don't think I need to remind you of the non-disclosure agreement you've signed."

"I didn't sign anything," Alvarez said.

"It's in your reactivation rider," McKinley said. "Moving on—we need to recover the probe, figure out what happened, and try to vanquish the political damage this will cause back home. The probe should still be in orbit. Right, Dr. Brennen?"

"I'm just a biologist."

Parker spoke up, "It should be there for months if nothing was altered."

"How do we know what happened to him won't happen to us?" Alvarez said.

"Do you plan on breaking any vials?" Brennen asked. "We'll bring enough radiation to kill anything known to man."

"What about something unknown to man?" mouthed Parker.

"What was that Parker?" Brennen said.

Alvarez interjected, "We don't know what we're dealing with. What about the rest of the data? You obviously were able to recover more of the vid-feed than I could."

"The feed was all we could salvage," Brennen said. "The rest was either missing or so corrupted we couldn't reconstitute it."

"What about the technician. How many hours did he have in his space suit?" Alvarez asked.

Brennen shrugged. Parker said, "If it was a standard, fully-charged Novos tank, he had over six hours of air left. He could and should have other tanks on board to extend the time."

"And he probably has life support back online," McKinley added optimistically. Everyone seemed to have a hard time swallowing this notion.

"But if he didn't," Alvarez continued, "what are his chances?"

"No chance," Parker said. "He would need two dozen tanks to wait out a week-long rescue journey."

"Twenty-eight tanks," Brennen corrected.

"So, we're flying in blind. We have no clue what this stuff is the tech found?" Alvarez said.

"You fly your little ship," Brennen said, "and leave the science to me."  
McKinley interrupted, "That's enough, men. We are to assume the probe tech has everything but communications back online and is waiting for us to come get him. Alvarez, I've reactivated your contract. You're getting paid at the agreed upon rate. You said you wanted enough certs for you and Nadia to start over. Well, here you are. Brennen, you asked to be here. You know what to do."  
Brennen said, "Of course."

Everyone's eyes slowly turned to David Parker. He spoke up sheepishly, "So why exactly am I here?"

"We need the Constance," McKinley said.

"She's not ready," he blurted out. "I just took her out for her first run, and she's got a lot of bugs left."

"You can keep her flying," McKinley said confidently.

"Why don't you just take an Atlas-class ship or another Falcon-class ship?"

"None of the Atlas-class ships are fast enough, and none of the other Falcon-class ships have the versatility of the Constance. She's the fastest ship we have that can carry enough crew, equipment, and research capabilities to deal with this problem. Like John mentioned, we don't know what we're facing here. We can't afford to send anything less than our best craft and crew. The board of directors—and I agree with them—says sending the Constance is our best bet."

"It won't do us any good," Parker said, "if there's a breakdown along the way. What if we have an electrical fire or we burn out the core? You're placing far too much confidence in an untested design."

"That's why you should go. Look, you've got the material support of the entire corporate settlement. Make a list of all the parts you are afraid will fail, and we'll store them onboard. Easy as that. And you can request any crew you'd like. Look, Parker, the board has decided; the Constance _is_ going. Your decision is whether you want to increase her chances of success by going too."

"I want Terra York." Parker said impatiently. He blushed. "She's the best—actually the only—chief mechanic I know of that will make my job any easier."

"It's settled then," said McKinley. He stood up from the table, and the three men instinctively did the same. "Pack your bags. The Constance leaves at 08:00."

# Part 2 - Constance

## Chapter 10

ALVAREZ WALKED FROM the officer's quarters into the main corridor, the inner vein leading to all of the Constance's inner compartments. The corridor was a hallway of alternating doors on right and left, and on one end was the door to the helm.

It was time to relieve Parker, but Alvarez needed a cup of coffee. Now that he was on a mission, he realized how much he relied on caffeine. The starlight hitting his windows back home on the orbiter helped him wake up. Out here, there was no night or day. The only signal to Alvarez's circadian clock was the regular, timely caffeine dump he consumed at the beginning of his work day.

He turned left and walked down the corridor to the so-called cafeteria. It was just his luck. What was left in the coffee maker was old, burnt brew. He threw the worthless sludge into the garbage vent and initiated a new brew cycle on the machine, selecting the most caffeinated variety.

Startled, Alvarez turned around. "I didn't see you there," he said. Sitting in the corner of the tiny room was Sergeant Robert Fields, a man with salt-and-pepper hair that was cut short and a cavalier mustache that was still black.

"I thought ship's captains were supposed to be brave and fearless."

"If you saw an old mangy dog first thing in the morning, you be startled too," Alvarez said. "Sarge, how have you been? It's been...how long?"

"Same as always, I guess. Still working for the same certs these young punks get. You'd think I'd learn my lesson."

"You and me both," Alvarez said pretending to be in the same boat. There was a huge gap between grunt-pay and a mission colonel's salary. "Just when I thought I was out of Novos, they reactivated my contract."

"Son, I know you're good at your job—so don't take offense—but I'm surprised that cheapskate McKinley would cough up the certs to reactivate an officer. Did you check your hold-comp?"

"Yeah, the certs are in escrow already. I guess they figure it's worth it somehow."

"Either that or..." Sarge trailed off.

"What?"

"Nothing, just forget I said anything. I'm sure they're making certs hand over fist on this mission."

"Doubtful. Didn't you read the dossier?"

"As many missions as I've been on, you learn how to ignore unimportant details. I just deal with things as they come. Besides, when was the last time that Novos's stated objective was what was really at stake? They always have an ulterior motive. Their published minutes read like an alter boy's diary. They have to maintain a positive spin with stockholders. You remember that time we dropped burn-out cores on one of Trinity's newly terra-formed worlds? The mission record said we were traveling in a totally different vector transporting a shipment of algae protein concentrates." Sarge roared with laughter.

"We had to clean up behind Novos on that one," Alvarez said. "They forgot to remove corporate logos embossed on those reactors. If I didn't have certs at stake, I would have just let Trinity find it with Novos's name written all over it."

"Should have," Sarge said in a more somber tone.

"Well, this is a rescue mission at best, damage control at worst."

"Oh," Sarge said softly. "I see." The lines in his face seemed to grow more pronounced as he tried to cover up a scowl.

"What is it? Don't make me pull rank on you, old man."

Sarge chuckled. "I'm sure it's nothing, but there's always the chance Novos doesn't expect you to collect."

Alvarez took a second to compute Sarge's meaning. "Novos doesn't think I'm coming back?"

Sarge shrugged.

"You old codger. How'd you get so pessimistic?"

"Surviving will do that to you, John. That's how you get as old as me. In this line of work, you've got to see the transport backin' up before it runs you over. You'll be like this too one day..." he added, "if you're lucky."

The coffee maker beeped at Alvarez. He grabbed his cup, gave Sarge a nod, and headed toward the helm.

He wondered if Sarge was on to something. Is that what Novos did with people who were leaving? Throw them onto the frontlines and hope they don't have to pay out? Regardless, he was here now. If he was walking into a fight, then he would fight. He knew how to do that, and worrying would change nothing.

One of the grunts bumped into Alvarez. "Excuse me, sir," said the grunt. Alvarez looked down at his uniform and his new coffee stain. That's what I get for not being in the moment, Alvarez thought. Before he could respond, the grunt disappeared down the corridor.

Crew were coming out of the woodwork. It was time for the shift-change. The loudest noises came from the cargo bay at the posterior end of the corridor. He hoped this was temporary. If not, he'd have to seal the helm door just to keep his sanity.

Alvarez entered the helm and came to the command post. Unlike how people in previous centuries envisioned a captain's chair at the helm, Novos and most other corporate settlements allowed for no such luxuries. Instead, there was an array of screens, consoles, and communication devices allowing the mission colonel to control the ship.

For Alvarez, commanding the first few shifts was like putting on a favorite, worn-out sweater. Everything was as he remembered, and he was good at it. It felt right.

But it wasn't easy. For the last couple of shifts, he had experienced the painful side of the job. His leg was already throbbing despite just starting his shift. Mission colonels were required to stand at their post, and the rubber-like floor only helped a little. There wasn't a chair to tempt them. The idea was that their work demanded the highest level of diligent focus. The risk of zoning out and missing something was too great to allow for a comfortable chair.

The notion was noble albeit idealistic. Many saw it to be counterproductive because it caused unnecessary fatigue. But traditions die hard, and Alvarez had come to expect the pain. Pain was his personal yardstick. A prolonged absence of pain was unsettling. He felt guilty, because progress required suffering. It wasn't really about whether he deserved to feel pleasure or not. He liked to have fun like everyone else. But he knew there was a difference between fun and happiness. The road to genuine satisfaction was always a painful one.

On missions with a larger crew, at least one of the officers would have medical training and could dispense injections to strengthen his veins. But not on this mission. He had forgotten his ointment. That desk job made me soft and forgetful, he thought.

Alvarez spoke to Parker. "What's your status?"

"All of the posts have checked in for the new shift except for the systems operator," Parker said.

"Jitters?"

"Yeah. We called his quarters, but he didn't answer."

"Stay at the helm. I'll be back to relieve you in two minutes." Alvarez had seen this situation before, but he wasn't sure how to handle it. Apparently, Jitters hadn't changed. He was up to his old tricks again.

Alvarez reentered the main corridor. The noise from the cargo bay welcomed him. He passed the officer's quarters and arrived at the grunts' barracks. Posted on the door was the official title: "Enlisted Service Persons' Living Quarters." But no one used this term in common speech. "Grunts" was more descriptive, and it saved time.

Only two interior doors were commonly closed: those for the officers' quarters and the grunts' barracks. Alvarez disengaged the lock with a wave of his hand and manually slugged the massive door open. Once inside he slammed the door. A boom reverberated throughout the compartment.

The grunts' quarters consisted of one skinny hallway. On each side were tiny cells stacked two high. A short ladder was attached to the wall for the upper cells. He found Jitters' room, one of the lower cells recessed down into the floor like a garden apartment. A piece of plastic was taped above his door over where his legal name should have been. Scribbled in red marker, it read "Jitters."

Alvarez opened the door without knocking. Jitters was shirtless and barefoot, passed out on his bunk. Alvarez looked at the ceiling, trying to locate the source of a high-pitched squeal. It came from a filtering system, a standard issued item in all living quarters. Novos and other corporate settlements had learned long ago not to mess with people's vices. The extended, isolated experiences tempted even the staunchest abstainers.

Alvarez figured Jitters left the filter on all night, burning out some component. They weren't meant for continuous usage. Alvarez flipped it off.

On Jitters' chest was a ceramic inhaler, undoubtedly used to ingest whatever had knocked him out.

Alvarez was conflicted. He was perturbed with Jitters' behavior, but they went way back. They owed each other their lives. He was embarrassed because Jitters was one of his men, and here he was acting like a junky. And he was angry because whatever he did in the past to help Jitters had failed.

Empty bottles lay scattered on the floor, and several inches of melted ice remained in a bucket beside the cot. Alvarez picked up the bucket and poured it on Jitters. Jitters sat up gasping. The sight would have been funny if Alvarez wasn't angry.

"You've got work to do," Alvarez said. Jitters stared, shamefaced. "You're part of a team now," Alvarez said. "You can't pull this junky act on my ship. If you can't keep it together, I'll confine you to quarters for the rest of the mission."

Jitters tried to stand up, but he winced as his right foot touched the floor. He collapsed back onto his cot. Alvarez saw a nail file and a pile of skin on the floor.

"What did you do to yourself?" Alvarez asked.

"I-I-I wanted new skin. I wanted to feel like a b-b-baby. I t-t-took the callouses off my right foot. Then it started to hurt, so I stopped. It was dumb, I know. Too much..." He picked up his inhaler.

Jitters was no criminal. Drug prohibition had expired in most corporate settlements a century ago. What was protected were the rights of others. If someone got intoxicated and crashed a ship or got into a brawl, the private courts exacted judgment. But if someone destroyed themselves, there wasn't a legal thing you could do to stop them. The non-aggression principle forbade it.

Addictions were usually career hurdles, causing people to be looked over for promotions because they seemed unreliable. The incentives rewarded persons to stay clean, but substance abuse was rampant. Especially by grunts in space.

Jitters finally spoke, "I-I-I'm sorry, Colonel. I-I-I was just itching so bad last night. I needed a break."

"You get twelve hours between shifts. Can't you make it work?"

"No. I get stir crazy. I just needed a way out. I didn't plan it this way. It just got away from me. It won't happen again," said Jitters.

"No one gets out of problems," Alvarez said. "There's no getting out of it. You can't go around them, ignore them, hide from them. You can only go through it. Nothing changes until you do that."

Jitters didn't look convinced. "S-s-sir, you don't know what I've been going through."

"Maybe so. But whatever it is, you're not going through it. You're doing everything you can to get out of it, to go around it. Every attempt to avoid a problem only makes it worse. What are you dodging anyway?"

"You know some of the stuff we saw back in the Fight. I still hear those guys' voices from back then."

Alvarez stood there for a moment. He said, "That's not it."

"What do you mean?" Jitters said self-righteously.

"You're not running from the Fight. I have those dreams and hear those voices too. We all have to bear that curse. But Jitters, you were running from something the day I met you."

"B-b-back then, it was just recreational."

"Nobody uses like you did just for fun. Listen to me. No one's coming to save you. I've certainly tried as have others. You use up people's sympathy after a while. No one's coming, Jitters. No matter how bad-off you get, there's no point at which life will take pity on you. It has to be you. Nothing's going to get better until you stare it down, whatever it is you're running from."

Jitters listened but was still unresponsive. Alvarez said, "Clean up, get some coffee, and meet me on the helm on the double." He walked to the door. He turned, looking back. "And Jitters, wrap up your foot."

Jitters grinned. "Yes, sir."

Terra York, the only woman aboard the Constance, outranked most of the crew. But chief mechanic was still considered an enlisted position, meaning she slept in a tiny cell just like all the grunts. She wasn't fazed. Compared to growing up as a marauder, she had an indulgent life: hot chow, hot showers, and a warm bed. She even earned vacation time, but never took them. Where would she go?

She was pretty enough, even though she down-played it by buzzing her hair short. Beneath her oversized mechanic's overalls, she had a desirable figure. On these missions, it didn't matter how she looked. Unsolicited advances from bored, barely post-adolescent crew were incessant. She needed a stick to beat back the dogs.

But being the only female crew member did have its perks. Novos built a small set of women's quarters—they were still cells—and lavatories separate from the men's. They shared the same compartment as the aquaponics station.

York enjoyed her shower in solitude. The gurgling sounds from the aquaponics tanks were barely audible over the hissing spray. But she was getting antsy. She had been in too long. She, like most of the crew, took short showers, even though she wasn't required to do so. There was no need to conserve water; the ship recycled all of the waste fluids back into H20 with perfect efficiency. And heat wasn't a problem either. The reactor core produced enormous amounts of it. Most heat was vented into space. For the other crew, the thought of showering in someone else's filtered excrement tended to hasten bathing. But for York, it was something else. She couldn't get used to the excesses, the indulgences, of corporate life.

She turned off the water and was met by hot, dry air that beaded moisture away from her skin as she stepped out. With her buzz cut, even her hair was dry. She looked for her clothes. Her dirty coveralls lay on the ground along with socks and underwear. She had forgotten to bring clean clothes, but it wasn't a problem. She was alone, and her cell was close by.

She grabbed the towel from the dispenser and wrapped it around herself. It was too small. She headed towards her quarters on the other side of the aquaponics station. As she passed the fish tanks, she admired every space traveler's favorite color; life affirming green lettuces grew on grow-beds above the tanks.

Except for the occasional machinist work in the cargo bay, aquaponics was the loudest source of sound on the ship. She heard it at night as she tried to sleep.

York rounded the station and the gurgling diminished. She kept her head down, watching her step on the slick, tiled floor. The room was always humid, shower or not. Only a few feet away, she darted for her door. In her haste, she nearly knocked down David Parker.

"I'm so sorry," said Parker. "I wasn't watching you—I mean—I wasn't watching where I was going."

"It's completely my fault," she said. York dropped her dirty clothes and used both hands to keep her towel secure. "I should make a request to Novos for longer towels," she said.

Parker tried to laugh, but little came out. Ears red, he kept his eyes on the floor.

"I left my clean clothes in my quarters," she said, "and I didn't realize it until I'd finished."

"Oh, I see. I mean, I understand. I would probably do something like that, except the officer's quarters have their own showers."

"Don't brag," she teased.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that. I just..."

"It's okay. I'm kidding." She tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact. "What are you doing here anyway? Feeding the fish?"

"No." Parker belted. "I was looking at—I mean for... I came to talk to you." Parker swallowed hard. He appeared less comfortable fully clothed than York did half naked. "I was wondering if you finished the performance report on the warp field generator," he said.

"Yes, it's still on my console down in the cargo bay. I would have sent it to you directly, but I wanted to go over it with you."

Parker looked up. Work talk distracted him from the awkward situation. "Were there problems?"

"Not really. Everything's running smoothly right now. I guess it's more of a hunch than anything else."

"Something with the data?"

"Small temperature spikes," she said.

"During the Davidson particle cycle."

"Right. Most of the heat gets ejected into the fabric of space-time. But there's residual that's tacitly stored in the warp field itself."

"And released once we come out of IST," Parker added. "That's to be expected. It's usually an insignificant amount of heat. And the ship's hull should protect us from a much greater release of energy than from what accumulates during Davidson cycles."

"I'm not worried about it endangering us directly; I'm worried about the cooling system getting over taxed."

"The heat should dissipate almost instantly," Parker said. "Even if the cooling system was temporarily turned off, we wouldn't be in danger from heat."

"I know, but the system doesn't have the intelligence to know that this huge spike we're going to experience is temporary. The system is going to react as if the core is melting and will kick into high gear. All kinds of interdependent parts could fail, and we haven't tested them at the ramped-up level they will be performing at when we come out of IST."

"Can we short-circuit the cooling system, so that it doesn't overreact?"

"I thought of that, but it's an active system as long as we're in IST."

"So in other words, we can't turn it off while we're in a warp field without it overheating, and the longer we're in a warp field the more likely the cooling system will fail when we come out of IST. I designed the ship, but I still didn't catch this problem."

"It's not your fault. Novos should've tested longer before commissioning her," York said. "Any chance Alvarez would let us drop out of IST early?"

"To dispense the residual heat from the Davidson cycle before it gets critical?"

York nodded.

"I doubt it," Parker said. "We're running on razor thin margins as it is, and Novos wants no delays. Besides we're within twenty-fours of reaching the probe. If we're going to have problems with the cooling system, we might as well reach our destination first."

"I guess we've got a tiger by the tail then," she said.

"And we're about to release it." Parker looked away, but this time he didn't look embarrassed. His mind was elsewhere.

"Well, I better get dressed," she said. "I'll see you at the next shift change."

She walked around Parker who looked back down at the floor. She entered her cell but left the door ajar. Through the crack, she saw Parker approach one of the fish tanks. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small bag. With a childlike expression, he dropped pellets into the tank. She heard the water's surface come to life as fish thrashed in a feeding-frenzy. York smiled and closed her door.

So far, this mission was like all others; it was feast or famine. Alvarez had done it enough times to know not to complain about the lack of challenges. Boredom was a blessing. When the challenges came—and they would—they would be all-encompassing. These moments were the quiet before the storm.

At his command console on the helm, he pulled up the crew manifest. Although the Constance could hold more than forty crew members and Novos had promised him the best, there were only a dozen grunts on board. Including the officers—Parker, Brennen, and himself—it totaled fifteen. If this had been a mining expedition, the Constance would be packed to the brim with men. Instead Novos, always conscious of the bottom line, sent an excess of equipment but only a skeleton crew.

Despite the limited personnel, Alvarez was glad to be working with these people. David Parker was the best space-architect employed at Novos, and Terra York seemed to be top-notch. Alvarez noticed that the two seemed to balance out each other's deficiencies.

Dr. Michael Brennen, he knew all too well. They were best friends before the Fight broke out. But since then, they only spoke when it was absolutely necessary. Alvarez trusted two things about Brennen: he needed to be right, and he usually was right. As irritating as Brennen was, Alvarez respected his abilities. If he proffered his opinion, it was usually because he had already thought through the problem and had found the best solution.

Then there were the grunts. Alvarez only knew two of them: Jitters and Sergeant Robert Fields. Anyone with a military title was of special interest to Alvarez. It meant they were veterans from the Fight. Although Novos had adopted non-martial titles, those persons who had attained higher rank during the Fight retained their military titles out of respect.

Everyone called Fields "Sarge." He was the old dog on the ship, older than Alvarez, Parker, or Brennen. The manifest showed he was fifty-eight years old, which was three years past the Novos's normal cut-off. Appearing on this roster meant Sarge had earned more than just Alvarez's respect. Someone at Novos broke the rules to keep him employed. The rest of the grunts had names he didn't recognize, which didn't surprise him. It was a wonder Novos could get anyone out here for the certs they payed grunts. Grunts were able-bodied and proficient in at least one hands-on skill. Most were decent mechanics, and some—like Sarge—were ex-military. Grunts followed orders and kept to themselves. Most importantly, they were willing to face the monotonous, socially deprecating life of a tin-can-packed sardine for six weeks or more.

Alvarez asked Jitters, "What's the estimated time of arrival?"

"Just under two hours, sir."

Alvarez thought six days would pass quickly, but after the excitement had worn off, the monotony set in. He was glad to get this part of the trip over with.

Parker entered the helm. "Colonel, I'm ready to relieve you." Officers only addressed each other formally in front of enlisted crew.

"Parker, you can take the wheel, but I'm going to stay at the helm since we're coming out of IST in less than two hours."

"That's fine with me. I was a little anxious about our IST drop anyway."

"Something I should know?"

"Well, it has to do with the Davidson particle cycle and the residual heat that is stored and then released after the warp-field generator is disengaged. The untested parts in the cooling system, specifically the energy-transfer coupling, will be stressed and may behave erratically from the elevated system response."

Alvarez nodded trying to keep up, but these engineering problems were over his head. York slipped in as Parker continued. She interrupted but in a way that didn't seem rude. "Sir, we're worried the cooling system will be overtaxed when we come out of IST. But we're ready to respond if it does."

"Missions never go smoothly," Alvarez said. "I'm sure with the two of you, we can handle whatever engineering problem comes our way. If there's trouble with the cooling system, I expect it to be just the first of many bumps in the road. Excuse me," he said as he activated the ship's intercom system.

"Attention crew, this is Colonel John Alvarez. We're coming out of IST in under two hours. I want all persons, including off-duty personnel, to be on alert and ready for future orders. Alvarez out."

He felt silly addressing such a small crew over the comm system, but he needed to be sure everyone was ready. He turned to Parker and York. "Have either of you seen Brennen around?"

They shook their heads. Alvarez said, "That means nobody's seen him for two days."

"Do you think he's okay?" York said.

"Oh, he's fine," Alvarez said. "That hermit locks himself in his lab and only comes out when he runs out of food."

"John, I have plenty of food left," said Brennen standing in the doorway. "You, of all people, should know I'm always prepared." The two men glared at each other. Parker and York stepped aside, pretending to do work.

Alvarez said, "We're going to be coming out of I—"

"I heard your announcement," Brennen interrupted. "What will your orders be when we reach the probe?"

Brennen always had a way of unmanning him. Alvarez stumbled for a second. "Well...we need to monitor the cooling system when we drop out of IST, and after we establish our bearings in relation to the probe, the star, and the source of the plasma bursts I want to..."

Brennen turned and walked into the corridor. "Michael!" Alvarez shouted.

Brennen kept walking. Alvarez took off after him. Catching up with Brennen, Alvarez spun him around. "Michael, I wasn't finished."

"I heard enough. I've got work to do."  
"Look," Alvarez said sharply. "We don't have to like each other. Our past doesn't matter. What matters is that we do our jobs and—"  
"What matters is that you get what you want. That's all you've ever cared about."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"John, you know exactly what I mean."

"Leave Nadia out of this. That was fifteen years ago."

"Look," Brennen said with his arms stretched wide. "You can play king of the castle and fly your little ship. Just stay out of my way. If I'm right, what's waiting at the probe is more important than either one of us."

Alvarez wanted to keep arguing, to right wrongs and make Brennen admit defeat. But he couldn't ignore what he just said. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing you could understand." Brennen turned and walked away. Alvarez watched as he walked half way down the corridor, and turned into the science lab. The door slammed shut behind him.

Things hadn't always been this way. Brennen and Alvarez met in the Parnassus Institute on Feros III, a terra-formed planet in Novos territory. Suite-mates their freshmen year, they were both on scholarships: Alvarez for Grekoball and Brennen for academics. Academics was the right word, because Brennen, a true polymath, received scholarships in multiple disciplines. He had his pick, and it was for that very reason the two were paired together as roommates; they both held undeclared majors.

The unlikely pair hit it off. The friendship survived the first two years of institute, and even after the first major romantic relationship. That's how Alvarez first met Nadia; she was Brennen's first and—as far as Alvarez knew—last girlfriend. She, a biology major, was infatuated with Brennen's genius. The saying _three's a crowd_ didn't apply to them. They were inseparable until the Fight broke out.

The Fight didn't start all at once. It's hard to start a war between a state and a non-state. It wasn't until after corporate space exploration that non-state entities even had a chance to survive such a conflict. Throughout human history, odds favored the state to such a degree that there became an almost unquestionable belief in the state's validity, even necessity. Might made right, and the state had plenty of might.

There were exceptions, times when nation states lost power: Rome, Napoleon, the Third Reich. Even the Irish maintained a thousand years of clan and tribal anarchy despite their warring neighbors, the English. And the so-called Dark Ages, often characterized by famine and social instability, was peaceful compared to the atrocities due to state sponsored genocide and war in the twentieth century. Despite all of this, the larger trend had been of increasingly centralized and expansive forms of government.

Everything changed when people began to settle space. Statists had little to do with it. To be sure, they took credit for it. Taking credit and certs was what they did best. They even faked a few moon landings long before scientists knew how to shield travelers from deadly radiation in the Van Allen belts.

But it wasn't until the market was right, when people could make real profits, that manned space exploration took hold. When it did, an avalanche of activity, change, and ultimately great prosperity broke loose. Everyone benefited from the boon in raw materials, technology, and economic opportunities.

New categories of industry emerged faster than law-makers could update the tax code. Because spatially distant and ever-changing business ventures outpaced the government's regulatory prowess, people began to question the Statists' legitimacy.

Additionally, the collected tax revenue was spent entirely on earth-based infrastructure. What exactly existed in space for Statists to service? There were no roads or bridges, and the infrastructure that did exist was put there by private capital.

They couldn't hide behind children either. Long before space settlement, primary education became a free good. Interactive modules reduced the cost of learning by rote the building blocks of knowledge—what classical educators called the grammar phase—to nearly zero. Since Statists funding wasn't provided for off-world education, charities and religious institutions filled the gap.

Many thought that technology would someday erode the legitimacy of the Statists, but it didn't. Technology was neutral. The part of the equation that changed was the scarcity of real-estate. On earth, increasing populations demanded land use. Some economists argued that there was a market need or value for the state, that with increased population densities there needed to be an arbiter for land-use rights. Certainly, anarchical societies historically occupied sparsely populated areas, e.g. precolonial America, tribal Africa, and the Wild West.

It was only a matter of time before space settlement removed the premium placed on land. What became scarce was people to settle space. The land-use arbiter, i.e. the Statists, was destined to become extinct.

The Fight first broke out in pockets. Small corporate groups who never seemed to end up earth-side stopped paying taxes. They weren't protesting or trying to make a statement. They believed it profitable to avoid their tax burden even if they lost the small privilege of trading with earth-based companies. They could always deal with a third party. And they didn't need earth money; they traded certs issued by larger corporations.

They miscalculated the Statists' reaction—or over-reaction. Someone in charge thought this movement needed to be stomped out quickly. And it probably could have been, had the Statists been more precise in their retaliation. Instead they levied additional taxes on the still compliant space corporations and sent appropriation vessels—as they were called—to annex assets for the assessed amounts due.

It was a mistake. Statists took too much and from the wrong people and were met with universal resistance from merchants.

Resistance took various forms. Some ships tried to out-run appropriation vessels. Others made boarding extremely cumbersome and played dumb when tax agents tried to assess their cargo. Predictably, some ships used less imaginative means of resistance; they weaponized impact cannons, projectile tools designed for busting up asteroids.

Ships were usually without formal weaponry. When the handful of nation states unified decades before the Fight, the promise of peace swayed the majority of the populace to support it. Armies stood down, and their weapons were dismantled—most of them anyway. Replacing the old system was an unarmed global citizenry and a capable, militarized police force.

After the Fight began, there was a mad dash to arm space vessels. Fortunately, freedom fighters held two hands-down advantages over earth-based nation states: physical possession of the most cutting-edge technologies, and cheaper production costs. Moving multi-ton components required little energy in space, and there were no neighbors to crowd. Turning the service craft into an effective, albeit ragtag, fleet was almost an overnight event.

Additionally, larger corps didn't appreciate the newly levied taxes, so they sent supplies and volunteers to aid smaller merchant groups. Conflict escalation resulted in Statists targeting larger corps, which galvanized the resistance. Settlers who were neutral or even pro-government before the newly levied taxes, overwhelmingly supported the Outer-Five settlements. If they had to pick their allegiance, it would be to those who wrote their paychecks. Within months after the first merchants rebelled, almost everyone in space either joined in the Fight or materially assisted those who did.

Alvarez became involved after one of Novos Corp's ships was attacked by Statists. He was a natural born leader. He transitioned from team captain to squad captain seamlessly.

Brennen and Nadia broke up soon after her parents were killed. They were aboard a residential orbiter that was indiscriminately targeted by Statists. Brennen refused to get involved. He calculated the risk to his person to be too great. He wanted to wait it out on the sidelines. What had initially been attractive to Nadia, Brennen's calculating, logical mind, was ultimately the source of their discord. She realized he was all mind and no heart.

Victory was a surprise, which happens when there's no benchmark of success. Usually unfocused guerilla fighters would find themselves stuck in a long, unresolved conflict. But once the Outer-Five corps joined the Fight, self-ordering kicked in. The Statists, because of their fixed position on earth, had a critical weakness. Its space elevators, transport stations in geosynchronous orbit, were the only way to move goods and people on or off world, and they were the major hubs of planetary defense systems. Those who controlled the space elevators controlled the world.

In terrestrial wars on earth, the state placed embargos on smaller adversaries. But embargos were meaningless in space. There's too much room out there. Earth, however, was finite, and space elevators—there were over fifty at that time—were obvious targets. It was so obvious that without sharing strategies or battle plans, all five corporate settlements were responsible for attacking and destroying elevators. Once all of the stations were controlled by Outer-Five troops or destroyed, the Fight was over.

Surrender was simple. Deciding on terms wasn't. The corps had personnel structure and even voting bodies, but no protocols for handling this situation. It was a total mismatch.

Ultimately, the Outer-Five sent delegates to hammer out terms. Demanded by the Outer-Five was the total dissolution of the Statist government. Replacing it were three corporate entities, pseudo-states, that traded and competed with each other. But their charters prohibited the use of coercive force, namely involuntary conscription, taxes, and seizure of private property.

After the Fight, Alvarez and Nadia continued their friendship without Brennen. The two really were different people, and they saw each other differently. Their attraction to each other seemed obvious to them after the Fight but had never really occurred to either of them before.

Alvarez tried on multiple occasions to reestablish relations with Brennen, but to no avail. He wouldn't return calls or messages. When Alvarez did see him in person, Brennen accused him of stabbing him in the back and stealing Nadia. Brennen never forgave either one of them.

Until this mission, Alvarez hadn't seen Brennen in over eight years. When he realized Brennen's involvement in the expedition, he knew it would create a tense working environment. He had hoped there wouldn't be any overt confrontations.

Now, he knew better. If Brennen hadn't changed—and he hadn't—this would be the first of numerous encounters. Alvarez started to regret honoring his contract. This was going to be a long trip after all.

## Chapter 11

THE PIERCING SOUND of alarms snapped Alvarez out of his ruminations. We must be at the probe, he thought. But just coming out of IST wouldn't cause this kind of ruckus.

He went into the helm. The alarm was even louder there. "What's our status?" he said.

"We've reached our destination," Thomson, the navigator, said. "The computer says there's an engine malfunction." Alvarez looked at Parker who was working at his console.

"That's what I was afraid of," Parker said without looking up. Terra York, who was beside Parker, turned and left.

"Where's she going?" Alvarez said.

"Colonel, we need to shut down immediately," Parker said.

Alvarez motioned to Jitters. "Pull it." Jitters complied. The siren fell silent, the lights darkened, and the consoles went blank. A dim red glow, the emergency lights, emanated from the floor. They were enough to help someone escape during a crash landing but not enough for much more.

Above the helm's doorway the alarm light continued to blink, detached from its siren. Alvarez felt like the ship was underwater. "Apparently, the main computer still thinks we have a problem," he said to no one.

Everything except minimal life-support systems was offline including consoles, engines, and communications. He asked Thomson, "How close are we to the star?"

"Sir, we landed at our target coordinates, so we should be in the same orbit as the probe."

The word _should_ always made Alvarez feel uneasy. At least they hadn't crashed into the star. "Parker, report," he said.

Parker gripped his console. "Sir, the engines are blown."

"We're stranded?"

"No, interstellar travel is still possible. I'm talking about our thrusters. We won't be able to maneuver when we're not in IST."

Alvarez bit his lip. He didn't understand how interstellar travel was even possible, let alone the actual mechanics of engine design.

"That's not our only concern," Parker continued. "York is on her way to disengage the energy-transfer coupling from the main reactor. If she doesn't do it within about three minutes, it will overload and blow the reactor. Then we really are stuck," he paused, "or worse."

Alvarez clenched his fist trying not to appear shocked. He kept his panic locked down. He learned long ago that the most important thing in a crisis was to keep yourself together. It didn't matter how you felt. There was no way to feel calm. You had to act calm. What you did was more important than what you felt. Focus on doing the next right thing. He swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "What's the cause for the malfunction?"

"It's just a new design. I knew something like this could happen. We took the Constance out too soon, before the customary six weeks of extensive testing. I don't know why McKinley was so dead set on using the Constance."

"At least he allowed you to bring extra parts," Alvarez said.

Parker eased up a bit. "Yeah. We've got enough parts to rebuild the ship twice over..." He stiffened. "If there's time."

Thomson interrupted, "Colonel Alvarez, look."

Out the main bay window Alvarez saw a small shuttle appear. "What's he doing?" Alvarez said. He grabbed the communication console, hit the transmitter, and said, "Brennen, report. Brennen."

Jitters said, "S-s-sir, it's no use. Communications are down."

"If we get through this alive, I'm going to..." Alvarez controlled himself. He couldn't lose it in front of the crew. He turned to Parker. "Do you need to assist York?"

"There's little I could do. Where she's going, there's barely enough room for one person. Her size and skill means she can do it faster than I could."

The crew was silent. A faint hum, first sounding like ringing in the ears, grew louder and higher pitched. "Jitters," Alvarez said. "Go check on the grunts and report back."

"You got it, Colonel."

Everyone else at the helm waited by their consoles. The hum continued to rise in pitch but grabbed new, lower frequencies that combined into a nauseating oscillation.

Alvarez watched Brennen's shuttle. No doubt, Alvarez shared the thoughts of everyone else on board: was the combustion chamber going to blow? Would they be stranded or die? But Alvarez's overriding thought was unique; if they blew up, Brennen would get away with acting like a spoiled child. No, if they blew up, he would get away with murder, because he took their only shuttle, their only mode of escape from the ticking time bomb inside the Constance.

Brennen's shuttle moved at the same rapid speed as before, but now, because of the distance, it appeared to drift like debris in an asteroid belt. Not far beyond the shuttle, Alvarez saw a small glimmer. It must be the probe, he thought.

The crew grew restless. A bead of sweat, blood red from the track lights, dripped from Thomson's brow. Parker paced the dark room with one hand covering his face, the other on his hip. The two technicians sat holding their heads in their hands. Alvarez felt a blender in his guts as the high frequency hum grew inaudible.

Suddenly, a rapid metallic clang pulsed for a couple seconds and then nothing. Alvarez looked at Parker who exhaled an unmistakable sigh of relief. The crew cheered.

Jitters returned to the helm. Sitting down at his console, he said, "The men are fine, sir. Except for a couple stationed in the cargo bay, everyone was in their barracks. They were a little confused by the lights going out, but I got them settled down." Alvarez wondered what substances that had entailed.

Terra York returned to the helm. She reported to Alvarez, "We're in the clear, sir. Now it's time to start making repairs."

"Is it safe to turn on the systems?" he asked Parker.

"I think it should be fine now, but we're not going to have sub-IST maneuverability until repairs are made. York disengaged the power coupling, which isn't hard to replace. But I'm guessing we'll need to swap out some major components. I won't know for sure until we run a full diagnostic and manually inspect the combustion chamber and its contiguous components."

Alvarez looked at Jitters and gave him the nod. Within moments the lights, communications, and computers were back online.

Either Parker wasn't satisfied with Alvarez's non-response, or he was stuck in engineering mode and was thinking out loud. "I'm certain we've got all the parts we need," he said, "and the energy-transfer coupling might even be in good enough shape to continue using it. I suspect the problem is the combustion chamber. Replacing it is a real bear. We can't do it from within the ship. We have to take it on a transport table outside the main cargo bay doors, space-walk it around the ship, open the service hatch, pull out the old chamber, and secure the new chamber from outside."

Alvarez heard him but said nothing. He was busy pulling up ship schematics, the combustion chamber specifically. "I can't seem to find the service hatch, the service shaft, or half of what you're talking about on the computer's diagrams."

"Oh, that's to be expected," Parker said. "Much of this was an after-thought, something we changed late in the design process."

"A mistake?"

"Mistake is too strong a word. This is par for the course. Initial designs only work on paper. Once metal meets rivet, there are going to be some disconnects between theory and practice. The only reason the schematics aren't up to date is because we took the Constance out ahead of schedule."

Alvarez wondered what other surprises were waiting for him. "How long is this going to take?"

"Several hours, at least. I'll know more once I get a look at it."

"You better get to it."

## Chapter 12

BRENNEN REVIEWED HIS notes from the shuttle's console. Despite the mission coming together so quickly, he was thoroughly prepared. The shuttle was crowded. It was a one room vessel, and Brennen had stacked the posterior section full of tools and materials including dozens of oxygen tanks.

He turned from his console and faced forward in the cockpit. Out his window, the research probe now appeared larger than the Constance. A light and a ringer went off. "They must have communications back online," he said. "John, when I have something to tell you, I'll let you know." Brennen shut off the ringer, dismissing the hail.

"Just in case," he said to himself, bringing up the transceiver protocol. He clicked the probe's signature tab from the two signals available on his console. The screen flashed TRANSMITTING.

"Research probe NC-108D, this is a rescue party from Novos, Dr. Michael Brennen speaking. Can anyone hear me?"

There was no reply. "Didn't think so. Proceeding as planned," he said.

The shuttle neared the probe. Brennen disengaged the autopilot and grabbed the holographic controls. They were an orange/red projection. Once he gripped the controls, they moved with his hands as long as he kept them the right distance apart. The holograph stretched and compressed like putty.

He sat the controls in his lap and guided the shuttle to within docking range of the probe but stopped short. Something was wrong. Beside the main hatch was a small rectangular opening, its cover missing. Even from this distance, Brennen could see that the primary power control was disengaged. I can't even get aboard without that plugged in, he thought.

Brennen pulled his hands apart. The holographic controls snapped back into their original position above the console. He waved one hand, and the holograph disappeared.

"Computer, execute application robotics initiation protocol," he said. The computer chirped. Then he heard external machinery begin to grind.

A picture appeared on his screen, nearly identical to his cockpit view. He saw part of the probe. The entrance shaft was highlighted with special graphics. Brennen clicked on the highlighted image and then felt a vibration in the floor.

The robotic unit appeared in the bottom part of the screen. It disembarked from the shuttle and headed towards the probe, a short distance away. Before it reached the hatch, Brennen said, "Pause initiation protocol."

The unit stopped. "Robot, attempt to engage primary power control on the compartment next to the main hatch," he said.

There was a split-second pause. Then the cylindrical unit fired micro-thrusters, shifting its trajectory. Now in line with the power control, long arms extended like antennae to the exposed panel. Moments later, Brennen's screen read, "Primary power restored."

"Good," he said. "Unit, continue with initiation protocol."

After the unit realigned itself with the entrance shaft, the image on the screen flickered. It changed to the robotic unit's camera. The entrance shaft grew larger until the screen turned black.

Brennen said, "Computer, open shaft and employ mobile voyeur." The screen went fuzzy as the unit opened the hatch and switched to the voyeur's camera.

"Electromagnetic interference," he muttered.

New holographic controls appeared above the console, this time with a joy-stick configuration. Brennen grabbed them and moved the voyeur forward inside the probe. The screen was still black.

He breathed, "So you didn't get the lights back on after all."

With his left hand, he toggled the commands until LUMINOSO appeared.

"Spanish? The last guy..." he said.

The voyeur sprayed white light into the primary airlock, the first of the probe's two main compartments. The other compartment was the main living space. The airlock was the smaller of the two, replete with tools and decontamination equipment. Adjoining the two sections was a small, redundant airlock where the final sequence of decontamination protocols was administered.

Brennen maneuvered the robot further into the primary airlock. The voyeur was perfect for these situations. It had treads like a dozer for normal gravity environs, but it was equally mobile sans gravity via its thruster array.

As Brennen tilted the stick forward in a smooth motion, the voyeur propelled itself through an intricate series of tiny thruster bursts each with different angles and durations. The voyeur's computer constantly adjusted to maintain a safe speed and trajectory. But for the operator, it was a smooth, effortless experience.

The voyeur was the ideal tool for this job. Novos had many unmanned probes in space, and voyeurs carried out many of the chores, in and outside of the vessels. They were great cost savers for corps, especially with the rising price of unskilled labor. Most vessels, specifically their doors, were designed to be operated by voyeurs.

He turned the unit to face the hatch. "Close hatch door," he said. Nothing happened. Apparently, none of the automated systems were working. That meant artificial gravity couldn't be restored from within the airlock. I'll have to do things manually, he thought.

He needed to find the right command. He toggled through his tools list. He selected ENTRADA. Nothing happened. "That should have done it," he said.

He toggled through more commands. "Let's try one more. I hope I'm remembering my Spanish." He selected CIERRA. Immediately, the voyeur extended three arms toward the perimeter of the hatch. They locked in place, hand-in-glove in the three circular slots.

After making contact, there was a loud distorted sound over the comm. Without atmosphere, the reverberations inside the probe were inaudible, but the arms, in direct contact with the vessel, resonated sound to the comms. As the arms spun, the grinding, squeaking sounds overpowered its microphone.

Brennen watched as three curved, scissor blades coalesced, closing the hatch. The sound subsided, and the voyeur arms detached from the entrance.

Brennen scanned the airlock one last time. He couldn't afford to miss anything that could point to the probe tech's condition and whereabouts. He saw nothing but tools attached to white walls and some floating plastic. He figured the technician must have thrown some of his trash into the airlock.

Brennen turned the unit to face the redundant airlock that led to the main living quarters. Inside the narrow passageway, he toggled from CIERRA to ENTRADA. He said, "Let's see if anybody's home." The voyeur again reached its arms to the slots around the hatch producing the same unpleasant discord as the scissor hatch opened.

He held his breath, glimpsing the living quarters for the first time. The lights were still out. This larger compartment was difficult to illuminate with the voyeur's onboard lights.

Brennen was methodical. He directed the voyeur to follow the wall on the right, attempting to outline the room's perimeter. Nothing was as it should be. Above a tacky green couch floated an acoustic guitar with a sunburst finish. Its black hard-case was near the ceiling. The couch below was apparently attached to the floor, probably to secure it during pre-launch transport.

Brennen assumed the chaotic conditions resulted after life support and artificial gravity were lost. For numerous reasons, the airlock compartment commonly lost AG, but the main living quarters was designed to have its atmosphere and gravity maintained.

The voyeur maneuvered around the floating debris and came to the kitchenette. Above the sink were dozens of silverware utensils and a pot of noodles strung out like frozen lightning bolts. "Filthy slob," he said.

Past the kitchen, Brennen moved the voyeur around a doorless partition. Suspended above the floor were various pieces of exercise equipment. "Keep moving," Brennen told himself.

The next partition had a series of bunks. Why would a probe with only one technician have more than one bed? he wondered. He moved the voyeur closer. The bottom bunk was empty except for blankets and a pillow. He twisted a knob causing the voyeur to rise. Its camera peered over the mattress of the top bunk. Floating below the ceiling was something covered with blankets. It was a body. Its back was turned toward the voyeur.

"Why would you go to bed if you were losing life-support?" Brennen said.

He jostled the holograph. New controls emerged on each side, like wings from a fuselage. He moved two of the voyeur's arms forward, clasping the olive-drab blanket. Brennen held his breath. The arms peeled the blanket off the body, which was wearing a standard Novos active-wear suit. One of the arms bumped the body causing it to drift. It smashed against the wall and spun back toward the voyeur.

Brennen tried to avoid impact by repositioning the unit. But it took too long. A tan, featureless face smacked into the voyeur's camera spinning it and the body out of position.

Brennen yelled. He lost his grip, and the holograph snapped back to its original position above the console. He exhaled slowly, then reached for the controls. He hit a command key, and the voyeur stabilized its position. The camera was aimed toward the ceiling. He repositioned the unit and spotted the body in the corner resting between the bunks and partition. He moved the voyeur closer.

"Pathetic," he said.

A companion doll's foam-for-face stared back at him. They were more commonly called space-buddies, the source of a million jokes. It was too unsophisticated to be an android. It was barely even robotic, its movements limited to walking, sitting and grossly inauthentic head gestures. It had no mouth or eyes, and its hands were pointed nubs. It was designed to resemble a human, not replace one.

The lack of features was intentional. It allowed people to imprint their own images onto the space-buddy. Psychologists found that more realism made SBs too impersonal. People have a knack, almost a need, for filling in gaps. If machines have too many details, people ultimately reject the artificial construct.

The early years of deep space exploration proved that people as social creatures had real limits in handling isolation. SBs were a crude, but effective way to extend the duration of solo missions. They told stories, read books, and carried out basic conversations with soloists. It wasn't a stretch for people who talk to their pets or house plants to begin conversing with a human shaped computer chip.

Back at Novos, Brennen had repeatedly expressed doubt in the efficacy of SBs, despite case studies to the contrary. The very idea of needing a human, faux or real, was repulsive.

Brennen moved the voyeur out of the bunk area and to what appeared to be the work station. "Now we're getting somewhere," he said. He approached the systems control console.

"It's a long shot," he muttered. "Voyeur, interface with the console. Attempt to restore systems computer."

The voyeur attached one arm to an exposed socket. Even with main power offline, the voyeur could jump start some of the systems.

A moment passed. Brennen studied the blank console screen. A green blinking dash appeared.

"Computer, restore life-support systems, and artificial gravity." The voyeur, more self-aware than a space-buddy, placed itself on the floor, using its extended arm to brace itself against the console.

The interior lights came on, first flickering and then a constant, sterile-white. Brennen, still squinting from the brightness, turned the voyeur's camera. He panned across the rest of the room.

"Where is he?" he said.

There was a cacophonous crash. Startled, Brennen again lost his grip of the holographic controls.

"I should have anticipated that," he said.

The artificial gravity was online. All the floating objects—boxes, pots and pans, a guitar—had fallen to the floor simultaneously.

Brennen continued his search. Lights made it easier, but the AG created new hurdles. The voyeur, now on treads, had to clear desks, chairs, and other debris.

A loud metallic thump rang out.

"What now?" he said.

He checked the voyeur's levels. The sound hadn't come from the probe. It had to be from outside the shuttle itself.

"Space debris?"

He disengaged the voyeur's controls.

"Computer, switch to cockpit view," he said.

On his main viewer was a long white rope. It draped across the shuttle's camera obstructing his view.

Clang!

Brennen jolted. The rope looked like it was moving, unraveling from some unknown source.

There was another thud, just as loud but duller and less metallic than before.

His view-screen totally obstructed, he visually scoured the fuzzy, white mess. He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

Slowly, the camera came into focus as the object drifted away. Entangled by rope was the boot of a Novos-issued spacesuit.

## Chapter 13

PARKER GAVE ALVAREZ a thumbs up. There was a clear box hinged to the wall above them. Alvarez lifted it and mashed the yellow button inside it. A buzzer sounded, and lights blinked red. They were in the cargo bay, the Constance's de facto airlock.

Alvarez heard the whoosh of gas escaping. Then the alarm fell silent. His helmet fogged up momentarily. He heard Parker breathing.

Despite hundreds of spacewalks, Alvarez never got used to them. There was a surreal loneliness about them. He heard his respiration, and between breaths, he heard his heartbeat. He was completely dependent on his spacesuit. Life was too fragile.

"Parker, let's get this over with," he said.

The two men hooked the tethering rope first to each other's belts and then to the transport table they used to carry parts and tools. Their space suits had integrated propulsion systems. Tethering was just a precaution.

After the airlock opened, they lifted from the floor as AG disengaged. Alvarez always ate lightly on days he expected to do a spacewalk. But today's walk was a surprise, and he was suffering the consequences of a full stomach.

"Are you okay, John?"

"Yeah, I'll make it," he said gripping the transport table between them. The table was a commonplace but indispensable tool. It held the new combustion chamber which was bulky, a bit too large for the table. It was pinned with tie-downs, which were only necessary sans gravity.

"These wheels aren't doing us any good," Alvarez said. He punched buttons on the table's control screen. Tiny jets burned blue from various ports until it balanced itself. Both men held to handles on each end.

"Are you over there, Parker?"

"I'm here."

Although they faced each other, the massive combustion chamber blocked their view.

"Hang on. I'm taking us out," Alvarez said.

They exited the bay and turned a corner, rounding the belly of the ship. Alvarez looked for the probe but couldn't locate it. He wondered what Brennen had found.

He pushed the table's propulsion speed to the maximum, but the built-in governor kept them at a snail's pace.

Parker said, "Here it comes."

Alvarez peeked around the combustion chamber. He watched as they came to a small hatch at the base of what looked like rockets. These structures were an ironic reality of interstellar travel; their behemoth size belied their importance. They were thrusters used for traveling short distances at sub-IST speeds.

The much smaller warp field generator was responsible for IST. It was powered by electricity and responded logarithmically by the square of the power delivered to it. At slow speeds and short distances, the warp field generator was an inefficient means of transport. But with a large power source, a fusion reactor, the stars were within mankind's reach.

Parker released the transport table and grabbed the rail on the hull's exterior. He connected their tether to the rail. After disengaging safety locks, Parker spun the massive wheel, opening the service hatch.

Alvarez pulled himself down the rail, hand over hand, until he could see over Parker's shoulder. Inside the hatch was the reactor core, combustion chamber, and the disengaged energy-transfer coupling.

"Remind me why we can't do this from within the ship," Alvarez said.

"It was an after-thought. Novos demanded such stringent parameters for the Constance, there was little room for service shafts. I painted myself into a corner. The only solution I could come up with, other than scrapping the entire design and starting over, was to make this part of the ship accessible from the exterior."

"But York disengaged the power coupling from inside," Alvarez said.

"Right. That's a vestigial design element. Originally, I intended to have the whole compartment serviceable from within. Now that I think of it, we're pretty lucky I left it this way."

Alvarez thought for a second. "You're right," he said. "We couldn't have disengaged the power-coupling in time if it had required a spacewalk."

The two were quiet. Then Alvarez said, "I think I'll take an Atlas-class ship next time." They laughed.

"They're ugly, but they get the job done," Parker said.

Alvarez looked into the hatch. "Let's get this done."

Parker took another rope from underneath the transport table and hooked one end to an O-ring on the new combustion chamber. After attaching the other end to the rail, they released the tie-downs. The chamber was free from the table.

"York, are you there?" Parker said.

"I'm in here," she said. "This service shaft's a tight fit, but I think I can do it."

"When you're ready, disassemble the valve fitting and loosen the bolts," Parker said.

"This thing's held together with bolts?" Alvarez said. "What is this, the Twenty-First Century?"

Parker smiled. "Four bolts, actually. Sometimes there's elegance in simplicity." He pointed to the burnt-out combustion chamber. "What do you want to do with this?"

"Let's chuck it," Alvarez said. "I just hope the new one works."

The cylindrical chamber exited the hatch, the men guiding it. Alvarez said, "Two, three." They shoved the hunk of metal towards the nearby star.

"Here's where I need your help," Parker said. "Getting the old part out is easier than getting the new part in."

They positioned themselves along each side of the new chamber. Alvarez peered around it into the mostly dark hatch. He saw a reflective glimmer from Terra York's helmet before she scuttled out of the way.

"We need to move this slowly," Parker said. "If it's out of alignment or we bang it up badly, we're back to square one."

Alvarez raised an eyebrow but said nothing. How could something that withstands the pressures of nuclear fusion get dented so easily? He guessed it came down to engineering tolerances, compressive versus tensile stresses, and numerous physics facts he had learned in school and long since forgotten.

They inserted the chamber, making miniscule adjustments at each increment. Alvarez glimpsed the burnt-out chamber tumbling in the distance. There was something engaging about the sight of this once essential component, now hurtling as trash toward the ultimate incinerator.

He needed to concentrate. But he had too many problems to solve. His ship was a sitting duck. Brennen had gone rogue. Alvarez knew nothing about the probe, and nothing about the technician or the phenomenon he had encountered.

The chamber was nearly in place. Alvarez saw Terra York's small hands reaching in and around parts trying to line up the giant bolts.

"This part's always harder," Parker said.

"All the kings men..." Alvarez said. No response. Either no one knew the rhyme, or they didn't find it amusing.

"Threading the bolts will be easy," York said. "I'm worried about the seal."

"One thing at a time," Parker said.

Jitters came over the comm. "Colonel Alvarez, Dr. Brennen needs to speak with you."

"He's on board?" Alvarez said.

"No, sir. He's still on the research probe. We have a video up-link. He says it's urgent."

" _Now_ he wants to talk," Alvarez said.

"John, we can finish the rest of this without you," Parker said.

Alvarez took a deep breath. "Jitters, I'll be right there."

## Chapter 14

ALVAREZ STEPPED ONTO the helm. At the communications console, he saw a vid-feed on screen. "Brennen, I'm going to nail your hide to the wall when we get back to Novos."  
Brennen, his back partially turned, was busy working on something. "John," he said without looking up, "we don't have time for this right now. I know what happened to the probe tech, and I think I know what happened to the probe."

"Is he alive?"

"Do you think I'd be the only one talking right now if he was?" Brennen said. "What's important is that I got systems back online."

A twinge struck Alvarez's abdomen. Brennen wasn't on the shuttle, he realized. He was on the probe. "Michael, why don't you have your space suit on?"

"Relax. I took care of it. The robotic unit hit the probe with so much broad-spectrum radiation and antiviral/antibacterial gas, nothing could live through that. If I don't glow in the dark from all this radiation, I'll be fine."

Alvarez wasn't convinced. "What about life-support? How much air do you have?"

"John, this is silly. I took two weeks of supplies with me: oxygen tanks, food and water. I'm spending the rest of my time here working on the probe. I'll head back with you after the mission's over. If you're done mothering me, can we please get back to business?"

Alvarez clinched his teeth. "Fine. What did you find?"

"The onboard computer has the uncorrupted files from the data burst sent to Novos."

"The missing video?"

"The video and the sensory data. But it wasn't easy to find. I had to wade through over a hundred useless log entries. This guy fancied himself a singer-songwriter. How many terrible songs about flying-solo or love-by-starlight can one man write? There wasn't one tune that I-"

"Michael."

"Right. I'm just saying I should get paid more for the abuse I suffered."

"What can you tell so far?"

"For one, the probe tech didn't die from the life-support failing. The computer shows that it came back online shortly after we lost the vid-feed."

"So what killed him?"

"He was outside the ship, John—dead in his space-suit."

Alvarez tried not to look shocked. "Was he trying to make repairs or something?"  
"All he did was disengage the primary power, right outside the main access hatch. I don't know why he'd even do that. If he was going to try to reboot systems manually, he would have turned primary power back on."

"I don't get it."

"John, I'm convinced he thought something or someone was on the ship with him."

"But you found nothing to support that?"

"Right. Power of the mind, perhaps. You know how crazy people get on these solo missions. He already saw himself as a starving artist. Those types are always looking for an excuse to fail, some reason why it's not their fault their art or music is worthless. As soon as he ran into trouble, I think he accepted his fate so strongly that he couldn't shake it, even after the real danger was gone."

"You're saying he was scared to death?"

"He was so scared he took all of the oxygen tanks out with him, and when they were used up he chose to asphyxiate in space rather than go back into the probe."

Alvarez looked down for a second. "What happened to the probe? Why did life-support go down in the first place?"

"I know what happened," Brennen said. "But I don't know why or even how. It's most likely the same reason the star has been getting younger and gaining mass. The probe detected some sort of object, perhaps a moon, orbiting the star. The tech positioned the probe between the star and this object."

Brennen paused. "John, this anomaly—moon, object, whatever—it's unusual to say the least. Whatever it's transmitting or emitting, it's doing so at regular intervals."  
"Regular like a definite frequency, a wavelength?"

"No, I mean it's emitting this burst every one hour and thirty-seven minutes. John, I'm sending you the coordinates now. It's closer to the probe than to the Constance, but it should still be within visual."

Thomson, overhearing the conversation, received the coordinates and searched for the object. "There it is, sir," he said.

Alvarez saw a small gray dot, dimly reflecting starlight. "Increase magnification," he said. The object filled his screen. It was smaller than most moons, but too spherical and uniformly proportioned to be an asteroid. "Michael, when's the next burst? When's it going off again?"

"I should know the answer momentarily," Brennen said. "The computer's clock went down with the rest of the systems. So, the time-stamp's unreliable. I'm using the star charts and the probe's navigational records to calculate how much time passed while systems were offline."

Brennen's cool, sarcastic demeanor faded. For the first time in the conversation, he looked directly into the camera. "John, the object is going to transmit in less than six minutes."

## Chapter 15

"WHAT DO YOU mean transmit?" Alvarez asked Brennen.

"That same burst that hit the probe is going to hit you in less than six minutes. And unless you want the same trouble the probe encountered, I suggest you move."

"What about you?"

"I'll figure something out. I always do. See you on the other side."

Before Alvarez could say anything, the screen went black. Alvarez grabbed his forehead and leaned against the console.

"S-s-sir, are you alright?" Jitters said.

Alvarez straightened up. He got on the comm. "Parker, how are those engines coming?"

"We have two problems. One is the—"

"We don't have time for this," Alvarez said. "How long to get them running?"

"At least another hour," Parker said.

"You've got six minutes to get them operational and get yourself back inside, or we're in big trouble."

Alvarez turned to Thomson. "If we get engines back, how far do we need to go to get out of range of that blast?"

"Sir, I don't think we need to worry about distance. We need to find something to put between us and the object. If we had engines, the easiest thing to do would be to get on the other side of the star."

"Look for something else," Alvarez said. "Maybe there's something close. If we just had a little propulsion, we could find a place to hide. Even with engines online, I don't expect to have them long enough to get to the other side of the star. That would take..." Alvarez tried to do the math in his head. He couldn't. He was numb. Whatever thoughts surfaced were only conscious as he spoke them. Everything else hid in the numbness.

"It would take at least two minutes at maximum thrust," said Thomson.

"That means we have no more than four minutes until we have to use plan B," Alvarez said. "Jitters, start a countdown."

"Already did, sir. We have five minutes, twenty-three seconds left."

Alvarez got on the comm. "Parker, what's your status?"

"Colonel, I was trying to tell you. We have more than one problem. The valve seal's not cooperating. But even if we fix that, the hatch door won't close over the new combustion chamber."

"The first one fit. What's wrong with this one?"

"It's too big. I think Novos goofed up. They gave us the wrong part. This combustion chamber looks like it goes on a Atlas-class ship. They didn't see the alterations I made in the design. They look so much alike; I understand why they got it wrong."

"With the valve fitting sealed, will it work with the latch open? All we need is a little bit of power."

"It might," Parker said, "but if we go too fast or hit debris, it could rip the hatch door off. And if we lost hull integrity, we couldn't use IST. I wouldn't try it."

"Well, that's our best bet at the moment. We have about..." He looked at Jitters who flashed fingers. "We've got four minutes," Alvarez said.

"There's another problem," Parker said. "Without being able to seal the hatch, there's no way to re-pressurize the service shaft.

"Leave it without atmosphere."

"That's not the point. It's York. Without re-pressurization, she can't come back onboard through the service shaft."

"And it's not safe for her to be out there if we start the engines?"

"Right," said Parker. "The only way it's going to work is if we take out the combustion chamber and reinstall it from the outside. Even then it's going to take some modifications to make it fit."

"I thought you needed someone inside the service shaft to install it."

"Not exactly. This way isn't ideal, but it's doable."

"Parker, I don't get this double-talk. You told me one thing earlier, and now I'm getting the whole story. I know I'm not a space-architect, but I'm getting a little tired of surprises. We're running out of time. Whatever you're going to do, do it now. Alvarez out."

Alvarez punched the comm button. Then he placed his hands by his sides and willfully unclenched his fists.

"Sir, I think we've found our hiding place," Thomson said. "There's a small asteroid. We should cross its orbit in the next couple of minutes. If we could attach ourselves to its side, I think we could avoid the blast. It should block us."

Alvarez looked on Thomson's console screen and located the asteroid. "How fast is it moving?"

"It's slow, in a similar orbit as ours."

"Good work," Alvarez said. "Now all we need..."

Alvarez found Sarge's insignia on the comm console. "Sarge, I need your help."

"Awaiting orders, sir." Sarge's military formalities always sounded genuine.

"I'm sure you have a handle on our gear manifest. What's onboard that has its own propulsion system—tools, equipment, anything?"

Sarge took a moment. "We have space suits, the propulsion table that York and Parker are using, and maybe a few other small items. Why, sir?"

"None of that's going to work. We need to move the ship just a few meters. But none of those have enough kick. Shouldn't we have impact cannons onboard somewhere?"

"Like you said earlier, this is search and rescue. Novos catalogues those as mining equipment. No certs in bringing those."

"Keep looking. Alvarez out." He was scrambling for ideas. There was nothing one man could do. The solution needed cooperation, delegated action. He couldn't scratch the mental itch. He was missing something obvious. His mind wanted to loosen-up, to go passive. Maybe the numbness would subside, he told himself. Maybe he could think. But the timer was counting down. There was no time to recover.

"J-j-just under two minutes, sir."

"Parker, what's your status?" Alvarez said over the comm.

"We've got the chamber loose, and York's out with me. We're attempting to put it back in place."

"You don't have time for that now," Alvarez said. "We have to move to plan B. Tether the combustion chamber to the ship. Seal the hatch and get yourselves back in the cargo bay. You've got less than two minutes."

Parker didn't acknowledge, undoubtedly overwhelmed by urgency.

"Sir, how can we move with engines offline?" Thomson said.

"We're out of time. The main thing right now is to seal the ship and get everyone inside. We can't leave the doors wide open for whatever that object transmits. If we're able to move, it won't be with engines."  
The helm was silent. Alvarez felt them watching him. Waiting for some cue.

"One minute, sir," Jitters said.

Alvarez felt a slight bump as if the ship hit something. Then there was a grinding screech. Alvarez got on the comm. "Parker, where are you?"

"Inside. York and I are both in the cargo bay, about to go through decontamination."

"Did you hear that sound?"

"Yes, after we closed the bay door. It seemed to come from outside."

Alvarez turned to Thomson. "What do you have?"

"There are too many birds in the sky. With this asteroid belt, our sensors are useless. We're blind."

"Keep searching," he said. He gripped the console. He felt light-headed and dizzy, like being in an uncalibrated PTU at Novos. The floor moved beneath him. He looked up. The stars in the vid-feed were drifting. His sensations weren't totally psychosomatic. The Constance was moving. And it was accelerating.

There was a crackle over the comm. "Everybody hang tight." It was Brennen.

"Michael, what are you doing?" Alvarez said.

"I'm saving our butts. I've attached the shuttle to the cargo bay door with the robotic unit. We're tethered now, and I'm attempting to move the Constance in front of the approaching asteroid. Brace for impact."

Alvarez thought about instructing Brennen, but realized he was doing the one thing that might save them. Brennen didn't take orders anyway.

"Thirty seconds," Jitters said.

"Do you have visual?" Alvarez asked Thomson.

He nodded. On the view screen appeared a chunk of frozen rock growing larger by the second.

The vid-feed changed, showing the shuttle hanging like a parasite from the bay door. Attempting to match speed and course with the asteroid, the shuttle's jets burned blue.

The screen flickered. The asteroid was closer, but its approach seemed to slow.

"We're going to hit it," Thomson said.

"That's our goal," Alvarez said.

"I mean it's going to be rough. Inertial dampeners are offline," Thomson said.

Alvarez started to ask why he hadn't been informed but realized he should have known; on every ship he had commanded, the inertial dampeners were integrated with the primary engines. It had to be that way. The computer used data from the main thrusters, combined it with proximate sensory data, and reversed the polarity of the IST generator to create small distortions in space-time.

Alvarez tried to get his mind back on track. They were without dampeners and were about to impact the asteroid. "When there's no way around a problem, you go straight through it," he whispered.

Jitters spoke the countdown. "F-f-five. Four. Three." The Constance jolted. Jitters fell to the floor. Others grabbed chairs and workstations to stay upright.

Alvarez looked at the main viewer and saw a bright, green wave enveloping them. Thomson attended to Jitters, but Alvarez jumped onto Jitter's console. He feverishly punched commands repeatedly changing the view screen. He wanted to see how the wave impacted objects as it traveled. He saw it hit small debris first and then the space probe in the distance. Finally, it struck the star itself with the rest of the burst traveling on faintly into the darkness beyond. The wave's impact was subtle. Alvarez thought he could see small debris shift slightly when struck, but larger objects appeared unaltered.

Alvarez realized he was holding his breath. He tried to exhale slowly, but it came out noisily instead.

"Brennen did it," he said.

He looked at his crew expecting to see faces of joy and relief. But all he saw was confusion. Jitters was on his feet now, holding gauze to his head with one hand and cleaning blood from his cheek with the other.

"Are you okay?" Alvarez said.

"I'll be fine," Jitters said. "It's no worse than the hangover I woke up with."

Usually Alvarez would have laughed, but his sense of relief had passed. They were still in trouble. Was the Constance contaminated? If not, they were still stranded without engines.

And the burst would emit again. This hiding place might not work next time.

Despite Brennen's genius and herculean effort, they had gotten lucky. Alvarez knew one thing:

You can't count on luck.

# Part 3 - Outpost
## Chapter 16

YORK, ALONE IN the hole-in-the-wall Novos called a cafeteria, poured another cup of coffee. Her nerves were rattled, but she needed a boost. She grabbed the cup and exited into the main corridor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brennen coming her direction. From a distance she said," Dr. Brennan, you did it. I thought we were through. But at the eleventh hour, you brought the cavalry over the hilltop." York appeared pleased with her use of imagery.

Brennen looked straight through her as if she wasn't there. He wore his space suit but had his helmet off, which was unusual.

"Aren't we supposed to store suits in the cargo bay after decontamination?" she said.

He marched toward her without slowing down or acknowledging her in any way.

She sipped her coffee, still expecting a reply. As he passed by her, he smacked her hard on the rear. York half choked, half spit out her coffee. She turned, bewildered, and stared at Brennen who walked off without saying a word.

York was used to being accosted by grunts. She was surrounded by lewd gestures and daily, unwelcomed solicitations, but she had never had an encounter with a senior officer before.

"Terra, where are you?" Parker said over the comm.

"I just stopped to get a cup of coffee," she said.

"I'm in the bay suiting up. We've got to get back out there as soon as possible," he said.

"Did we get new orders from Alvarez?"

"I'm not waiting for orders," he said. "If we don't get the combustion chamber back in place...You saw that green pulse as well as I did. I don't know what's going on, but it can't be good. Right now, I need to get a look at that chamber. Being tethered to the hull—who knows how banged up it is? It may have suffered irreparable damage. I can't sit here and wait. I've got to see it for myself."

"I understand, but worst case scenario—can't we use the IST generator without the combustion chamber?"

"We could," he said, "but inertial dampeners aren't going to work. It's an integrated unit, and the computer can't adjust without the entire propulsion system online. Even if we rigged it somehow, what would happen if we came out of IST too close to a star or black hole? Without thrusters post-IST—I don't want to play those odds."

She swallowed a big gulp, not enough for the long day she knew was ahead of her. Then she said, "I'm on my way."

Alvarez looked over Thomson's shoulder. He knew it was a bad habit, but he couldn't help it.

"What's our relative location to the probe and the object?" Alvarez asked.

"We've moved a few kilometers, but we're on a very slow piece of rock," Thomson answered. "The probe, the spherical object where the blast came from, and this asteroid—they're all roughly in the same orbit."

Alvarez said, "That's good...I think. It would be better if we were on the opposite side of the star, away from that sphere."

"Better would be back at Novos," Thomson said with a grin.

Alvarez didn't smile. The thought of retreating was not an option. It wasn't a real option anyway. He shuffled through data reports on his console, a pretense. Really, he was procrastinating. He knew his next move, and his mind was already made up, but he needed courage. There was a certain attraction to inaction, waiting just a moment longer before you really step in it. The longer he dithered, the more unsavory his respite became.

Finally, his frustration and shame towards the smaller, more cowardly part of himself caused him to blurt out, "Plot a new course to the sphere and relay that information to the shuttle's computer."

Thomson raised an eyebrow but followed orders. Alvarez got on the com. "Parker what's your status?"

"York and I are walking the hull on our way to the combustion chamber."

"You read my mind," Alvarez said. "Just so you know, I'm taking a team to the sphere."

"Is that wise? If you get stranded, we can't come get you until engines are back online."

Alvarez paused. Parker was right. There was some wisdom in waiting. But whatever the trouble was, he needed to work the problem. He couldn't sit idly by and hope the situation would improve. Leaders took action and if he waited any longer, his fear would grow, which could crush him, paralyze him. Whatever advantage there was in waiting—it was for someone else to gain. He couldn't operate that way. There was a threat, and he was going to run towards it.

"That's why you're the scientist; you've got all the brains," Alvarez said, finally. "Unfortunately, Novos put a soldier in command. I've got to check it out. If we can shut the plasma burst down somehow, we'll buy more time to investigate the probe and see exactly what this whole thing's about. But Parker—David I need you to assume the worst. Assume that I can't shut it down in time. Those engines need to be back online yesterday. Keep me posted."

"Will do, John. Good luck."

Alvarez toggled to another insignia on the comm. "Sarge, meet me in the cargo bay."

"Right away, sir."

"While you're at it," Alvarez said, "bring three of your best grunts with you." He looked at Jitters who was back to work. Except for his bandaged head, there was no sign of injury. That was one of Jitters's redeeming qualities. Once he got to work, he lost the junky routine. He could get the job done, whatever it was. Jitters didn't get into trouble until after hours.

"How's the head?" Alvarez asked.

"B-b-barely feel it now," he said.

"What about your foot?"

Jitters looked down. "Oh, I already forgot about it."

"Can you march?"

"I think so."

"Then you're coming with me," Alvarez said. "Thomson, you're in command until Parker gets back."

"Yes, sir," Thomson said.

Alvarez turned to Jitters. "Let's go."

## Chapter 17

TERRA YORK HELD tightly to the rail. She was tethered to it, but she wasn't taking chances. As she approached the hatch, her communicator clicked on, automatically opening a channel with Parker as it detected his proximity. Surrounded by ambient noise in atmospheric conditions, the click was almost inaudible. But in space, the sound made you flinch.

"Okay, no more pretending to work," she said. "I'm back. Now we can get down to business."

Parker looked over, startled. "There you are," he said. He must have been too engrossed in his work to hear the click. He looked at her as if something new caught his eye. She didn't look away.

Maybe it was the shared comm channel, or maybe it was the absence of other familiar sounds; regardless, something drew people together on extended spacewalks.

Parker looked past York. "There they go," he said.

York turned to see the shuttle heading in the sphere's direction. "At least we don't have to do that," she said.

"I don't know. Right now, I think I would trade places," he said.

"The combustion chamber is in that bad of shape?"

"It's banged up a little, but I think it will be fine," he said. "We're still trying to squeeze an Atlas-class part into a smaller designed ship. We can install it, of course, but then we can't close the hatch. So, what I think we'll do..."

York interrupted. "Flatten two sides and reverse fill the interior with this alloy?" She pointed to the cylindrical chunks of metal tied to the transport table.

Parker smiled at York. Her intuitive abilities were uncanny. Although it had only been a week since they left Novos, the two of them had already logged long hours together. He found working with York to be uncommonly easy. York could finish most of Parker's sentences, an occurrence which would have annoyed him if York's skills didn't rival his own.

"As much as I want to get this mission over with," Parker said, "I'm going to miss having somebody as capable as you to work with."

"Is that all I am to you," teased York, "just a capable assistant?" She tried to act offended.

"Well, no. You're much, much..." Parker bit his tongue. "That's not what I meant. It's just I'm not used to working so well with people. I'm usually a one-man-band back at Novos. It kills me, but I have more in common with that hermit Brennen than I care to admit."

York winced. "I hope you don't have too much in common. You wouldn't believe what he did thirty minutes ago."

Parker looked at her inquisitively, then assumed a protective posture difficult to recognize under a spacesuit but was evident nonetheless.

"It's nothing," she said. "Let's get this work done." The two braced the chamber against the side of the ship, took an impact hammer and began to flatten out one side, and then the other side of the chamber.

"You know, York..."

"David, call me Terra."

Parker swallowed hard and continued. "I've never had a chief-mechanic pick up one of my new designs as quickly as you have."

York beamed. "You're the first space-architect to stick around long enough to notice," she said. "Usually, they don't have anything to do with us grease monkeys."

After they finished flattening the sides, they began to weld new alloy to the interior of the chamber to strengthen it. "So, how long of a tour have you signed up for with Novos?" Parker asked.

"I can barely keep track," she said. "I just keep renewing every time."

"You like it that much?"

"No," she said, "but I don't know what else to do. This is the only thing I'm good at."

"That sounds familiar."

"What, David, you don't have a real life back home?"

"Nothing that even resembles a real life. I have a couple of buddies from school I keep up with and a few hobbies. But that's about it."

York smirked. "Hobbies, huh? Have any pet fish?"

Parker chuckled. "I guess you saw me."

"Just a few times," she said.  
"I don't know what it is about the aquaponics system. I go in there, and I'm able to forget about it all for a few minutes. Don't you have a way to relax?"

"Oh, I have ways," she said suggestively.

Parker swallowed hard again, but this time his throat was dry.

She winked. "I'll get inside the service shaft. As you line up the combustion chamber, I'll help thread the bolts." She had a way of taking charge without seeming insubordinate. She loosened two straps from around her chest and then started to remove a loop from one shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Parker demanded.

"I'm small, but I'm not that small," she said. "If I'm going to squeeze into the shaft, I need all the room I can spare. As long as you promise to rescue me if I float away, I'm better off without this propulsion pack."

Parker agreed with a nonverbal gesture. In a surprisingly quick movement, he hooked an additional tether to York's belt and attached the other end to himself.

She looked at him incredulously. "That propulsion pack was your redundancy," he said. "You're removing it, so I'm adding a new redundancy."

"I can read a mechanical blueprint," she said, "but deep down I'll never really be an engineer. You're the most risk averse people in the universe."

"That's why people trust us to design multi-trillion cert spacecraft."

She placed her hand on his shoulder. "Look, I'll bring my p-pack along, just in case," she said.

The two worked quickly. Knowing exactly what to do, there was little need for talk. With the chamber in place, York began threading bolts.

Parker worked up his nerve. "When we get back to Novos, I have some designs I'd like to show you."

York didn't reply. Her hands, still threading bolts, started to slow.

He continued. "I have an enhanced energy-transfer coupling prototype that should make the job we're doing now obsolete. It's back in my lab. I'd love to have you..." He coughed. "I'd love to have you come over to check it out. Maybe we could get dinner while we're at it."

Parker couldn't see York, except for her hands on the bolts. Her movements slowed even more.

"There's an excellent Tahitian grill I discovered," he said. "It's on an orbiter that's really close to my lab."

Her hands stopped moving.

"Terra, are you okay?"

She didn't respond. He wished he could see her face, see her expression.

"Terra?" He reached forward and gently touched her hand.

She jerked hers away.

"Listen, I'm sorry if..." He stopped in mid-sentence. York was back to work. But she was unthreading the bolts.

"Hey, I'm sorry if I said something wrong," he said. "I didn't mean to offend you."

Her hands moved quickly, faster than he had ever seen her work before. Two of the four bolts were loose. He continued to apologize to no avail.

She had the bolts free in no time. She pushed the combustion chamber hard. Parker, on the other side, backed out of the hatch. He didn't speak. He didn't resist. Shell-shocked, it was all he could do to tether the combustion chamber to the rail before it floated past him.

Another object darted out the hatch. Parker watched as York's propulsion pack zipped away, lost forever. York climbed out of the hatch and began her spacewalk back to the cargo bay entrance.

"What did I do?" Parker pleaded. "Fine. I'll do this myself." His voice trembled. "You've got a lot of growing up to do, York!"

York pulled herself via the rail, hand-over-hand, toward the cargo bay at an astonishing pace. She was reckless, untethered, and without her propulsion pack. Dumbfounded, Parker heard the click in his helmet as York moved out of range.

Then he heard a crackle over his headset. "Parker, this is Alvarez. We've landed on the sphere.

## Chapter 18

THE SHUTTLE WAS packed tight. It wasn't designed for more than six passengers, but Alvarez, Brennen, Jitters, Sarge, and three grunts were crammed in together. The uninvited man, Brennen, had showed up right as they were leaving.

Alvarez wasn't convinced bringing him along was a good idea. His brain could prove useful, but his attitude and propensity to disobey orders could be problematic. Alvarez allowed Brennen onboard, choosing to pick his battles. Besides, what's the worst that could happen? he thought. If he gets too deep under my skin, I'll just leave him down here.

The men were getting antsy. Everyone stood and waited for Alvarez to give them the green light to open the rear hatch. Alvarez used the shuttle's sensor to survey the surface of the object. This nearly perfect sphere wasn't noteworthy. If anything, its lack of features was its most defining quality—like a small moon without craters. What notable characteristics it did have were all located in close proximity to where the shuttle landed. What drew Alvarez to this location, even before he noticed the features on the landscape was some sort of energy signature that emanated most strongly from their current position. It wasn't until they were about to land that they had observed the anomalous rock formation.

Alvarez checked for atmospheric readings but found none. The surface of the sphere was a vacuum.

"I'm surprised we have this much gravity," Sarge said looking over his shoulder. "This rock is tiny. It must be incredibly dense to have this much pull."

"That's not all that's odd," Alvarez said. He expected Brennen, the only scientist there, to join the conversation. But he appeared disinterested.

"Everyone keep your helmets on," Alvarez said. "There's no atmosphere out there. Grab your weapons and reattach your extra tank of oxygen."

Most of the men were ready except for the extra oxygen. Each suit came standard with an extra tank for longer missions or for occasional malfunctions. Most grunts habitually removed the extra tank to lighten their load.

The amount of disorder Alvarez's command created was almost comical. The grunts stumbled over each other like corralled livestock. Alvarez noticed Sarge's weapon was different than the grunts'.

"Is that what I think it is?" asked Alvarez.

"Well, I don't know what you think it is, but it's a twentieth century Mossberg, pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun."

Alvarez was half intrigued and half concerned. "Is that really appropriate out here?"

"It's well tested. Used it throughout the Fight," Sarge said while patting the stock of the gun. Alvarez noticed it was curly maple with a checkered inlay.

Wooden objects of any kind were uncommon in corporate settlements. Although timber harvesting became sustainable on earth decades earlier—the hybridized blight-immune chestnut coppicing systems had revolutionized the industry—except for antiques and crafts, wood was replaced by the cheaper, more durable plastics and alloys.

"I don't remember any of the corporations issuing those armaments. We've had energy weapons for over fifty years now," Alvarez said.

"It wasn't issued. It's a family heirloom. My pappy's pappy carried it as an MP in Korea...or was it Vietnam? Any way, it was on the wall collecting dust until my orbiter was boarded by Statists goons. After I saw what it did to those thugs, it never left my side. I've taken it with me on every corporate mission since."

"What about non-atmospheric conditions? Won't it foul up or something?"

"Unless I drop it under water, it works like a charm. It's a workhorse. If I've got enough shells," he pulled on the bandolier strapped around his shoulder and torso, "and I keep pumping, it goes bang."

Mostly satisfied, Alvarez was anxious to get a move on. He punched keys on the console unlocking the rear hatch and cued the grunts with a hand signal. Jitters, closest to the rear, pulled the manual release on the side wall. The atmosphere in the shuttle vented, and the hatch rapidly lowered like one from a Higgins boat on D-Day.

The team fanned out around the nearby rock formation. When Alvarez spotted the formation from space, it looked like three obelisks, massive at the base and narrowing quickly towards the top. The three small towers leaned towards each other, towards the center of a concentric triangle, without touching.

Sarge stood at one of the formations. Its base diameter was as large as the shuttle's, but starting at about twice his height and continuing to who-knows-how-high, it narrowed—tapering to the width of a transport table. It was as if monuments from 20th century Washington, DC protruded up from the rocky landscape of Colorado's Garden of the Gods.

"Sir, this isn't natural," Sarge said. "Look at these corners."

Alvarez came and bent over to get a closer view. The base was rough rock, but the obelisk that jutted out was anything but.

"They have four corners," Sarge continued, "and they appear to be evenly spaced apart. They look like they were chiseled out of...well, rock. But not any kind I recognize."

Alvarez pointed up at the obelisks. "There's something on them too. Some sort of logos or icons." Alvarez wondered if this was from an unincorporated settlement, marauders, or some looney cult. Whoever they were, they came out this far for a reason. He climbed the rocky base. To his surprise, his feet found purchase without any of the stone crumbling. It must be tough stuff, he thought. Closer now to the obelisk, he looked at the inscriptions. He still couldn't make heads or tails of it.

"Do you recognize any of this?" he asked.

"Nope. That's nothing I've seen from any of the Outer-Five," Sarge said.

In the stone were swirling gray and white patterns. It definitely wasn't concrete and mortar. Alvarez had come to recognize the typical species of rock from the mining expeditions he led on various planets, moons, and asteroids. They were always named and cataloged in relation to the most ubiquitous rocks mined on earth. Whatever this was, he hadn't encountered it before.

Carelessly, he jumped off the base, forgetting how high up he was. His landing, fortunately, was softened by the light gravity. He stood up, straightening his back.

"Sarge, have any other corporate settlements been out this far? It's supposed to be Novos territory."

"What would another Outer-Five be doing out here?" Sarge said. "Unless they know something we don't, I don't see any corp spending certs on ugly stone artwork, especially if they had to haul the stone from home or mine it here. Just doesn't make sense to me."

Alvarez had already thought the same but was hoping Sarge would see it differently. Sarge wasn't the most diplomatic person—probably why he hadn't found a higher position with Novos—but he was a straight-shooter.

Jitters was on the far side of the formation. "C-c-colonel, I've found something. This formation's different."

Alvarez was the first to Jitters's position. The rock formation there was similar to the others, but it was as if an obelisk had broken off leaving just a rocky base. Standing waist high, it was flat on top. Its surface looked like sand and reminded Alvarez of Adam's sandbox back home. Although the texture wasn't that of the hard, swirly stone the obelisks were made of, it had similar icons written on it.

Everyone circled around and stared at the glyphs. For whatever reason, they were more striking than those on the obelisks. These markings were too distinct, too complex to be mere designs or logos for some start-up corp. This was writing, some form of language, Alvarez thought. It had to be.

"These aren't symbols I recognize," Sarge said, breaking the silence.

"This looks..." One of the grunts trailed off. He didn't have to finish. Everyone, including Alvarez, knew the rest of that sentence: _alien_.

The symbols were generic and simple. Each line, dash, or curved shape could be made with a finger in a single stroke. The organization seemed vertically oriented, like some east-asian scripts Alvarez had seen before, but they weren't nearly as complex. He couldn't understand how any one character could possibly represent a word. And pictograms required more detail than this. If it was an alphabet, there were far more than twenty-six characters.

Alvarez's head was swimming. He couldn't see a solution. How could he? He didn't even know what the problem was.

His throat clinched, and his chest felt tight. He hoped someone would step forward and make a move, but clearly, they were waiting on him. Why did I agree to do this? he thought.

Wasted thoughts, wasted energy, wasted fear. None of this helped. He needed to get a grip. He was getting worked-up instead of working the problem.

"What are we supposed to do with this?" said a different grunt.

Alvarez looked at the sensor readings on his wrist console. "This is where the energy signature seems to originate. It's strongest here," he said.

Brennen, who had been uncharacteristically passive until now, shoved his way to the front of the group. He looked at the symbols briefly and began to mark slashes and dashes with his finger, adding to or completing the characters that were already written.

"What do you think you're doing?" Alvarez shouted. "Stop, we have no idea what this is."

Brennen, whatever he was doing, was finished. "Correction, John. You don't know what you're doing," Brennen's usual sarcastic tone was missing.

Alvarez felt a vibration from the ground below him. The men looked around wild-eyed. One pointed behind them. "Look! There's an opening between the towers."

"What is that?" Sarge asked Alvarez.

A dark silhouette formed as the ground slid apart like windowpanes. The thick, massive ledge revealed a rectangular entryway. Alvarez didn't answer Sarge.

No sooner had the ground stopped rumbling, then Brennen approached the opening and, without hesitation, dropped down into the darkness.

"Michael, wait!" Alvarez said. But he was already gone. At the edge of the opening, Alvarez shined the light attached to his rifle barrel. Somehow the darkness swallowed his light and didn't permit it to pierce as deeply as it should. Alvarez could barely make out a descending stairwell. The steps were oversized, at least three feet in length and depth. "Brennen, respond," he yelled over the comm. Nothing.

Alvarez couldn't walk away, but he didn't proceed. He just stood frozen on the edge. A twinge started in his belly and bubbled up to his head. He was doing it again. He knew if he allowed it, fear would continue to percolate, building pressure until he lost his nerve completely. What if the opening closes after I drop down? he thought.

He pushed the fear away and gripped his rifle. He held it with his left hand and tapped commands on his wrist console with his right. His helmet light came on. "Follow me," he said.

The men turned on their lights and in single-file descended the entryway. They looked like toddlers learning to descend the giant steps. They sat on their rears with legs dangling and then shoved off, falling until their feet touched the next step. They repeated this motion until they reached the bottom. The last drop was jarring, the gravity stronger there than on the surface.

Alvarez could see more clearly. Either his eyes had adjusted or his lights were now working correctly. He scanned from right to left, tracing the hewn rock walls of an immense cavern. Unlike caves on earth, there was no evidence of water. Even on asteroids, there were usually ice pockets. Here it was bone dry, even dusty.

When his light reached his left, he spotted Brennen who stood motionless, his back turned. The rest of the men shined their lights on him. Brennen didn't move. Alvarez took point, grabbed his shoulder, and tried to turn him around. But Brennen stood firm as if he didn't feel Alvarez's pull.

Alvarez walked around him and shined the light in Brennen's face. Alvarez squinted, not from Brennen's helmet light—it was off—but from the grunts' lights still directed at Brennen.

"Put 'em down, men," he ordered. His eyes began to adjust. Brennen's pale face was expressionless.

"Michael, I'm over this," he said.

Brennen slowly looked Alvarez in the eyes but didn't speak. He wasn't actively resisting, but there was no indication of compliance either.

The two men stared each other down until Sarge spoke up. "What's your orders, Colonel?"

Alvarez stepped away from Brennen. "We need to see what else is down here." He removed a sling from over one shoulder. Attached was a tripod and sensory imaging generator. He unfolded the legs and engaged the generator.

On his wrist console appeared a small map with a blinking dot representing the generator and seven numerical IDs for each team member. After the computer's gears spun for a moment, an N appeared representing an arbitrary Polaris on the map. Alvarez was mildly impressed. The program assigned North to the stairwell. Good as any other, he thought.

"Let me refresh your memories on how this works," Alvarez said. "Each of your helmets has a unique beacon ID. As we traverse this place, our beacons will continue to report back to this central generator, updating our positions and mapping out the territory we've traveled."

This was yet another piece of equipment Alvarez had learned to rely upon despite having little understanding of how it worked.

"Everyone, stay in visual contact," he continued. "But fan out. Report back if you find anything."

Sarge spoke privately to Alvarez. "What exactly should we be looking for?"

"Well, something produced that burst. Obviously, it's not technology that Novos knows about..."  
"Or at least it's not technology they've told us about," the old man said.

"Regardless, there has to be an energy source somewhere on this sphere. If we can find that, we have a chance of stopping it," Alvarez said.

"What if it's a natural phenomenon? How do you stop nature?"

"Does this look natural to you?" Alvarez said sounding more sarcastic than he intended. Sarge knowingly pressed his lips together and looked down at the ground. Some things shouldn't be said.

One grunt had his wrist raised looking at his console. "Colonel, it says there's atmosphere down here."

Alvarez checked. "There's atmosphere alright, and you could probably breath it for a minute. But that would be your last. It's a tossup which would cause you to asphyxiate first: the insufficient oxygen or the toxic levels of hydrogen sulfide. Plus, we're close to whatever made that green burst and caused the probe to go out. Helmets stay on."

The good news was that they could hear each other without comms. Their helmets transmitted the ambient sounds and could even amplify distant sounds when needed. Everyone including Alvarez noticed the stronger gravity too. It was slightly heavier than regular AG. Alvarez didn't mention it.

An alarm sounded. It came from Sarge's suit. He looked at his wrist. "It says low oxygen, but my tank still reads at ninety-four percent."

"I bet it's a bad regulator valve," Alavarez said. Sarge reached for his spare tank. It was attached to his suit in a preformed receptacle above his right shoulder. He removed it and looked to Alvarez who was waiting.

"You ready?" Alvarez said.

Sarge nodded. Alvarez quickly disengaged the lock on Sarge's primary tank and yanked it out. Sarge gave Alvarez the spare tank, and with ease that only comes from years of practice the tank was replaced. Alvarez didn't fret until afterwards. What if the contagion from that burst was able to get in Sarge's suit? he thought. Hopefully the vacuum seal would keep it out. That's what it was for after all. Regardless, he needed to keep an eye on Sarge.

"We have about an hour to disable whatever's producing the bursts. Let's get a move on," Alvarez said.

The grunts shined their lights in all directions like a search-party for a missing child. As they explored the main chamber, the sensory image generator outlined the map on their wrist consoles. There were two tunnels that ran along the western and eastern ends of the main chamber and a third passageway that started in the middle. All three led south to who-knows-where.

"Colonel Alvarez, the writing..." A grunt pointed to the wall next to the opening of the middle passageway.

"Nobody touch anything," Alvarez said. "Especially you, Dr. Brennen." Brennen followed the group sheepishly.

Alvarez looked at the symbols on the wall. Some he recognized from outside, but others were new. Unlike the formation outside the entranceway, this appeared to be hewn from stone. But it was definitely the same kind of writing, if that's what it really was. Alvarez doubted that the surface was malleable enough to mark with his finger. He wasn't going to test his hypothesis.

Alvarez checked the readings from his wrist console. "It seems like the energy signal's signature is strongest going through the middle passage way. But men, I want us to split up so we can quickly cover more ground."

He pointed to a grunt. "You're with me. We're going down the middle passage."

He pointed to Jitters and stopped. He knew he should send Jitters with Brennen. He wanted someone to keep Michael in line. But he felt like he needed to protect Jitters somehow, to make sure he made it back in one piece.

"Jitters, you're with Sarge. You guys go down the western wall," Alvarez said.

He looked at the remaining grunts. "You two stick with Brennen. Take the eastern wall. If he goes off the reservation again, don't hesitate to shoot him." Alvarez was only half-kidding and no one laughed. "Keep your comms on and report back periodically."

The three parties split up. Alvarez and the grunt watched the other two parties walk away, their lights getting dimmer until both groups turned corners and disappeared.

"I guess we better get going," Alvarez said. The two men walked down the center passage. Alvarez had his computer log their current position. He also checked his time. "I don't want to go so far we run out of air," he said.

"What sir?" said the grunt.

"Oh, just thinking out loud. Never mind."

The two men traversed in quiet. No hums or vibrations from engines, no electronic chirping. Nothing but the sound of their breath and footsteps. Alvarez heard ringing in his ears that he usually only heard on spacewalks. Tinnitus, he thought. From all the loud drilling.

"What's your name son?" Alvarez said.

"Weston. David Weston."

"What was your last assignment with Novos?

Weston paused. "This is my first assignment," he said.

Alvarez tried to disguise his surprise. He thought Novos would have sent more seasoned veterans like Sarge and Jitters. Why take rookies on a mission important enough to invoke a reactivation clause and risk their most advanced space-vessel?

"What got you to sign up with Novos?" he said.

"I guess the same reason any sane person does this—quick certs." His immature exuberance spilled out.

Alvarez thought about the length of this mission. Novos expected it to last six weeks, which on paper didn't seem long. But after being locked in your barracks the first week, you realized that you earned every cert.

"Sir, look here," Weston said. On the wall beside them was a hexagonal platform with the same symbols as the formation on the surface. This one didn't look like stone. Alvarez knew he could mark on it.

"Don't touch it," Alvarez said. He wondered if Brennen's party would find the same objects. He knew better than to hope Brennen wouldn't mess with them.

It was hard to tell how long they had walked through the monotonous passageway. Alvarez checked his wrist: just over six minutes. At least we haven't found side tunnels to get lost in, he thought. But he was curious why there would be such a long, unbroken tunnel.

This was definitely not a natural formation. This tunnel and, undoubtedly, the other two were highly uniform. The width of the passage never deviated. The ceiling, unnecessarily tall, remained constant with its smooth, rounded archway. Even the floor was steady except for the almost imperceptible descending slope.

Alvarez checked his readings again. The energy signature was getting stronger. He was certain they would soon find the source of the burst.

Alvarez found himself staring at the ground and his feet where he could see clearly, instead of off in the distance where the darkness defeated his light. He was uncomfortable looking into the shadows. He remembered scuba diving off a terraformed reef system and gazing into the underwater horizon. It was an all-consuming blue, a wall behind which any number of large predators lurked.

The feeling never left him. He couldn't shake it. How big could one man be? Man in water—fish out of water.

Except for some mythical, prehistoric tribal setting along the forest edge of a savanna, man was out of his element. It was only through employing technologies that man flourished over the millennia. And often it all came crashing down: wars, famine, plague, fires, warp field generator malfunctions, space suit failures, and now—this green burst.

Alvarez made himself look up and face the darkness. There was something new, a faint glow in the distance about a hundred yards ahead. The tunnel seemed to curve left, and the glow reflected from some unknown source around the bend.

The men's demeanors changed. Their pace quickened, their steps measured. Alvarez checked the time again. More than eight minutes had passed since they had entered the tunnel.

They rounded the corner and froze. The tunnel opened into a large cavern. But unlike a natural cave the rock, concrete, or whatever it was had been carefully hewn. The ceiling soared above them, curving like the dome of an ancient cathedral.

What caught Alvarez's attention was the light source, a bluish-green glow emanating from a central port. There were tapered columns, unnatural stalactite-stalagmite formations, above and below the source. The light flickered like fire, but there was no obvious fuel source or gas duct. Nothing burned up. This was unlike anything Alvarez had ever seen.

"What is it?" Weston said.

"It's the source. Don't you recognize the color? It's the same as the plasma burst.

Weston nodded. He was mesmerized by the glow until something caught his eye. "Look at the walls," he said. "Those glyphs are all over the place."

Alvarez looked at Weston instead of the walls. The young man was starting to break. "Just calm down," Alvarez said.

"What do you mean calm down? There's no way this was made by people. I don't care which corp you're talking about. Nobody's got technology like this. I've got to get out of here."

Weston turned toward the tunnel, but Alvarez grabbed him.

"Son, if you want to get back to the Constance, you better stick with me. Unless you know how to fly that shuttle, you'll be spending a long time down here."

Alvarez knew a rookie couldn't fly the shuttle, but if the boy was scared enough, he might try.

"Look me in the eyes," Alvarez said. "If there is something down here, something alive, the best chance we have is sticking together."

Weston bit his lip and nodded.

Alvarez needed to get his bearings. He looked around the cavern. To the east was another passage exiting the room. And on the other side of the energy source looked to be another tunnel leading west.

I bet these two meet up with Sarge's and Brennen's tunnels, he thought.

He scaled back his map view until the two other parties appeared. Brennen's group was due east, parallel to Alvarez, but Sarge's party was further south. It looked like his tunnel was starting to bend sharply to the east. Alvarez was sure that Sarge's tunnel would wrap around and join Brennen's.

Alvarez got on his comm. "Sarge what's your status?"

"We're here, sir. We're still in this miserable tunnel, but we're here."

"Your passageway hasn't opened up into a larger room?"

"No, we're just plodding along. We did pass a fork in the tunnel a minute ago?"

"It turned east towards me, didn't it?" Alvarez said.

"How'd you know?"

"We're in a cavern. I'm pretty sure if you backtrack, you can get here via the tunnel you skipped. Otherwise, if you keep going, you should rendezvous with Brennen. At least, I think you will." He paused. "Sarge," he said with a different tone, "I think we've found it. We found the source."

"Good. That means we can get out of here."

"Let's hope. Rendezvous with Brennen and get here on the double. I'll let Brennen know you're on the way."

"Roger that," Sarge said. "Just one thing, we found some more of those _pictures_ on the wall."

"You didn't..."

"Of course not," Sarge snapped back. "We didn't touch anything."

"We saw them too," Alvarez said. "With what Brennen did on the surface, all I can figure is..."

They were interrupted by the sound of blastfire in the distance. Alvarez and Weston stood listening. It was hard to pinpoint where the sound came from because of their acoustic transmitters.

"I think it came from the eastern tunnel," Alvarez said.

The sound of blastfire returned, but this time, it was accompanied by screams and an unrecognizable roar.

"Sarge, do you hear that?"

"It's right ahead of us," Sarge said. "I'm on my way."

## Chapter 19

PARKER, SHORTHANDED WITHOUT York, was back inside the cargo bay.

"Installing a new combustion chamber is a two- person job," he muttered.

After tethering the combustion chamber to the outside hull and shutting the outer hatch, Parker had come back inside to deal with the real problem: York. He needed to convince her to return to work, or he would conscript a grunt to take her place.

This wasn't the time for drama, he thought.

Weightless, he bounced across the bay towards the door opening to the main corridor. He tapped his thrusters, but it was overkill. He bumped into storage bins and machinery at a painfully fast velocity. The bumps derailed him, slowed him down.

He had the irrational fear of being sucked out the bay doors, forgotten in space. It was the stuff of nightmares. The chances were astronomical, but something about being untethered, without AG, and with bay doors open wide stimulated Parker's primal fear response. Being alone didn't help either. Ironically, in this room of irregularly shaped and sometimes sharp machinery, his effort to escape danger increased his chances of a suit breach.

Like a dog-paddling child in the deep end, he reached the door to the corridor. On the wall console he started the re-pressurization sequence. He could have used voice commands, but his risk aversion compelled him to see the data first. After a brief visual confirmation, he entered his instructions and turned to see the stars disappear behind closing bay doors. He heard a whoosh as air filled the room. Gently, his feet touched the floor. AG was restored.

Time to find York, he thought. Parker looked again at the console. The metric showed nearly one-hundred percent, meaning the atmospheric mix was almost right. The eternal skeptic checked his wrist console to verify. Everything checked out. He reached for his helmet release latch.

"Parker, we have a problem," Thomson said over the comm.

"What is it?" Parker asked.

"I think it's York. I didn't know what to do, and you're the senior officer on board."

"Just tell me what happened."

"That's the thing. I'm not really sure. The aquaponics station and York's barracks—that room—something's gone wrong. I think it's a computer problem."

"What's the computer doing?"

"From the readings here at the helm, it looks like the temperature setting is maxed out. It's venting nothing but hot air into that room. I'm hoping it's just a programming glitch with the thermostat. But that's not all. It looks like the atmospheric mix is off too."

"The mix should be automatically regulated."

"It _should_ be," Thomson said. "This isn't supposed to happen. Without reprogramming it, I don't even know how to ask the computer to change the mix."

"What are your readings?"

There was a brief pause as Thomson pulled up the data. "A high nitrogen and carbon dioxide ratio with oxygen subnormal. And there are some trace gases that aren't usually present."

"That's not instantly lethal, but without enough oxygen..."

"I know, sir. Should I send grunts to check it out? Or maybe I should go."

"No, I'm close by. I'll check it out. Stay at the helm. Somebody has to run this ship. Parker out."

He left his helmet on. If the mix was bad in the aquaponics station, he would need his own oxygen. He checked one more time at the door console. The corridor's mix was identical to the normal atmosphere in the cargo bay.

Parker bypassed the door commands and engaged the manual override. He spun the massive wheel. There was a hiss as slight differences in air pressure equalized. He entered and turned left. He saw the helm door, a reassuring sight, at the end of the corridor.

Everything looks fine, he thought. Lights were on, and all of the doors were open except the first on his right, the aquaponics station.

Doors in the corridor were usually left open. The exception was the door to the cargo bay which was routinely sealed for spacewalks and shuttle launches. Both the cargo bay door and the door to the helm could be manually sealed from either side. But all the other doors had wheel locks on the sides facing the main corridor. This standard design feature was a redundant safety measure. In the event of a hull breach, any number of compartments could be sealed off from the rest of the ship.

The aquaponics door was pulled to, but wasn't sealed. Parker heard water running. It wasn't just the sound of the bubbling fish tanks; it was the distinct, high-pitched sound of a running shower. He tried to open the door but felt resistance. He pulled harder, and the door broke free, making a crackling sound. He looked down and saw that ice had formed a bond between the floor and door.

"Thomson said the room was supposed to be hot," he said as he entered the station. He passed through the landing, essentially a mudroom, and made an immediate left. The room opened up, but if York was there he couldn't see her. A dense fog obscured his view. The upper third of the room was filled with steam clouds. They all drafted in the same direction, away from the corridor door. The bottom layer was frigid. The entire floor was covered by an inch of ice.

Extreme thermocline phenomena, he thought.

Parker stepped carefully toward the aquaponics station in the center of the room. He stopped between the two fish tanks. The grow lights and beds were enveloped in steam, but the fish effluent that usually trickled into the grow beds was frozen solid. The tanks below were iced over except for a couple holes. Parker peered into the holes. The water below the ice wasn't just bubbling; it was boiling. Poor fish, he thought.

"Terra, can you hear me?" he yelled. "There's something wrong with the ventilation. I've got to get you out of here. Where are you?"

There was no response. He still couldn't see through the steam, but he could hear the shower running. His headset made it difficult to pinpoint the location of sounds, but he had the layout memorized. After all, he had designed it.

He moved towards the far left corner of the room where the showers were. The steam clouds moved with him. Each step produced a crunching sound.

The shower grew louder. Parker called out again for York. Nothing.

He moved closer. The fog was thick, but he could make out faint images. Both shower stalls were running full blast. They were positioned side by side, but all of the steam clouds moved toward the corner stall.

Parker creeped closer. He moved slowly both to keep from slipping on the ice and to gather his bearings in this strange environment. If York's life wasn't in danger, he'd never have the nerve to walk in like this.

She was in the stall, or, at least, Parker thought so. The curtain was wide open. The thermocline dissipated, and steam, still thick, whirled around a standing body.

Moving closer, Parker saw York clearly. She stood naked, her back turned. Although she was short, and not the least bit petite, her body possessed perfect proportions. Her muscles glistened as the water broke through the mist and ran down her back.

Parker gazed at her sculpted body, forgetting why he came. Regaining his wits, he said, "Terra, it's not safe to be in here."

She didn't answer. It occurred to him, she wasn't moving.

Parker's senses exploded, torn between competing stressors: York's nakedness, how attractive she was, how endangered she was, how endangered everyone on the ship might be.

He repeated her name with each step hoping to give her a way out, to relieve her of some of the embarrassment they both would feel afterwards. How could she still be on her feet? he thought.

Within arm's reach, Parker noticed her skin was gray. Maybe it was from lack of oxygen. A strange thought floated across his mind: she seems taller _._

He reached his hand out to touch her shoulder. "Terra. It's David."

Like an automatic nervous response, she twisted around and grabbed his arm. Parker, shocked, almost fell limp. But York had him. With inexplicable strength she dragged him by the arm out from the shower stall. He hung from his own arm as if from a tree limb. His feet dangled as she raised him higher. Then with a twist, she threw him across the room.

"How dare you put your hands on me!" she said. Her voice had added depth.

Parker's mind wouldn't work. How? and Why? was as far as he got.

She strutted towards him slowly as he scrambled to his feet.

"What's going on?" he demanded. "You acted like you couldn't hear me, and now...now you're..." He trailed off unable to make sense of the situation. He puzzled at her body ripped with muscles.

"Take a good look," she said. "This is what you wanted the whole time, wasn't it? You're such a pathetic excuse for a man."

She charged him, ramming him into a support pole. She stepped back as if admiring her work.

He stumbled forward, wincing from pain. She came towards him again. This time he tried to run, but his legs didn't cooperate. He limped toward the fish tanks, knocking over boxes as he went.

"You don't have time to feed the fish," she said.

He tried to navigate the tanks. But he had built up speed, and his feet slipped on the ice. He fell onto a frozen fish tank. Like a turtle on its back, he struggled to turn over, to right himself. He was too slow.

Grabbing him with both hands, York lifted his squirming body above her head. "My only regret is not having time to savor killing you," she said as she threw him against the wall.

He landed on bags of fish feed, softening the blow. His body and mind were numb from adrenaline. If there was a thought left in David Parker's head, it was no longer How? or Why?. It was _Run_.

Parker got to his feet and slung a forty-pound bag of feed at York.

She laughed sardonically. "Is that the best you can do? You throw like a girl."

With what strength remained, he tried again. This bag banged through some of the grow beds above the fish tanks, getting nowhere close to York. Fearlessly, she walked towards her prey.

He grabbed one more bag, knowing it was his last chance. He shoved the bag forward. It arched slightly and landed in York's waiting arms. It was an easy catch. But her bare feet slid on the ice, and she fell onto her back.

Effortlessly, she flung the bag off her chest and released an intonation that was more roar than scream.

This was Parker's chance. As he dashed for the door something hit him; first on the shoulder, and then on the back of his head. Is she throwing things at me? he thought.

He ran harder. Objects continued impacting him until, finally, something stuck to the front of his helmet. He slowed, trying to pull it off. He discovered his unlikely assailant: tilapia.

Fish continued jumping out of tanks, trying to attach their mouths to his space suit.

He flailed wildly, knocking lose as many fish as he could. Keep running, he thought. He heard York's steps behind him. He didn't look back, knowing this was it.

Miraculously, he navigated the mud room bend without falling. In the main corridor, he came to an instant stop as he regained normal traction.

He grabbed the massive door by the wheel lock. York's footsteps grew louder. She screamed, "You're dead!"

He slammed the door with all his might. It got within inches of closing before it hit Terra York's body.

Clang!

The inertia of the half-ton door won out against York's dead run. The door jolted back hitting Parker's helmet. His vision blacked-out, but he was conscious. He flung his weight against the door. It clasped shut. He violently spun the wheel, locking York inside.

His whole body drooped as he exhaled loudly. He slumped against the opposing wall. His vision started to return, but he had a hard time focusing his eyes. He squinted at the door, partly afraid, partly relieved.

An alarm sounded in his headset. He didn't have to look at his wrist console to know what it meant; his suit was losing pressure. Now that his eyes worked better, he knew why. His helmet was cracked.

"No, no, no, no," he said.

He grasped the consequences immediately. Whatever contagion York was exposed to—he would be too after he lost internal pressure. He would have no choice but to breath air through his cracked helmet or take it off.

He wondered if he would become like her. What would cause such a reaction? Why was the ventilation screwed up in the first place? If it came from the probe or the object, how did she get exposed?

Too many questions and no real answers.

Clang!

His teeth rattled as the sound echoed inside his helmet.

Clang! Clang!

The sound was steady as York tried to beat her way through the door.

It was hopeless now. He saw no way out. He knew he would be infected, if he wasn't already. There was no way to save himself or the others onboard.

Clang!

Then something clicked inside. What about the Constance? he thought. He didn't feel brave or courageous—he was still terrified—but the same impulse that made him a great architect now helped him detach from his emotions. He was compelled to solve a problem. He needed a way to save the ship.

Clang!

## Chapter 20

IT HAD BEEN over twelve minutes since Alvarez entered the tunnel. He knelt down in front of the source.

"What are you doing?" Weston said as he white-knuckled his weapon.

"I'm doing what we came here to do," Alvarez said. "Turning off the plasma blast."

"How do you know how to use those symbols? I thought only Dr. Brennen..."

"I'm not going to use the symbols," Alvarez said. He reached into his pack and pulled out a small canister the size of a coffee can. Alvarez placed the canister at the base of the energy source. He flipped switches, punched his Colonel's key-code, and entered 30.00.

"You're going to blow it up?"

"Whatever we just heard didn't sound friendly," Alvarez said. "We're setting this detonator, getting our men, and getting off this rock before it blows."

Alvarez punched the large button, and the countdown began. He synchronized his wrist console. Then he turned to Weston. "Turn your infrared viewer on."

Weston used his thumb to throw a switch on his rifle. It was both a safety and the _on_ button for the viewer.

"You're hot now," Alvarez said.

"Shouldn't we leave the safety on...until we need it," Weston said.

"It's more dangerous on than off, now."

Alvarez figured Sarge and Jitters would turn on their infrared viewers too. A viewer was small, barely visible until you aimed the weapon. Then it illuminated the room, via heat signatures. Additionally, its auto-aiming system detected the intended target, theoretically ensuring a bullseye. It could be disengaged, of course. Certain situations called for greater prejudice than just hitting the closest warm body.

The two men ran down the eastern tunnel. Soon the glow from the source was gone. Alvarez's eyes hurt from the contrast between the ambient darkness and his intense infrared viewer.

Alvarez examined their map. Based on the tracker beacons, they were close. His timer said twenty-eight minutes. There had been no new sounds and no comm contact for the last minute and a half. Alvarez saw lights ahead.

"Be ready, but don't shoot any of ours," Alvarez told Weston. They slowed their approach.

"Sarge is that you?" Alvarez said.

"Don't shoot," said Sarge. Sarge and Jitters were scanning the room with their lights.

Alvarez and Weston entered the new room, another cavern but smaller than the one they had left. There was no visible energy source. That's good, Alvarez thought. He only brought one detonator.

"We didn't make it in time," Sarge said.

"What do you mean?" Alvarez said.

Sarge pointed his light to the corner. What Alvarez saw didn't make sense. Arms, legs, and guts were all over the floor, and blood was smeared against the walls.

"They had their backs against the wall, and this still happened," Alvarez said.

"We can identify the two grunts. The first one's here." Sarge pointed to a helmet with a still recognizable face.

"And here's the other," Jitters said pointing to a helmet with shattered glass that was impossible to see through.

"The tracker beacon indicates these were the two grunts," Sarge said.

"What about Dr. Brennen?"

"We've got his beacon..." Sarge pointed to another helmet on the ground. "But we can't find his body."

"Even if he's alive, he couldn't last long in this atmosphere without a helmet." Alvarez tried the comm. "Brennen, can you hear me? Brennen, do you copy?" There was no answer.

"If he is alive," Alvarez said, "he'll go back to the shuttle which is..." He looked at his wrist console. "...that way. North on the same trail he came in on."

"He can't get back to the surface without a pressurized suit," Sarge said. They were silent, the somber reality setting in. There weren't any spare suits on the shuttle, and Brennen couldn't last long without his helmet anyway. He's probably gone, Alvarez thought.

"What about these remains?" Jitters said.

"There's not enough time. I set this thing to blow, and we've got..." He looked, "...less than twenty-five minutes before we're space debris."

Weston and Jitters aimlessly shined their lights around the room. Then Sarge tilted his head their way and whispered, "We better get them out of here."

The eastern wall of the room had the familiar glyphs. Alvarez still couldn't figure out what they were for. The panel on the surface seemed to be a key lock or control panel for the entrance, he thought. But what were all these doing down here in what had only been straight tunnels leading to open rooms.

Alvarez felt the ground vibrate, then the eastern wall shook. "Everybody stay sharp," Alvarez commanded.

An opening appeared, the same size as the entrance from the surface. They all shined their lights, but nothing penetrated the darkness.

"Sir, nothing's on our viewer," Weston said.

Alvarez took his eye off the wall and glanced through his viewer. It was cold, blackness. Nothing.

He looked up, glimpsing something. "Something moved," he said.

He looked down, but nothing appeared on his viewer. He toggled the resolution, trying to bring out the contrast without success.

He squinted at the opening. A shape expanded with a rough, jagged motion. Then contracted smoothly. Alvarez heard a loud, chattering sound that accompanied the contractions. The sound stopped, and the shape disappeared from view. The men stood motionless as if hiding in plain sight.

A creature, a hominoid beast, stepped through the opening and roared the same scream Alvarez had heard over the comm. It had gorilla-sized arms and legs, and towered at over ten-feet tall, but it was no ape. It looked like no natural or genetically designed creature Alvarez had ever witnessed. Its skin—if that's what it was—was a dull gray, and its face only slightly resembled a human's: no hair, eyebrows, or ears. Just a glaring set of recessed eyes, that reflected red when lights were shined on them. Its flap-for-mouth stitched up the middle of its face, like hands clasped together. The orifice opened sideways as the creature screamed, flaps stretched and quivering. Each climax revealed a series of narrowing ribbed hoops—its version of an esophagus.

"Defensive positions—get back!" Alvarez said.

The men fell into formation. The creature screamed again and came towards them.

"Open fire!" Alvarez yelled as he aimed his energy weapon. His first shot missed entirely. He looked through his viewer. The creature still didn't appear on-screen.

He yelled, "Disengage thermal!"

With a flip of a switch, it was off. He aimed again—this time by visual—and blasted the beast. It stopped in its tracks, but it didn't go down. It wasn't even fazed. It stood there taking the continuous current. The blast enveloped the beast, wrapping it like a blanket.

"We've got two more from the south tunnel," Sarge shouted.

Alvarez and Weston continued to fire on the first creature while Sarge and Jitters turned to face the new threats.

Sarge's shotgun blast was deafening. The sound maxed out Alvarez's headset. The receiver attempted to compress the sound, but it just distorted into a high-pitched squelch. The energy weapons seemed to have little effect, but Sarge's shotgun took off chunks of flesh, piece by piece.

The first creature, as if its batteries were recharged, resumed its attack. The blasts didn't slow it down. The thing swatted Alvarez with its over-sized arm, knocking him into the far corner where the dead bodies were.

Then it turned and dismembered Weston. Alvarez, nearly unconscious, lifted his head. He didn't know what world he was in. It was a dream, a bad dream.

He saw the first creature on top of Weston's body, crouched over it doing who-knows-what. Further away he saw Sarge fire shot after shot until one creature finally fell. Jitters continued firing his energy weapon at the third creature to no effect. The blast surrounded the creature just as it had with the first monster.

They weren't withstanding the blast, he realized. They were absorbing it. The energy made them stronger. He wanted to yell, to warn Jitters, to make him stop. But he couldn't move. He couldn't feel. Panic, the same emotion driving him to get up and fight, paralyzed him.

Jitters maintained his blastfire on the creature as Sarge reloaded his shotgun. The creature swept forward, grabbed Jitters's rifle, and hit him across the face with it. His helmet ruptured. He stumbled backwards. Bent over, Jitters placed both hands over his helmet to stop the leaks. Alvarez heard Jitters over his headset. "C-c-colonel! Colonel!" Alvarez tried to speak. His mouth jawed open, but no words came out. He was frozen.

The beast bludgeoned Jitters with the rifle, then pinned his head against the ground with his foot. Alvarez heard Jitters scream until the pressure from the creature's foot crushed his skull.

Sarge, having finished reloading, turned to exact retribution. He fired three times at point-blank range. The creature dropped in seconds. Horrified, Alvarez watched the first creature, now done with Weston, bolt towards Sarge who had his back turned.

Sarge must have heard the creature's footsteps. He turned to fire. The creature's long arm reached forward, blocking the shotgun. Sarge fired into the ceiling before the creature knocked the gun out of his hands. He started to lunge for his weapon, but the beast charged head-first into Sarge, ramming him against the far wall.

Before Sarge could even lift his head, the creature was on top of him. It pinned him—one foot on his legs and the other on his shoulder. Sarge screamed in agony and began punching the creature's legs with his one free arm.

The beast took its time. It repositioned its feet, crushing new parts of Sarge's body. With unmistakable intent, the creature pounced and crushed his hips and thigh bones. Sarge's cry changed. It no longer sounded like the man Alvarez knew.

Alvarez had to do something. He looked to his right. On the ground beside him was blood and body parts. A shattered helmet was at arms-length. On it was a long shard of glass. He knew he couldn't handle it without ripping his suit.

He looked left and saw a torn, shredded spacesuit. He grabbed the fabric and wrapped it around one half of the shard.

It took every ounce of willpower to lift himself. His footing still unsteady, he glared at his target. With speed that surprised Alvarez, he sprinted toward the creature.

He gripped the shard with both hands raised above his head as his feet left the ground.

The jagged glass entered the creature's back between its shoulder blades. The shard remained lodged, but Alvarez fell to the ground. He stumbled to his feet.

The creature screeched, turned, and swatted him against the wall. The beast performed a horrific dance, trying to pull the blade from its back. Its arms were long but inflexible.

Alvarez's body was saturated in pain. One cogent thought remained: the beast was in pain too.

Alvarez had landed next to Sarge's shotgun. The creature seemed to realize its mistake. It lunged towards Alvarez.

Alvarez grabbed the shotgun, turned, and fired.

He racked the gun. Fired.

Racked it. Fired.

Racked it. Fired.

Racked it. _Click_. He was out of shells. But by then, it was over. The massive kinetic damage caused by the OO-Buck had nearly taken the head off the beast. It was slumped over on its belly, not moving. Alvarez saw the shard still residing in its back.

Alvarez tried to get up. His legs felt like jelly. He was winded, and he tasted metal when he exhaled. Bent at the waist, he limped over to Sarge.

"Sarge, are you okay?"

"I've been better," he said wheezing.

Alvarez shined his light on what was left of Sarge's body. He appeared fine from the waist up, but his legs were turned in unnatural directions. His space suit was torn around his knees, and he was lying in a puddle of his own blood.

"Colonel, I'm venting atmosphere. I won't last much longer, once my oxygen's gone. Go on and get out of here."

"Let me patch you up. We can stop the leak."

Sarge raised his voice. "I'll bleed out before you figure it out." It was as if Alvarez made him say something he shouldn't have to. Sarge regained his composure. "Go on. Get out of here."

Alvarez looked again, not wanting to give up on him. Blood was pumping out of Sarge's suit. He must have nicked an artery, he thought.

"Take that shotgun. It's the only one that seemed to do any damage. And don't forget this bandolier."

Sarge struggled to remove the band of shells from his upper body. Helping him, Alvarez realized Sarge wasn't getting out of there. He was in no condition to move, and they were running out of time.

He looked at his wrist console. Less than eighteen minutes remained before the whole thing blew.

Sarge took a sudden, deep breath. He held it for a moment and exhaled slowly. He closed his eyes and was gone.

Alvarez stepped back. He looked at Sarge's body. Why did it look different than it did a minute ago?

Shining the light attached to Sarge's shotgun, he scanned the cavern. He looked past the bodies as if there was something else to see. There was nothing else.

He had to act. He had to do something. He should have felt guilty for losing his men, especially Jitters. But all he could think was that he was alone.

He pulled up the map on his wrist console, irrationally hoping to find another ID beacon. He studied each ID. All but his were faded out, the program's effort to demonstrate last known positions or inactivity. Usually this meant someone had retired their suits without turning off their beacons. Today it marked tombstones.

He wanted to be anywhere but here. He thought about Nadia and Adam, and if he would ever see his family again.

He stared at his ID beacon, the only blinking signal on the map. Then it stopped blinking and faded out like the others. Alvarez squinted and pulled his wrist closer in view. He shook it, trying to make it work again. Then inexplicably all the IDs, including his, disappeared before the map itself went blank.

"No, no, no, no" he trailed off. His voice stopped to choke back tears.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I shouldn't even be here, he thought. I should be home, on vacation, or on to my next career. His family had no idea where he was or what he was doing. And now, he was going to die in the explosion or worse, encounter another creature.

His fear turned to anger. He gripped his weapon. "Not like this," he said aloud. "I'm not going to die like this."

He threw the bandolier of shells over his shoulder. He counted six shells and fed the tube magazine. He headed back north towards the entrance. He didn't need the map. He knew the way. It was a straight shot back to the shuttle.

He picked up his pace. Every time he passed glyphs on the wall, he imagined one of the beasts coming out to get him. The more his fear mounted, the angrier he became. And the harder he pushed himself. He didn't look at his feet where his headlamp shined but ran with his head up, eyeing the darkness in front of him.

He checked the countdown. More than eight minutes remained. He was going to make it. Alvarez's anger turned to hopeful exuberance. He was going to get off this rock. He would go home to Nadia and Adam and finish that fishing trip.

He saw a faint glow in the distance. It was the entranceway.

As he neared the exit of the tunnel, he checked his time: six minutes. Like a marathon runner bursting through the finish line, Alvarez ran his hardest as he entered the lit room. He stopped to catch his breath, doubled over.

"Well done, John," said a voice.

A million thoughts ran through Alvarez's mind. They all pointed to the only conceivable answer.

"Michael?"

Between Alvarez and the steps to the surface stood Michael Brennen.

## Chapter 21

THE TWO MEN stood motionless. Brennen's skin was an unnatural, dull gray. Alvarez watched him. He couldn't tell if he was breathing. The tone of Brennen's voice had been sarcastic, but his face was expressionless. Lying crushed on the ground next to Brennen was the sensory image generator.

"John, I know what you've done. It's not going to work," Brennen said.

"What I've done?" Alvarez pointed at the broken generator. "What have _you_ done?"

"All in good time, my friend. What's important is that you give me the code to the detonator and let me shut it down."

"Shut it down? Didn't you see what those things did to the rest of the men? They're all dead. For that matter, you should be too."

"Why the hostility, John?"

"I'm not the one being hostile. You shouldn't be breathing this atmosphere. You shouldn't even be conscious."

"Those things that you murdered were sentient beings," Brennen said. "We're invading their territory, their space, and their outpost. Now you're about to commit an act of war."

Alvarez felt like he'd never reach the bottom of this rabbit hole. "How do you know that? How come you have your helmet off and appear fine? And why did you destroy the sensory image generator?"

"John you seem to have a passion for ignorance. I thought you would understand by now."

"All I know is that you're acting stranger than normal, and this thing is about to blow. We've got to get out of here. Come on."

"You just keep mucking around with things you don't understand. Give me those codes, and I'll show you everything."

Alvarez looked at his wrist console. "There's less than four minutes before detonation, Michael. Even if I wanted to turn it off—which I don't—there's no way we could get back there in time. It took twelve minutes the first time and half as long sprinting back. It's too late."

"Four minutes is plenty of time for me," Brennen said.

Alvarez would have laughed if he didn't know Brennen was serious.

"This is an outpost, John. The beings that put this here are part of a collective, sharing consciousness and intent. They placed this outpost as an attempt to contact life forms. That's what the plasma bursts are all about."

"You're saying alien life designed this outpost with plasma bursts to make our probes go wonky and kill people?"

" _Life_ isn't really the right word for it."

"If they aren't alive, what are they—dead?"

"John, how unimaginative. The bodies of those beings you slew were once life forms. They were alive before their metamorphosis. Those beings, the energy source you're trying to destroy, and this entire solar system are influenced by something as unique and incomprehensible as life itself.

"Enlighten me," said Alvarez unimpressed.

"All life forms serve certain entropic functions. Despite seeming to be higher forms, they break matter and energy into lesser forms. It's a paradox; the higher the life-form, the more destructive it is. Humans have gone beyond their biological function and have learned how to destroy the atom itself."

"Michael, you're just talking about the nature of the universe. Everything decays. Everything is breaking down and spreading out. What does life or human beings have to do with it? Get to the point."

Alvarez could see the entrance staircase behind Brennen. If he kept this up, Alvarez would have to force his way past him.

"John, life is like an enzyme. It's a catalyst for this decay. The collective offers us so much more."

"The collective? Those bloodthirsty monsters?"

"Those monsters were thousands of years old. They have no natural life span. They're beyond life and death. Their destruction could only come from external violence. This collective, this source is able to penetrate all life forms of any size, from bacteria to human as well as inanimate objects—any intelligent structure, even computers. The consciousness that is shared and expressed is directly proportional to the entity's embedded intelligence, regardless of whether it be via biochemical or electronic pathways. What matters is that there is a logic system. Bacteria become part of the collective, but in a less forceful, less contributive manner. It's a continuum. Our consciousness merges with the collective. We don't have to be destined to eighty years and then nothingness. We don't have to participate in an expanding universe that ends in a big freeze. We can change reality. We can change the universe. Join them. John, join us."

Brennen sounded like a cult leader to Alvarez. He wouldn't take him seriously if he didn't know Brennen; he didn't joke around, and he should be dead right now.

Brennen stepped toward Alvarez.

"That's close enough, Michael."

"It's painless. Just take off your helmet. Within minutes you will transform. Everything will make sense then."

Brennen continued toward him. Alvarez pointed his shotgun in Brennen's face.

"John, if you don't join me, you will die. It doesn't have to be that way."

"Now who's being hostile?" Alvarez asked. "I don't know what happened to you, but I certainly don't want it to happen to me."

"It's a gift, John. Haven't you ever wondered why everything degrades? The primary source of every corporate settlement is its nearby star. And people call this sustainable energy."

"It beats fission."

"Lum-power only seems sustainable relative to more destructive forms of energy production like fission. Every star will die. Every form of built-up energy, after it's spent, falls into useless, meaningless, base forms. Doesn't it seem pointless to you? Doesn't it seem like you're just putting off the inevitable? Each day you unwittingly contribute to the entropic problem. By merely surviving, you only assure mankind's ultimate destruction. How can you find meaning in that? Existence doesn't have to be meaningless. _Life_ is without purpose, without balance. To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The continuum, our collective consciousness is the universe's overdue reaction to life. We can reverse all of this. We can balance the scales. We can give meaning to existence."

"I'm sorry you feel like your life is meaningless, Michael. But mine isn't. I have people I love, and they love me."

Brennen's head twitched. "If I can't get the detonator code from you," he said, "I'll take the shuttle myself. I'll get on the Constance and go back to Novos. Don't you want to see Nadia and Adam? I do."

"Wrong answer, Michael. Time for chit-chat is over. You can come with me peaceably, or you can stay here. Personally, I don't care. I'm leaving."

Alvarez, still pointing his shotgun, tried to walk around Brennen, but Brennen moved in tandem, blocking his way.

"Out of my way!" shouted Alvarez.

Brennen grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. Alvarez squeezed the trigger, but it was too late. Brennen pushed the barrel to the side. The shot blew off part of Brennen's hand.

Alvarez looked. There was no blood. Brennen used his nub-for-fist to punch Alvarez in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to the ground.

Brennen turned and calmly approached the exit. Alvarez picked up the gun and shot Brennen in the back. He racked the gun as Brennen turned to face him.

"John, you can't kill me."

"Let's see about that." He fired the tube's remaining five shots. Large chunks of Brennen's body blew off, disintegrated. Still no blood. Alvarez stepped back with each shot as Brennen continued his approach.

Brennen fell face down, what little was left of him. On a different day, Alvarez would have been shocked, too troubled to press on. But today he had already reached that point and had come out the other side.

Alvarez ran past the body and up the giant steps. It was a strange sensation. With each step higher, he felt the gravity lessen. At the surface, the gray landscape was an unwelcomed sight. He now loathed the color gray.

He was too scared to check his time. He had to just move. He maxed-out his propulsion jets; half-running, half-flying to the shuttle. Even if I get off this rock in time, the explosion could still get me, he thought.

He passed through the shuttle's open door and slammed the button that closed the hatch. He didn't bother with re-pressurization. He jumped in the pilot seat and initiated the startup sequence. The engines roared to life, and the shuttle blasted away.

He couldn't see the Constance, but he didn't care. It didn't matter which way he headed, as long as it was away from the outpost. And fast.

Now he waited. He looked at the wrist console. Nine seconds remained.

# Part 4 - Breakdown
## Chapter 22

THE OUTPOST EXPLOSION wasn't audible, but plenty of other sounds were. The engines whined as Alvarez taxed them at unsafe levels. The shuttle shook.

Alvarez gripped the control stick with both hands, and then it happened; the explosion sent debris and a greenish-blue burst of light in every direction. On the view-screen, Alvarez watched the wave envelope the shuttle which twisted and turned from the shock of energy and debris.

It was several seconds before Alvarez regained control. "Computer, run diagnostics," he said. "Status report."

"Confirmed," a synthetic voice said. A pause. "All systems are functioning within normal limits."

Alvarez breathed a sigh of relief. He knew it wasn't over, but at least he could make it to the Constance from here. He hoped Parker and York had the engines back online. And he hoped that the burst from the explosion didn't cause him or the shuttle irreparable harm.

He looked on his navigational display, found the Constance, and laid in a course to its coordinates.

"Constance, this is Alvarez on the shuttle. Do you read me?" he said over the comm. There was no reply.

"Parker. Thomson, do you read? This is Alvarez." Still nothing. Alvarez feared that the burst hit them too. He wanted to believe that they were still behind the asteroid, protected from the blast. But at best, their communications were down.

Maybe the burst created some sort of electromagnetic interference, he thought. He would know soon enough.

He rounded the asteroid's edge and glimpsed the Constance, still attached. Like a lighthouse, the warm glow from the helm's observation windows greeted him. Looks like they have power, he thought.

He tried the comm again. "Constance, this is Alvarez. Anyone read?"

He heard a crackle on his headset but nothing intelligible. He hoped their computer could receive and transmit. Otherwise, he didn't know how he would get the bay door open.

He slowed the shuttle and flew along the Constance's underbelly. Alvarez held his breath; he needed some good news. He saw the closed service hatch. But then his heart sank; the combustion chamber was still tethered to the rail.

"What have they been doing this whole time?" he said.

When the shuttle reached the aft of the ship, the bay door was open. I'm either lucky or they are expecting me, he thought. With the day he had so far, he doubted it was luck.

In the cargo bay, the shuttle's landing gear clicked into the cleats specially designed for it. Unprompted the bay door closed. Usually this action was initiated by the shuttle crew. Alvarez couldn't see anyone in the cargo bay. Maybe they did it at the helm, he thought. Then he felt the AG return as his body sunk down in his seat.

He dreaded the decontamination process. He had kept his spacesuit on for a reason. He knew he was contaminated from being in the outpost. The shuttle was too, and by consequence, so was the docking bay of the Constance. But he had no other choice.

He couldn't simply re-pressurize the shuttle and take off his helmet. If he did, he would turn into something like Brennen. He just hoped they could zap this thing before it got into the main living quarters of the Constance. If not, he might have to stay in quarantine the whole way back to Novos. Or worse, he would quarantine the Constance and wait for a rescue party.

He opened the shuttle door expecting to hear a whoosh but heard nothing. The cargo bay was still in a vacuum.

"Computer, initiate pressurization of cargo bay," he said. There was no response. The door worked. Lights were on, and AG was restored. But that was all he could determine.

He wondered if his transmitter was broken. He went to the door console and tried to initiate the re-pressurization sequence from there. His commands were accepted, but they had no effect. He could access information, but the console arbitrarily chose which commands to follow.

He initiated a full-diagnostics. Maneuvering engines were off-line, but interstellar travel was still possible via the warp field generator. Lights, heating, and ventilation all appeared to be working.

If ventilation is working, why can't I re-pressurize? he thought. He opened the sub-file for ventilation and life-support. Something was wrong. The rest of the ship was full of atmosphere, but the mix was off. CO2 and nitrogen were too high. Too little oxygen. Alvarez resisted the thought that this was sickeningly familiar. He clung to hope. "There's a malfunction," he said.

With his suit still on, he ran to the decontamination station in the corner. Usually this was a long process with several bioscans, safety precautions, and a complete broad-spectrum spray-down of the entire bay. He stood in the containment booth and selected a default program with which he was familiar. Something's better than nothing, he thought.

The booth came to life. Intense lights shifted up and down on rings. A draft of positive and negative air pressure tugged at his suit, followed by anti-microbial gases and a _clack-clacking_ rattle of the radiation array. His suit was supposed to protect him.

After the quick wash-down was complete, Alvarez supermanned out of the booth and ran toward the main corridor. He kept his suit on. No use taking chances, he thought.

He used the manual over-ride to open the door. After a series of locks were disengaged, he spun the giant wheel. He heard a loud sucking sound and hiss as he opened the door.

He tried to enter, but his shotgun barrel caught against the door. He had forgotten he was still wearing it. The sling was over one shoulder, and he still had the bandolier of shells.

"I don't guess I need these anymore," he said. He left them on anyway.

Something was wrong in the main corridor. Lights flickered, and all the doors were sealed shut. Someone had to do this manually, he thought. The computer could open exterior doors, but not these.

Alvarez heard thumping coming from the sealed doors. By the door to the aquaponics station, there was a message written in red marker.

DON'T LET HER OUT

He saw more writings down the hall but couldn't make out the words. The knocking from the aquaponics door was steady.

"Can you hear me?" Alvarez said.

"Colonel, is that you? This is York."

"What happened? Why are you in there?"

"It was Parker," she said. "He went crazy. I don't know where he is, but be careful. He's dangerous."

"Don't worry about me. Let's get you out of there." He turned the wheel. There was a _click_ as the lock disengaged. Suddenly the door bolted open, knocking Alvarez against the wall. He slid to the ground.

Terra York emerged from the room, her naked body large and unnaturally muscular.

"You're going to pay for what you did on the outpost," she said.

Alvarez, still on the floor, twisted his shotgun around, racked it, and pulled the trigger.

_Click_.

He had forgotten to reload the magazine.

Terra York grabbed him by his spacesuit material. She lifted him and threw him down the hall. He slid half way to the helm before stopping face-down.

"You don't deserve to be one of us," she said. "I'm not going to let you transform. You're just going to suffer and die."

The shotgun had fallen off Alvarez's shoulder. It now lay in front of him, the tip of the barrel pointing at his face.

He lay motionless. York walked towards him slowly. With his helmet on the floor, her steps reverberated loudly, pounding his eardrums.

On top of him she said, "This is for Brennen." She threw her head back and roared. Like the beasts on the outposts, her body began to charge with ambient energy.

In one motion, Alvarez grabbed the gun barrel and jumped to his feet. He swung it like a baseball bat, hitting York hard in the head with the butt of the gun.

She fell back a few steps and acted like one leg wasn't working. He hit her again, and then again. Each time she retreated backwards.

He raised the gun over his head like an axe and hit her squarely on top of the head. She fell face-forward to the floor but caught herself with her hands. She tried to get up.

Alvarez took a running start. He swung from below, hitting her in the face. She spun on to her back.

Enraged, he got on top of her. He bludgeoned her repeatedly with the butt of his gun until her face was unrecognizable.

He stepped back, loaded two shells, and shot twice.

His headset's decibel compressor didn't keep his ears from ringing. But Alvarez barely noticed.

He couldn't believe his eyes. His still didn't understand. Fortunately, his body acted when his mind couldn't. It was savagery. Killing was one thing. He'd done that before. This was different. He barely remembered doing it. For a brief moment, John Alvarez didn't exist. In his place had been total physical, emotional compulsion.

He looked back at the wall.

DON'T LET HER OUT

Maybe Parker wasn't crazy. Maybe I'm going crazy, he thought. This might be the kind of delusion mass murderers experience.

He vanquished the thought. He had to trust himself. There was nobody else on board he could trust, except maybe Parker. But where was he?

Alvarez passed the barracks. They were sealed off too. He heard heavy thumping coming through the door. The wall read,

DON'T HELP THEM

He passed the science lab and the officers' barracks. The only door left open was the storage room. It was dark inside. Shining his light, he noticed items were knocked off the shelves. They laid scattered across the floor. Someone was in a hurry, he thought. He cleared the room and then sealed the door shut.

He noticed the door to the helm was shut but unlocked. The large deadbolts were visibly disengaged. On the door was the same writing.

I'M LYING

## Chapter 23

ALVAREZ TOOK A deep breath and opened the door. Part of the helm was illuminated with normal running lights. The workstations appeared operational, but no one manned the consoles.

To his right was a control panel for ventilation. The thermostat was at its highest setting. He moved to the closest vent and held his arm up to it. His wrist console confirmed the temperature. Hot air was venting into the helm, hot enough he could feel it slightly through his suit.

He stepped away from the vent. Surprisingly, the temperature plummeted. The room was somehow cold despite the ventilation.

He rounded the corner and approached the command console. He saw David Parker lying on his back on the floor, his arms and legs spread out. Beside him was a half-empty can of epoxy.

"Parker, are you okay?" asked Alvarez.

"Colonel Alvarez, is that you? Oh, I'm so relieved."

"Can you get up? Can you move?"

"No. I'm glued to the floor. One of the grunts did it. He was acting crazy. He didn't look right, sir. His color was..."

"Gray?"

"That's right," Parker said.

Alvarez examined Parker. His helmet was still on, but it was cracked. "What happened to your helmet? Why are you still in your suit?" Alvarez said.

"It was that grunt. After I fixed the combustion chamber, I came back onboard. He just grabbed me before I could re-pressurize, decontaminate, anything. He carried me here and glued me down."

"So, we have maneuvering engines?"

"Well, yeah," Parker said. "But you need to watch out for that grunt. He's loose somewhere."

"But thrusters are operational?"

"Just help me get up. I can get the engines back online and get us out of here."

Alvarez paused. "Wrong answer. You're not going anywhere."

"What do you mean? You can't leave me down here."

"I flew past the combustion chamber still tethered outside the ship."

Parker was silent. He stared at the ceiling. Then he began to laugh, first a chuckle and then uncontrollably.

Alvarez stepped back. He ran his right thumb to the magazine feeder, making sure he had shells. Alvarez raised his shotgun. "You better start telling the truth," he said.

"It's all a big misunderstanding," Parker said. "Before my transformation, I was afraid of the collective. I didn't comprehend. What you see here is the result of my panicked reaction. When my helmet cracked, I knew I was exposed. I also knew the rest of the ship was too. So being the senior officer, I confined everyone to their quarters. Then I sealed their doors shut. John, I hoped you could save the ship if I could just halt the contagion. I was too afraid to kill myself, and knowing that I would do harm to the crew, I attempted to confine myself—ultimately a futile effort."

"It seems to be working so far," Alvarez said.

"Not for long." Then Parker's body emanated an energetic glow, the same way Terra York's had. Alvarez looked at his wrist console. The air temperature was dropping.

"What do you think you're doing?" Alvarez said.

"I'm getting up off the floor. The heat in this room, the energy you so wastefully disperse—in my present form, I'm able to reconstitute it. I can rebuild my body to make it greater, to make it stronger." One of Parker's hands pulled itself free from the epoxy. His spacesuit ripped, revealing gray skin.

"John we don't have to be enemies. Unlike York, I'm glad to help you transform. To join the collective."

"No, thanks," Alvarez said. "I'm more of a loner."

Parker pulled his other arm free. Using both hands, he pressed down on the floor, raising his upper body.

"This is your last warning," Alvarez said. "Stay put, or..."

"You'll kill me?" Parker interrupted. "Haven't you figured this out yet, John? You can't kill us." Parker leaned forward. The spacesuit tore demonstrating his unhuman strength.

Alvarez pulled the trigger. Parker's glass helmet shattered as the lead shot disfigured his face. Alvarez fired three more time before Parker's body went limp.

Alvarez walked over and looked at the dead body. Parker was right. He didn't kill him; he destroyed him. There was a difference.

There was no blood, but it didn't look like a drained cadaver. It didn't look like meat. The flesh was like clay—hard, gray clay.

Alvarez tried to access the navigator's console. It was frozen. No response. Maybe a voice command, he thought.

"Computer, prepare message dictation. Sender: Colonel John Alvarez. Destination: Novos Corp Central Headquarters. Attention: General McKinley."

Alvarez expected the usual compliant chirp, but the computer didn't respond. He tried again. "Computer, run diagnostics." Nothing.

He went to the systems operator's console. The screen showed life-support systems. He tried to alter the ventilation, just in case there was someone else alive. Someone still _human._ The computer wouldn't accept his commands.

How did this happen? he thought. How did this stuff get on to the ship?

The thoughts lingered but didn't produce answers. He was numb again. Not from fear this time, but from the sense of utter helplessness.

Then it hit him. This was all because of Brennen. Brennen was careless in the probe. Brennen thought he knew it all before they even got there. Brennen assumed incorrectly that this stuff was organic and could be controlled or destroyed through conventional measures. Brennen came onboard the ship after getting exposed. It was Brennen's fault.

Alvarez's anger swelled up inside. He slammed the console. "Brennen!"

A calm voice answered, "Hello, John."

## Chapter 24

ALVAREZ SPUN IN a circle, his shotgun against his shoulder. I'm losing it? he thought.

"John, I told you that you couldn't kill me."

It was Brennen's voice over the comm.

"Where are you? How did you make it off the outpost?"

"I'm here," Brennen said.

"On the Constance?"

"In a matter of speaking, yes."

"What, you're a ghost now?"

"You have such a limited imagination," Brennen said. "You think a mind must be trapped in some fixed location, like your brain and body. The collective offers so much more. This power, this essence that can permeate bodies and intelligent machines alike, allows our consciousness to transfer from one entity and location to another. Most of us retain a body. But it's unnecessary. This is quantum logic, John."

"Are you saying you're in the computer?"

"We've been in the computer, in my body, in those murdered beings' bodies. We don't simply abide in the computer; we _are_ the computer. We merged when I came back from the probe. We tried to stop you on the outpost, John. Even when you destroyed my body, I gave you another chance."

"What are you talking about? You wouldn't let me leave until I shot you."

"No John—the shuttle. Don't you think that if we control the Constance's computer, we also control the shuttle's? It was exposed the whole time. We could have stopped you from leaving the outpost. But we wanted to give you another chance."

"I doubt it," Alvarez said.

"You don't understand your position. Our essence is all over you. You brought it back with you. The only thing stopping us from changing you is your spacesuit. And John—let me tell you—your time is running out. How much more air and water do you have?"

Alvarez looked on his wrist console. Brennen was right. He had plenty of water, but less than thirty minutes of oxygen.

"I can just change them out," Alvarez said. "We did it at the outpost. When Sarge's tank wasn't filled properly, we changed it. The vacuum seal keeps whatever contagion you call yourself from getting inside. Sarge kept his mind until the very end."

"That may be true, but you're forgetting; I took the remaining tanks with me to the probe. They are still tethered out there."

"There's gotta be an extra spacesuit with tanks around here somewhere," Alvarez said.

"I don't think so. But even if I'm wrong—what good will that do you? A couple more hours before you're right back where you started."

"So what," Alvarez said. "At best this is a stalemate. What are _you_ going to do? The engines are off-line. You can't do anything about it, because you're stuck in the machine. If I run out of air and asphyxiate, you're no better off. Your consciousness is nothing but a bunch of ones and zeros at this point."

Brennen laughed. His digitized voice briefly blipped in error. "You're not the only body on board. We still have eight servicemen in their barracks."

"Yeah, and they're stuck there too," Alvarez said. "Those doors only open manually, and they're locked from the corridor side. The computer can't do a thing about it."

"Wrong again," Brennen said. "You saw Parker and York. Our members are able to channel energy from their environment, to feed on what you life-forms waste. As we speak, I'm diverting ventilation, sending as much heat to those barracks as possible. They will channel this energy into mass, muscle, and power until they're able to break through those doors. It's only a matter of time, John."

"It seems like you have three choices now," Brennen continued. "One – take off your helmet and transform into something so much better than your pitiful existence. Two – wait around until those grunts bust through those doors and suffer the consequences—that shotgun won't work as well on them as it did on me. Or three—and I'm betting on three—take the coward's way out. Put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger."

Alvarez moved towards the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Brennen said. Alvarez didn't answer.

Lights and consoles started going out, room by room. Brennen must be channeling all of the energy into heating the barracks, he thought.

Alvarez flicked on his light. Apparently, this simple circuitry was out of Brennen's reach. In the corridor, he passed the two barracks. The thumping had stopped. He imagined the grunts standing in the barracks absorbing energy like he saw York and Parker do.

He headed towards the cargo bay. As he stepped over what remained of York's body, his light attached to his gun barrel flickered. It was spotty. He was amazed it still worked after having banged it against York's head. He couldn't help but visualize York's nearly decapitated body rising up and chasing him. Fortunately, he thought, even this nightmare has limitations.

He reached the docking bay and entered the shuttle. "It's a long shot," he said. He ordered the shuttle's computer to open the bay doors. No bleep. No response.

"John, do you think I'm an idiot?" Brennen said over the comm. "You getting here on the shuttle was no accident. You're not leaving."

Alvarez smashed the shuttle console with the butt of his shotgun and walked out in disgust. The bay doors were controlled by the computer, and there was no manual over-ride.

He walked back into the corridor. He was stuck, and he knew it. There in the darkness, he heard the return of loud metallic _clangs_. He shined his light at the barracks door. It was starting to dimple. With each punch, the bulge grew larger.

As usual, Brennen was right. Alvarez needed to make a choice. He reloaded his magazine. Six in the tube. More than twenty still in the bandolier.

Brennen had said there were eight grunts locked up. Alvarez figured Thomson was in there, too. Alvarez pulled the Mossberg tightly to his chest. He didn't have enough shells or reload-time to get them all. I'll take as many with me as I can, he thought.

He considered defensive positions, ways to slow them down, ways to give himself time to reload. There wasn't much to work with. He thought about barricading a door, but with what? Something that could punch through steel wouldn't be stopped by a few cargo boxes.

The pounding grew louder. He saw the hinges start to give way.

Alvarez checked his wrist console. Brennen had pumped so much heat into those barracks, it caused the atmospheric mix in the rest of the ship to be even more untenable. Alvarez didn't know how long it took to transform into one of those monsters, but if it was more than mere seconds, he would asphyxiate before changing. Now he couldn't take off his helmet if he wanted to.

Besides, some things were worse than death. Life at any cost, was no life at all. Alvarez wasn't even sure the collective was alive. Joining them meant the worst kind of death.

Option three was off the table. He wouldn't kill himself unless it meant saving someone else. He'd take a bullet for his family, even his crew. But not just to avoid pain. No way. Suicide was total defeat. He would consider it only if he thought they would use his body to get to Nadia and Adam. Maybe he should save the last shell, just in case.

That left option two. He would fight. He said a quick prayer. Then he began to focus his mind on the task at hand. He didn't think about his odds. He didn't think about those monsters or what they could do to him. His job, he knew, was to extinguish his fear.

Something broke his concentration. It wasn't fear or self-doubt. Something legitimate ate at him, begged for his attention. He yielded to the thought: _there's another option_.

At his feet was the small hatch to the service shaft.

"That's it," he said.

Brennen had missed Parker's post-design addition. It was off the computer's schematics.

Alvarez got on his hands and knees. He removed his shotgun, bandolier, and propulsion pack and slid them forward into the narrow passageway.

As he entered the hatch, Brennen said, "What do you think you're doing?"

Alvarez continued sliding feet-first. He closed the hatch door, sealing it from within and said, "I never liked multiple choice tests."

## Chapter 25

THE SERVICE SHAFT was tighter than Alvarez had hoped. It was no wonder York, the smallest crew member, had been tasked with squeezing in there.

He snaked around components and parts. He didn't know their names or their purposes. It was so tight in places he could barely raise his head.

As he pushed his gear down the shaft with his feet, his bandolier repeatedly became hung on hoses and cables. He had to pack his legs tightly around the blockage until he could reach and untangle the mess with his hands.

Progress was torturously slow. If he didn't know that the shaft opened up where the combustion chamber should be, he would have felt defeated—like a scared, wounded animal trying to find a hole to crawl up in and die.

Instead, he was charged with exhilaration. He tingled all over. He only had a half-baked idea, but it was his only real shot at stopping these monsters.

His headlamp worked, but he struggled to see. His eyes couldn't adjust to the contrast of intensely bright objects nearby and the distant shadows.

Alvarez just hoped he could remember what he saw Terra York do. More metallic thuds came from the main corridor. The grunts are loose, he thought.

"John, you can't hide forever," Brennen said over the comm. "We know where you are."

"Yeah, but you don't know what I'm doing."

The corridor hatch continued to ring from the grunts' punches. Alvarez neared where the combustion chamber should have been. The shaft opened up, allowing him to lift himself. Almost instantly, he spotted the energy-transfer coupling. It was still disengaged, just as he had seen it with Parker and York.

The coupling was suspended from mounts above and below but was disconnected on either of its sides. The combustion chamber should have been connected on the side facing Alvarez. But that wasn't important.

What mattered to Alvarez was on the other side where the coupling should connect to the conduit extending from the main reactor. Alvarez could move more easily now, but he encountered a new problem. AG didn't extend out this close to the hull.

He needed tools. He instinctually looked down but didn't find any until he looked up. He grabbed a wrench floating in the corner and started to refasten the seal between the conduit and energy-transfer coupling. The wrench _zinged_.

"What was that?"

"You've got good ears for a computer chip," Alvarez said.

"You can't hide in there forever."

"Almost done," Alvarez said.

The job complete, the energy-transfer coupling began to whine low. It was quiet at first but soon screeched high and loud.

"What have you done now?" Brennen said.

The pounding on the hatch grew louder. "What is _that_?" Brennen said.

"You're the computer," Alvarez said. "You tell me."

"There's an error in the engines."

"That's an error alright," Alvarez said. "And like all errors, this one has consequences."

Alvarez positioned himself against the outer hatch as far away from the energy-transfer coupling as possible. Not only was it louder, but it emitted some sort of electromagnetic field that was disorienting. Alvarez couldn't maintain his visual focus. He felt he was falling, but in no specific direction.

"This trick isn't going to work, John. My only regret in killing you is that you won't live to see the day when I'm reunited with Nadia."

"Goodbye, Michael." Alvarez adjusted his wrist console, shutting off the comm. He was through with Michael Brennen, or whatever he was now.

He strapped on the propulsion pack along with the bandolier of shells. He wrapped the Mossberg's sling tightly around his right forearm. He didn't know what possible good it could do him now, but it seemed like his only torch in an unending, cavernous maze. He couldn't drop it.

With his left hand, he grabbed the wheel to open the outer hatch and said, "This isn't going to be pretty."

Two swift turns later, the hatch blew off. Alvarez jettisoned into space, traveling five-G's-fast and tumbling wildly.

He looked at his wrist console. The view behind his hand was nauseating. His propulsion banks were nearly depleted. He initiated the auto-stabilizer to stop the stars from spinning. His jets tapped in concert, putting on the brakes.

No longer rolling, Alvarez was still traveling at a high rate of speed. He didn't want to use up the last of his fuel, but if he did nothing he would either burn alive as he neared the star or zip off into nowhere. If he was going to die, he at least wanted to see Brennen go first. He made a couple of minor blasts to position himself and one hard blast to stop.

Now only drifting, Alvarez scanned his surroundings. There was the asteroid and the Constance still attached to it. He was tempted to turn his headset back on. He wondered if Brennen would beg for help. But he knew better. His old friend with or without this contagion would be defiant to the very end.

He wondered if the grunts could get through the door. He was sure they would. They were stronger now, but they were also larger. There was no way they could squeeze through that service shaft and stop the explosion in time.

Then it happened; first a single fireball, then a larger explosion that surprised Alvarez, even though he had seen plenty of demolition. A boulder zipped past Alvarez.

He knew the Constance would blow, but he didn't realize it would take the asteroid out too. He saw three large sections of rock and countless smaller ones. They looked like dirt and sand to Alvarez, but he knew most were larger than he was. In the end, there was no sign the Constance had ever been there.

It was finished. Alvarez had completed the mission. He knew he did the right thing. These monsters, this contagion, couldn't hurt anyone else. Not now anyways. Nadia and Adam were safe.

Victory turned to grief. He knew he would die out here—asphyxiate when his oxygen ran out. Worse than that, he was abandoning his family. Because of Alvarez's work, Nadia had felt like a single parent for most of Adam's life. Now she really was one. One last mission, one last time around on this soul-crushing ride called a career had cost him everything. He would spend his last minutes making peace with his maker and remembering his family.

He stared off. Tears came to his eyes. He wasn't sobbing, but it was a bitter cry. He had to face death head-on, like every other challenge. His focus narrowed. His floating tears, like slow-motion raindrops, collided against his helmet and blurred his view. He tried to wipe them off with his hands and felt foolish for the ineffectual reflex.

What did it matter now anyway? he thought. It was a curious quirk of human nature that even the most loathsome, unhappy person still took rational steps to improve his condition.

He looked at his wrist console and toggled the function to self-cleaning. He selected the helmet icon from the miniature spacesuit appearing on the screen.

There was a whoosh of air. It startled him. He knew better, but his first thought was that there was a breach in his suit. Of course, it was the first step in the cleanup process, i.e. suck out the vomit and other fluids.

Things could be worse, he thought. I could be about to die in a pool of my own barf. He chuckled at the ridiculous thought and wished he had someone there to laugh with.

After the helmet-vac quit sucking, a clear beam of light appeared at the top of his helmet. The focused stream of energy squeegeed his tears from the glass. Alvarez thought it was ironic that he was sheltered by such incredible technology, perhaps the most iconic symbol of man's ingenuity, but was utterly helpless.

His helmet clear, he looked past the debris from the explosion. The cloudlike emerging patterns seemed almost natural. He saw the faces of his family and friends, especially Adam. He thought about their fishing trip, playing in the waves with Nadia. They were the last happy moments of his life.

An alarm sounded, and a red light flashed across his helmet. He checked his wrist console. It was a low-oxygen warning. The tank was ninety percent empty. He dismissed the alarm.

As he relaxed his eyes, the stars grew dim and the blackness behind them filled his view. A speck of light persisted. Instinctively, his eyes focused on the source. It was a white glimmer, not bright enough to be a star. It was the probe.

His exhausted mind flooded with conflicting emotions—a gasp of hope battled the shame he felt from giving up too soon.

Alvarez toggled to his propulsion stats. It said his jets were depleted, but he knew there was always a little bit left.

"I've got nothing to lose," he said.

He switched on manual propulsion controls, grabbed the navigation handgrips, and aligned himself with the probe. He tapped his jets carefully. If he went too fast—even if it was a bullseye—he could smack the probe so hard that he would spin off, out of control. It was a long shot. He would probably run out of fuel before he got there or miss it entirely.

He passed the asteroid and made small adjustments to avoid debris. Then another warning bell sounded in his headset.

"That's the last of it," he said. "I'm out."

He drifted toward the probe. As it grew large enough to make out details, Alvarez realized he was off course. He was going to sail right past it.

No amount of wiggling or thrusting his body changed his trajectory. There was nothing to push against.

Brennen would love to see this, he thought. Failing so close to the finish line. What would he say?

He blurted out the words, "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."

That was it! His only chance.

He pulled the shotgun from around his shoulder and wrapped its sling around one arm. He aimed the barrel above his head and fired. The explosion acted like a small burst from his jets, realigning him downward.

His plan was to grab onto the transmitter antenna. He hoped, if he could grab it at all, that it was strong enough to withstand the impact.

He was undershooting the antenna, and he was coming in too fast. He aimed below the probe and fired. This both slowed his approach and raised his trajectory. He shot above and then again below the probe desperately trying to slow down.

He was out of time. He let go of the Mossberg. It felt like a fatal error. He removed his bandolier and double-wrapped it around his wrist, creating a large loop extending from his right arm.

"This has to work," he said. He just hoped it wouldn't break his arm.

As he neared the antenna, he aimed for one of its small arms that extended perpendicular to it. It came toward him like a tree branch on a canoe ride.

It was just out of reach of his hand. He looped the bandolier over the antenna, threading the needle. He caught it.

Whatever joy he should have felt was overshadowed by pain; his shoulder felt dislocated. The blow would have been worse if the probe didn't move too. Being of higher mass, it moved less than he did, but nevertheless began to spin.

Wincing, Alvarez pulled himself up the length of the bandolier. He grabbed the antenna with his left hand and pulled himself to it. He hugged the antenna, all four limbs wrapping around it. He couldn't believe it had worked. He made it. He closed his eyes and just breathed. He heard his heart beating and felt his pulse in his hands. He needed to calm himself.

After a moment, he opened his eyes. There, spinning in space alongside him, were the tanks of air left by Brennen. They were tethered to the outside of the probe. They were enough, he figured—at least two weeks of water and air. It would be a miserable experience; his helmet-vac would have to suck out more than just tears. But he could do it. He could wait until Novos sent another rescue party.

And they would have to send one, he thought. If not for the crew, then for the Constance. They've got more certs tied up in that than...

He looked at the probe. Unlike most spacecraft, it was pure white. It had aesthetic appeal absent from most other ships. Alvarez had heard some higher-ups at Novos discuss it before. It was a marketing ploy to attract applicants to these hard to populate solo missions. Selling the sizzle and not the steak meant making these research probes sparkle inside and out.

He peered down the antenna array. It buttressed against the elongated, cylindrical section that contained the living quarters. He saw the small circular observation window. The lights were on.

Brennen left the life-support on, he thought. It was a tempting idea, to go inside where it was more comfortable. But he couldn't take his suit off. This contagion was all over the probe, inside and out.

He could decide later. Step one was accessing the probe's main computer and sending a mayday to Novos. Correction, he thought. Step one was securing himself to the probe with something other than a bandolier.

Near the window was a thin silver rail running the length of the probe. Carefully and methodically, he maneuvered his way down the antenna. He swallowed hard as he loosened the bandolier from around his wrist.

That's it, he thought. I'm officially unarmed.

The only tether in sight was halfway down the probe attached to all of Brennen's air tanks. He gripped the silver rail tightly with both hands, knowing he was only one false move from disaster.

He shimmied to the tanks and clamped himself to two of the tethering ropes. Step two – contact Novos, he thought.

Using his wrist console, he found the probe's signal. He tried to connect to it. His console blinked the red Novos triangular icon, meaning it was still synchronizing.

His headset crackled. He sighed impatiently. He really needed this to work. If not, he would have to go onboard and make the call manually.

Suddenly, he heard his own voice over his headset. "This is Colonel John Alvarez. I'm at the research probe NC-108D. All is lost. I need an immediate extraction. Mayday. Mayday."

Alvarez didn't remember recording that message, and he certainly didn't just say it. Maybe the contagion got to me. Maybe this is what it's like, he thought.

The message continued. "I repeat; this is Colonel John Alvarez. I need a rescue party. Please respond. Alvarez out."

Maybe I'm losing it, he thought.

If the message was really being sent, he figured it would take over an hour for Novos to send a message back.

"You can't kill us, John," he heard over the comm. This time it wasn't his voice, but he recognized it.

"Michael," he whispered. "How..." he trailed off. He expected a response if this was indeed Brennen. His eyes fixed on the circular window. He moved towards it along the rail, this time tethered securely. He peered in, sweeping the inner compartment from right to left. He didn't know what he expected to see—Brennen sitting at the communications console?

A figure darted in front of him. He jolted back, losing his grip of the rail. Flailing his limbs wildly, he tried to grab on to something, anything. The tether—he had forgotten it—yanked him hard. At rope's length from the window, he saw the tan, expressionless face of a space-buddy staring back at him.

"I'm coming for you, John," said Brennen's voice. The SB moved away from the window in the direction of the decontamination bay. Alvarez knew that could mean only one thing; Brennen or this thing was trying to come outside.

He scanned his surroundings with the vain hope that his Mossberg was floating nearby. He yelled at himself, "Think!"

The shotgun was the only weapon that had been effective. He had no armaments, and he couldn't maneuver with an empty fuel tank. The SB, as far as he knew, had no weapons. It wasn't designed for more than rudimentary walking movements, but this substance from the bursts must have reprogrammed it somehow. Alvarez knew better than to hope it couldn't get outside.

"That's it," he said. Quickly, he grabbed the tether and pulled himself back to the hull. He moved towards the main access hatch. Taking chances, he raced down the rail hand over hand. He ran out of rope, and his tether yanked him in two. He unclipped it and moved on.

Up ahead, next to the hatch, was the exposed main power-supply. He needed to pull the plug before that possessed manikin used the auto-assist to open the door. If that thing can open it manually...one problem at a time, he thought.

The rail ended at the entrance hatch. On the other side was the power-supply. Alvarez didn't give himself time to think. He lunged forward, releasing the rail. For a moment, he was completely disconnected from the probe.

He collided into the power-supply box, its cords and cables spilling out. He grabbed big handfuls of whatever he could, trying to keep from ricocheting back into space.

Once stopped, he looked at the jumbled mess. "Which one do I pull?" he said aloud.

Although he couldn't hear it, he felt vibrations through his hands as an internal door opened and shut. That meant the machine was in the decontamination bay.

Frantically, Alvarez pulled wires. He didn't care what. In his haste, both hands pulled cables free from the box. Unanchored, he started to float away. He grasped at straws, anything, to hang on. He grabbed cables only to see their other ends start to come undone. A dozen wires were half-way unplugged, but he had stopped. He gingerly pulled himself back to the box.

If this strategy would work at all, he had done enough. Now it was time to create distance between him and it. He lunged to the silver rail and began following it back to the tanks. He kept one eye on the door. Nothing happened.

When he reached the tanks, he reattached himself to the tether. He saw the observation window, now dark. It must have worked, he thought. The power's off.

He relaxed a little. Unless that thing found a way to rewire the power or manually open the entranceway, Alvarez was in the clear. Space-buddies have nubs for hands, Alvarez remembered. That improved his odds greatly.

Now it was time to wait. He had to trust that the mayday message would be received by Novos. If McKinley got it, Alvarez knew he would send help.

He looked at the ridiculous number of oxygen tanks daisy-chained together. It would be worse than Spartan, but he could survive on the air and water those tanks represented. The vacuum seal had worked with Sarge, keeping out the contagion. He would take his chances.

He stared at the probe's dark observation window. A thin layer of frost covered it from the inside. With life-support systems down, its interior was cooling.

He felt it was over, that the threat was contained. Still, it was a chilling thought; that space-buddy and perhaps Brennen's consciousness was awake and aware inside the probe.

It can probably see me through the window, he thought. Waiting a week for rescue while a blood-lusting machine stood watch was a raw deal. But what choice did he have?

Alvarez saw movement in the window. The SB touched the glass with its nubs-for-hands. Alvarez wondered if it was trying to break through.

Then it became clear. It wasn't hitting the glass. It was writing. It wrote in mirror image just so Alvarez could read it.

YOU CAN'T KILL US
____________________________

The story continues in Interdictum: Book 2 of The Anti Life Series. Find it at your favorite online retailer.

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## Author's Notes

May 30th, 2018

It's hard to say exactly how long it took to create this book. Was it two years of writing, fifteen years of mental gestation, or—as some might philosophize—my whole life up until this moment? I can say, however, that the catalyst, the thing that made this work-in-potential manifest itself is easier to pinpoint. It all started with a child's birth, a drunk driver on Christmas, and a fraudulent insurance agent.

Back in 2013, things were going alright. They weren't the best, they weren't the worst—was that a half-hearted nod to Dickens? (How pretentious!) We'd all survived the end of the Mayan calendar the previous year and were trying to decide for ourselves if the Great Recession was really turning around or not.

Late that spring, my wife and I found out we were having our second child. We were excited; that is until we discovered she had a rare blood disorder and would need to be under the supervision of the hospital's high-risk unit. Weekly and biweekly appointments ensued as we nervously awaited the big day. After a week in the hospital, I'm grateful to say, she came home, and mother and child are both healthy and happy today.

A happy ending, you say. Not so fast. Our insurance company at the time pulled a fast one. Though we'd confirmed with them multiple times that the birth would be covered, they gleefully—it seemed—found a technicality with the diagnostic coding that some doctor whom we were never able to track down placed on our chart during the delivery and suddenly—fast forward a couple months—there were $23,000 worth of medical bills coming in the mail.

And to make it worse, a drunk driver plowed into our legally parked car on the street on Christmas Day that year (my daughter was born on Thanksgiving.) It was totaled, and the driver couldn't find a spare dime to save her life (except to buy more beer, that is.)

We were sunk. Gone in an instant were our savings, and it became clear to us both that our modest incomes weren't going to put a dent into this debt, let alone replace our car and replenish our savings, anytime soon.

I wanted to hide, to let someone else come along and fix things. I was a loser, and I had plenty of reasons to be bitter about my circumstances. How could I have anticipated this? How many other people had to do the wrong thing in what seemed like a concerted effort to put me here?

Writing this more than four years later, I still have to fight back tears when I recall those days. It's bad enough worrying that your infant child might die or that she will have long-term developmental problems. The additional financial woes and the chaos that surrounded us were too much.

Strangely, I don't remember throwing myself a pity party or procrastinating endlessly as my prior track record would have predicted. I think it was _because_ it was so intense, so serious seeming that I found it difficult to delude myself the way I often had. This time I girded the loins, said some prayers, looked myself in the mirror and decided it was time to fight back, however I could and despite the odds.

I called and emailed everyone I knew, trying to drum up more work. And by the summer of 2014, I had pieced together several part-time jobs (seven of them, technically) that would all culminate in working around seventy hours and driving nine-hundred miles per week for the following year.

During that summer, right before work was about to get super hectic, I had cleaned out my desk at home. In, on, and around it was about five years of papers, many representing fool-hardy plans for how I was going to escape the rat race and start a fruit orchard or raise bees for honey or tap maple trees and sell maple syrup or, or, or...Don't laugh. I know how childishly naive these things sound. But so does writing a book until you actually do it.

So, during this cleansing process where I had to actively throw away dreams and reminders of why I'd gotten myself in such a bind in the first place, I came across something very old: papers I'd hand-written the summer after I graduated from high school.

There I was, thirty-two years old, staring at scribblings of an idea for a novel that I had hoped to someday write. The papers were fifteen years old, and the realization hit me that if I couldn't find the time to write in fifteen years, it was unlikely I ever would. For some reason, this dream, these papers, weren't so easy to toss out.

I was about to enter the hardest year of my life, and I knew it. Maybe I wanted something small, something secret to hang onto that would keep my soul from smothering to death. I don't know which absurd, audacious muse spoke to me then, only that he put his hooks in deep. Deep enough that I'm writing this to you today. Deep enough that I have five more novels awaiting edits and book cover designs along with seventeen short stories on file.

I didn't have time to sit at a desk and write, so I used a rinky-dink RadioShack cassette recorder and made notes in the car while driving. It was crude, discombobulated, and didn't produce the best novel ever written. (Hey, unless you're Harper Lee or J. D. Salinger, your first book's probably not your best work.) But it got the story down enough that I could put it on paper the next year when I had a better job with better hours (and more pay, I'm happy to say.)

For all these reasons, _Anti Life_ and the subsequent two books in the trilogy are deeply personal works. I now realize that the struggles, fears, and immense challenges faced by Alvarez are really just projections of what I was going through at the time I wrote the book.

My editor asked what the theme of this book is. Maybe, it doesn't have one, or, perhaps, it's too simple of an idea to be called a theme. I think it's something like this: Work the problem. You don't get to pick your circumstances. You don't get to pick the hand you're dealt. And we don't get to decide how heavy our cross is, only whether we will bear it.

Whew! Somebody's dramatic.

If you've made it this far, I owe you a debt of gratitude. Not only have you read my story, but you listened to me wax on endlessly about poor little ole me. Anyway, thank you sincerely.

I'd love to hear from you sometime; shoot me a line at info@allenkuzara.com and let me know what you thought about _Anti Life_.

