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  He made his way through the mess hall, then down into engineering. He carried a portable screen so everyone would think he was in the middle of a general inspection. The crew hated inspections, and he did, too, but HQ demanded it. And what HQ demanded, they got. Usually it was Filcher, his number 2, who ran around harassing the crew on the minutia of Fed gunboat protocol: lower deck air filters must be replaced once every six months; relay contacts on all critical entryways needed cleaning twice a year. After a run through a dense particle field the outer hull needed a visual inspection. Most of it was bull.

  But it made great cover for the captain because everyone cleared out of his way if they knew he was coming with a port-screen. He made it down to the lower engineering quarters and stood in front of 4-B. Her quarters. He hadn’t been down here in forever and wondered at how tight the doors were together, how small. The door slid open and there she was.

  She was wearing short pants and a T-shirt. He took a deep breath, and couldn’t help but look at her cute legs. She snapped to attention: “My apologies, sir. I wasn’t aware there was going to be an inspection.”

  Just then the head of engineering, an old fat salt named Franklin Barthelme, came down the tight corridor mumbling to himself. He had on the black coveralls from his days in the bowels of the older Galaxy Class Fed Destroyers. He looked up, saw the captain and saluted. His long sleeves had burn holes which revealed a mechanical arm, a gift from the Vellosi after an early battle with the BG.

  “Appreciate if you’d hold off a sec, Cap’n,” he said.

  “Everything alright? We’re going to jump soon.”

  “Be fine in ten.”

  “Ensign Voss, general inspections are, by design, unscheduled,” said the captain, knowing he sounded like an officious ass. But it was all a show for the chief. The big man passed out of sight and the captain relaxed.

  “But I’m not here for inspections. I wanted to give you something.”

  She started to step into the corridor, but he pointed inside.

  “It’s kind of a mess,” she said.

  “That’s okay.”

  She stepped aside and he entered her quarters. It was a small cube, tight, but comfortable, with everything an enlisted person would need: in one corner a bed recessed into the wall, a vid screen lying on the table, another corner full of tools and half built engine components. He eyed the mess and she apologized.

  “The chief’s got me constantly working on something. He calls them projects.” He stood there for a moment, just looking at her, trying to think of something to say. Finally she saved him.

  “Do you know the moment right before a gunboat jumps, there’s that slight hesitation?” she said.

  “Yeah, calculation time.”

  “No, that’s what everyone thinks. That’s old-school thinking.” And then she stopped. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

  “Speak freely, Ensign Voss.”

  “Well, the old Fed frigates couldn’t jump out fast enough if they were attacked by a stronger force. So they’d launch out those old escape pods, you know, the ones with rudimentary flight controls.

  “But recent boats have faster computers. The calculations are made literally the moment the order comes in. So they are much better, but they’ve still got the hesitation. The hesitation is this.” She looked at him intently, holding a round ball of wires and logic chips. “It’s the dampeners from the jump drives. They have to warm up. Chief says if we can remove that .5 second delay it may save lives in an emergency.”

  She went on passionately for awhile about dampeners and he just stared at her, smooth skin and large, dark eyes. The curve of her neck. He wanted desperately to reach out and touch the side of her face. He imagined it. To hell with regulations. But then he realized she’d stopped talking.

  “Captain?”

  He snapped out of it, but all he saw was her brown eyes.

  “Yes, sorry, I was, uh…” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box. “I heard you liked to read the old stuff. I wanted you to have it.”

  She opened it and drew in a deep breath. “Is it?”

  “Yes, it’s real paper. It’s Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. He was an author long ago in Old Earth. The cover is torn off but the back has a nice picture of him in France. Just keep it in the stasis box and it will last. But when you read it you should hold it in your hands.”

  “You mean, like, turn the pages, manually?”

  “Yeah, it’s a wonderful experience.”

  “Captain, I can’t take this. It’s got to be worth more than this boat.”

  “Naw, more than the shuttle, but not this ship.”

  She reached out and touched his arm. “Thanks. If someone asks, I’ll tell them my boyfriend on Markos sent it to me.”

  “You have a boyfriend on Markos?” Just like a jealous school boy.

  “Yeah, and one each on Centauri IV and Plethos.”

  “Oh,” he said, his head dropping just a bit. “Right, of course.” He turned abruptly to go, once again, the captain of a Federation gunboat. He shouldn’t have come.

  The door slid open and he stepped back into the corridor.

  “Captain,” she said, smiling. “I don’t have a boyfriend on Markos. Or anywhere.”

  He perked up. “Can I, uh… stop by again? I’d like to… check on the progress of your dampener project.”

  “Of course. I look forward to it.”

  He started back down the corridor.

  “Captain,” she said. “If it’s not against regulations, in quarters, please call me Jaylen.”

  He awoke in the blackness to a rhythmic, steady sound that comforted him. The sound wasn’t mechanical--did not oscillate. It was organic. And then he realized the pod had gone quiet and he was listening to his own breathing.

  Oh, shite! Was the nav down? Was he dead in the water?

  Computer, diagnostic!

  Functions beyond simple query logic unavailable.

  He touched his face, the skin above his beard still supple, not tight and dry as if the life support functions had gone down. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth. Still moist. And he wasn’t cold, either. So he must still have power. Why was he slowing down?

  Computer, what is the total time in days since this boat launched?

  43.4 days.

  How long since last timestamp check?

  1.37 days.

  He remembered the last day. The burn, the noise, the stars in the porthole. The girl named Voss. The chief with the mech arm.

  The girl, Jaylen Voss. Her name is Jaylen.

  Computer, search for Jaylen Voss, Federation military.

  No data.

  Search again. She was on a Fed boat. His Fed boat?

  No data.

  Why didn’t she show up? He wanted to see her again. But not in a dream. He needed light. He needed a nav! He started feeling with his hands carefully for a switch, a lever, something he may have missed earlier when he was freaking out. There’s got to be a nav on this thing. Maybe it’s got manual controls.

  Computer, what are the parameters by which you can id a space craft?

  Size, place of manufacture, military or civilian… and it went on for a few minutes, until …manned or unmanned, manufacturer id plate…

  Computer, stop. Where are manufacturing plates located?

  Select ship type.

  Any manned, escape pod or c-tube smaller than a shuttle.

  Federation guidelines dictate a 10 centimeter by 5 centimeter plate must be present in the forward cone, inner hull.

  Display all escape pods, c-tubes or any craft smaller than a shuttle made in Vellosian space for the last 100 years.

  No data.

  Rerun the search. Omit place of manufacture.

  There are 53,974 matches.

  Great, here we go again, he thought.

  Add parameter: single-manned.

  25,922.

  Made within last 50 years.

  14,137.

>   The tiny escape pod was tight, but there was some space above his head. He unfastened all three belts and gingerly floated up towards the cone. His hands felt for the porthole and he could just barely reach to where the padding ended and his fingertips could feel the bare metal of the inner cone.

  He tried to go a little further but felt a sharp tug in his arm. The IV. He hung that arm down and reached up with his other, but only bought himself a few inches. He traced his middle finger along the cold inner hull, just above the padding, all the way around. It was a smooth, seamless design, but he couldn’t reach up high enough to feel an id plate. Then as his hand made it almost all the way around, back to where he started, his finger caught something. It was a flat piece of metal with rounded edges. He couldn’t feel how tall it was, but it might be 10 centimeters long. It had to be the id plate.

  He settled back down, strapped the waist belt, and checked the IV again by feel. Still okay. Even if he could touch the plate, he couldn’t see in the dark. And then another idea hit him.

  Computer, are id plates stamped with raised numbers, or etched?

  All space craft before 2479 are stamped, per Federation guidelines. 2480 to present are flat etched.

  What year is it?

  Unknown.

  Most recent date at creation of last timestamp.

  2599.

  He fastened his chest belt so he could pretend he was lying down to think. This boat feels old, he thought. It was still quiet in the tube.

  “I’ve got no memories to back this up,” he said aloud to himself, his non-food tube hand behind his head. “Just my gut. But I’m willing to bet this is an old boat. If it’s stamped I can read the numbers with my fingers, then query the computer about it. Find the nav. Find the overrides. Find out where we’re going.” He laughed. “Hey computer, he said aloud, I said we.”

  Are you with me, computer?

  Invalid parameter.

  The Dreams of a Desperate Frog

  Bakanhe Grana Homeworlds

  Beyond the outer reaches of Federation space

  Warumon 5, Humanoid Synthesis and Production Facility

  Merthon padded quietly on the cold, metal halls on his soft green feet. Feet made to run and swim in a Vellosian home planet half-submerged in water. A world that no longer existed, thanks to the Bakanhe. His feet hurt, his skin was dry, and no saturation tank could make his body feel right again. He felt torn in half. He thought a good ending would be to stand up to a BG warrior, maybe brandish one of their prized energy weapons in front of a high-ranking lord. They would kill him and put an end to the misery that had become his life.

  His friend Jamis said the only thing to do was live. Now live, he thought. He could not leave Jamis.

  He trudged on towards the birthing pods where his friend waited. They were the last of their kind, the Vellosi, trapped on Warumon 5, a prison planet, to do the the Bakanhe Emperor’s bidding.

  One of the tall Bakanhe warriors passed, shiny black armor and one long, glowing red slit where eyes should be, and Merthon quickly bowed, thumbs together, placed on his forehead.

  “Bakanhi jan sama,” he mumbled.

  He shuffled his feet and kept bowing in the direction of the tall warrior until he passed.

  He found Jamis in the birthing room hunched over a tank.

  “Has he made it there, yet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did you get him out?”

  “It seems a relic Racellian pod from a frigate the Bakanhe conscripted was deemed a health risk. So I had it dumped into deep space with the rest of the trash.” Merthon smiled proudly at his ingenuity, but Jamis stayed on point.

  “Will it make the journey?”

  At this Merthon paused. It was an old escape pod from the Ralcacine wars back when minerals on the Ralcine planets were in demand, back before jump technology was perfected, back when you were attacked by a stronger force you had to abandon ship to live instead of just jumping to another sector like captains did now. The Racellian pods were the highest quality, with fantastic fuel capacity and life support. But that was a long time ago. 150 years ago. Navigation was crude, but effective: dial in one exact point in space and the nav computer calculated the jumps.

  “Fine,” said Merthon, staring off at the endless beehive of birthing tanks, water bots hovering over, making sure everything was just so: temperature, tube fittings, leak checks, electrolyte levels.

  “Is that all?” said Jamis, eyeing his friend.

  Merthon nodded, but secretly he worried about the big dent in the hull right where the life support tech was located. He’d checked it, run the diagnostics, stolen the fuel cells from a shuttle, filled the water reservoir even though it could generate its own. But Jamis’s questions cut through his confidence. He wasn’t sure the old pod would even fire after it was dumped. He couldn’t track it once it launched. If it launched.

  But this was their best chance. They were watched and tracked. But not the man. The BG didn’t know he existed. He was the only free creature on this wretched planet. Whatever his fate, it was better than living like this.

  “Did you implant the mission?” Jamis said, shaking Merthon free from his moment of weakness.

  “Yes, of course, you worrisome, dryfoot.” Anger was a good antidote for useless worry.

  “Will it stick? Remember what happened last time.”

  “It will stick. I did not send him to fail, Jamis. I gave him a few, uh, upgrades. He has everything he needs. And quite honestly your lack of faith concerns me,” Merthon said, hoping to sound confident—maybe arrogant.

  “Upgrades?” Jamis stood up to his full height, eyeing Merthon suspiciously again. “No, don’t tell me. I’ll just worry more. But did you make it believable? He’ll enter Federation space with no communication.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Listen, Merthon. This is no game we play. The BG are going to kill us as soon as we are finished here. I can’t stall them any longer. They’ll also kill us if another batch, uh, accidentally dies out. This must work.”

  “It will, my brother. It will. There are a few on the ground sympathetic to our cause.”

  “Let’s hope he makes it to the ground.”

  96 hours

  Escape pod

  Deep space

  The man in the tube couldn’t sleep. He fought with the restraints all night, or what he thought was night. He just wanted to see the girl again. Jaylen. Why was she not in the damn computer database? But what did it matter? He didn’t even know where in the worlds he was.

  He came fully awake and checked the computer’s timestamp. It was 54 days since time began, according to the computer, 11 days since he discovered the plate above his head that he couldn’t reach.

  He looked up through the porthole into the blackness. He was tired of the dark, tired of dreaming, tired of tubes sticking out of him. He wanted to run. Just run like a child. But his angst wasn’t his biggest problem.

  He loosened the chest strap and touched his face: the skin taut and dry. Then he noticed his tongue was sticky. He took a deep breath of air and his throat was scratchy. He felt the tube going into his arm, wondered if he could feel it if fluids were flowing through. He ran his fingers along the thin tube, it flexed just like it did before, but he couldn’t tell if fluids were actually moving into his body. Then he touched his arm near the IV. The skin was dry. His body didn’t feel right.

  He looked up into the blackness where the little plate was stamped to the inner cone. He strapped himself into bed again to assess his situation.

  Computer, how long can a human last without water?

  96 hours on average, depending on body weight, age and other factors.

  He held onto the IV line. Massaged it with his fingers. 96 hours, he thought. He sniffed the air again. Was there moisture like before? He licked his lips and his tongue wasn’t wet with saliva.

  Was life support down? Was his little pod dead? He’d hold this speed forever. A tiny lit
tle ship with a dead guy inside hurtling through infinite space for all eternity. Maybe that was the plan. To keep him alive long enough to wake up, to feel he was alive. To dream of the girl. To want life. And then to die slowly in a C-tube.

  He screamed and coughed, his voice hoarse. 96 hours. 96 hours if the oxygen didn’t run out first. He didn’t want to die of thirst or lack of air. That was worse than drowning. This couldn’t be his fate. He was supposed to die with a gun in his hand. The gun. He instinctively reached under his left arm, but it wasn’t there.

  The gun had a wooden handle and was made of steel, not like they used on the seamless alacyte blended hulls, but real steel like the early boats, before the Vellarsus brought their fuel technology to the old worlds.

  He used to have a gun. Not an energy weapon. Lead projectile, kinetic force. He lay there for a few more moments playing with the IV line. Finally he wrapped a finger around the thin tube and yanked it. He felt a sharp little prick of pain, then put the tube to his lips.

  Nothing.

  Fine, it needed to be done. He unfastened the straps and gently glided up into the cone. This time he could make it all the way, about three feet up. There, he was eye level with the porthole. He felt around in the darkness and found a pad like a head rest or pillow on the opposite side, and he wondered if this is where his head should have been all along. He turned and pushed himself into position with his head on the cushion and he could see straight out of the porthole.

  Then he reached up and felt for the small metal plate. He traced his fingers around the edges of it. Probably the right size, he thought. He paused there for a moment. If the numbers weren’t raised he’d probably die in the dark.

  He brushed his fingers across the plate and felt nothing. He concentrated, held himself in place by pushing his left hand against the inner hull above the padding and very carefully touched the plate again, but still nothing. Just smooth, cold, metal.

  Was that it? Was he going to die in the can?

  He let out a deep breath and started kicking against the padding until he felt a tug on the tube sticking into his penis. He grabbed the line and gave it a gentle pull, considered another yank to finally be rid of the catheter, but couldn’t go through with it.