The Lost Gunboat Captain Page 4

  And then he remembered Jaylen’s voice again, “…rudimentary flight controls.”

  Computer, he thought. Does the Mark 7 have flight controls?

  Guidance controls are available to assist in final approach to coupler module, came the reply.

  Will the controls work for atmospheric flight?

  No data.

  A little wave of hope came over him but he fought it. There is no way to land this thing, he thought. But then another Jaylen memory came. It was late and she had crawled up into a vent shaft to replace logic chips on the lower deck breathers. She looked down at him and smiled. Come on up, she said. Come on. Are you afraid? Don’t fail me now, Captain. I need you.

  If I could just flatten out the pod’s trajectory maybe I could crash land the thing, he thought. I’m dead if I crash into a city, or a forest. But there’s a chance. So that’s it, he thought. Try to make a turn before hitting the floor. Flatten it out and slide to a stop.

  Computer, what is New Racellian for “access flight controls”? The man thought.

  “Jibun nabi Kudan” came the reply.

  The man issued the order and nothing happened. Meanwhile the pod was as hot as ever and the shaking was worse. He figured impact was imminent and started to kick the padding again. Then he looked up into the cone and there it was: a single stick flight controller. He unstrapped himself and suddenly was tossed from side to side. Slowly he made his way up and could just see out the porthole. His heart leapt and his desire to live was suddenly stronger than ever because he could see the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long time: blue sky.

  He reached for the stick and pulled back and suddenly his body was pressed to one side, his face flat against the porthole. The G-forces of the turn nearly blacked him out but he held on to the stick, fighting to level out the pod. He stayed pinned to the side, his whole body pressed into the padding. He felt the ship flatten out so he eased back on the stick and the G-forces gluing him to the pads lessened so that he could move his body, turn his head. He could see orange earth below him. The tiny ship was in a slow spin so soon he saw blue sky again, then orange earth, then blue sky. With each turn the tiny details of earth grew more defined, suddenly he could make out rivers: organic lines reaching out, curving gracefully then fading. Off to his right, high, ragged hills leading into a chain of mountains.

  The ground beneath the ship is flat, but the sink rate is going to kill me, the man thought. The ship is dropping too fast, even though it’s level.

  Computer, he thought, how can I engage the inertial dampeners on the Mark 7 without a coupler?

  There are no overrides in the Mark 7 to engage the inertial dampeners, came the reply.

  The man used the stick to stop the spin and position the porthole down so he could take a guess at altitude loss.

  How can I engage the forward thrusters? he asked the computer.

  Manual control of forward thrusters on the Mark 7 in port nav screen, bottom right.

  The man touched the bottom right of the screen, the rivers now wide and blue, the small hills now large, jagged mountains. The thruster array popped up on screen and he aimed the forward jets down at a 45 degree angle and tapped the the red button that he guessed meant engage.

  A split second passed as he stared down to the earth below him, not orange anymore, but brown sand racing past. One large mountain moved slowly out of view, while the ground rushed up to break his little ship into a million tiny pieces.

  And then he heard the forward thrusters, mounted on gimbles, realigning. He braced for impact, thought he saw some kind of large animal slowly making its way across the sand. He closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.

  His head slammed into the padding and he thought is was over but it was just the engines firing. He was pressed into the ships inner padding again, wondering if he was going to be crushed by the force. All he could see was earth racing past, but the thrusters had done their job and the little ship had leveled out and was moving roughly parallel ten meters from the surface.

  For a moment he saw nothing but darkness underneath him as the ship crossed over a ravine, but then orange again. Soon after that the nose of the pod touched the earth and the man could hear nothing but a horrible grinding noise, with the occasional BANG as each of the three stabilizers sheared off. The little tube went into a slow spin and for awhile he realized he was moving feet first across the ground and wondered if the fuel cell was going to heat up and blow.

  He could feel the speed slowing considerably and thought he just might make it but then the tube started rolling, which was worse than any amount of bumping he’d endured. “I’m too close to die,” he thought, and then blacked out.

  Duval

  The planet Duval, eastern edge of the Soldown Flats.

  He awoke to silence. He opened his eyes and was blinded by an orange light. He reached up, and for the first time in his 44 days in the pod, he could fully extend his arms in front of him. The hatch was open and he crawled out, pulled the catheter tube out of the life support system, and stood on the sandy earth, blinking in the sun, breathing the fresh air. He swayed as if he was in a strong wind, but the air was calm, and soon his legs failed him and he went to his knees, felt the hot sand through his fingers. The pod had sheared in half, one large rear fin thirty meters behind sticking up out of the ground, the other two God knows where. The pod was a large, white tube, black burn marks on the cone.

  He yelled out, held his hands up in the air. He made it. Then he fell again, and just lay there.

  ……

  The Federation recon ship Valhalla II was recently assigned to the outer rim areas to monitor pirate activity. Captain Barthelme, who’d opposed unification, and lost, ended up out in the deep edge of space, far enough away so that he couldn’t do any damage in the core worlds, and close enough to the outer edge that any unfortunate pirate encounters would be considered acceptable loss by the new powers.

  “Captain Barthelme, we’ve got a bogey heading straight for Duval. They don’t respond to my hail.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, sir, that’s the thing. There were no matches.”

  “Tie in the old databases, pre-BG war.”

  “Sir, the new database goes back 100 years.”

  Barthelme just stared at the fresh-faced boy named Cooper. They’ve sent me to the edge with a band of morons, he thought. He was about to yell, but the ensign realized he was in trouble and jumped up. “I’ll have to run down to the archive and fish it out.” The captain nodded okay and he headed down to the library. Meanwhile the captain eyed the tiny dot onscreen. It hadn’t made a course correction and it hadn’t slowed. It was going atmo any second.

  Soon Cooper returned and loaded the old data. “Captain, you’re not gonna believe this. It’s a New Racellian Mark 7 escape pod. That’s an old pod. Shouldn’t there be a larger vessel nearby this thing launched from?”

  “Not necessarily. The Racellian pods could go long range. They were made long ago for frigates hauling gold and titanium in deep space, before alacyte was discovered.”

  “Sir, are we gonna take it out?” They watched as the little ship went atmo. “Sir, Federation guidelines state that any unauthorized entry into Fed space shall be eradicated.”

  “Take your Fed rulebook and stick it where the sun don’t shine, Cooper. Hold course and keep your mouth shut or I’ll have you down in level four scraping space dust off the manifold injectors.” The ensign shrunk down and started fiddling with his display.

  “Any life forms on the scan?” said the captain.

  “One human, sir.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Not that I can see sir. The pod has lost life support and the fuel cell is about dead.”

  “Hmmm… she’s come a long way,” said the captain, rubbing his chin with his good hand, the other, a mechanical alacyte tri-grip, held the arm rest of the captain’s chair.

  “Computer, at present course, where will the Mark 7 touchdow
n.”

  “The Mark 7 is headed straight for the Soldown Flats, sir.”

  “Powell,” he said to his pilot, “take us down to the Flats. If this little bird appears hostile we’ll take her there.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  ……

  The man stood on the solid earth, still swaying like a drunk. It was all he could do to stand. Three marines approached in full battle armor and he wished he had his gun.

  “Why didn’t you respond to our hail?” said the first marine, pointing his energy weapon at the man. His voice amplified by a full face-shield helmet.

  “No communications,” said the man. He took a shaky, baby-step forward and the marines raised their weapons, but the man was only trying to steady himself.

  “What is your name?”

  “I, uh…” said the man, looking up into the blinding light, the puffy white clouds, the blue sky, and the recon boat hovering over them 30 meters or so back. The ship had a rounded snout and short wings on either side. It was a long range patrol boat designed mainly for reconnaissance missions, but he could see the lines of the cowling that hid the rail guns. He knew they could open in a second and wreak havoc.

  “What is your name?”

  And the man searched his mind but nothing came. Meanwhile the lead marine took a step forward. The man started to wobble again.

  “On your knees!” said the first marine. But the man fell forward with his hands out for support and the marine cracked him in the head with the butt of his gun. The man fell, blood dripping down into his eyes, into the hot sand. He lay there still and quiet.

  “Oh, great,” said one of the marines, “you’ve killed the prisoner.”

  Soon the captain arrived. “Stand down, you valiant defenders of Federation freedom,” the captain mocked his over-eager marines. “We’ve got a sick man in an escape pod and you idiots want to rumble.” The captain knelt down next to the man from the pod. The man looked up and instantly recognized the mech-armed chief from his dream.

  Computer, search the Fed military for a man with a mechanical arm, the man thought.

  Captain Franklin Barthelme, came the reply.

  “Call the med droids, you idiots,” barked the captain. “This man’s wearing Fed blues. He’s one of us.” The captain eyed the man’s dirty blue uniform. Then he turned and started walking back to the ship as the droids flew in with a stretcher.

  “Chief Barthelme,” said the man in a weak, hoarse voice.

  The captain spun around and looked hard at the man.

  “Where do I know you from?” said Barthelme.

  The man slowly stood up. “I’m your captain,” he said.

  Barthelme stepped closer and stared into the bearded man’s eyes. There was something about the man. He felt like he knew the man, but couldn’t place exactly where.

  And then it hit him. The last battle on Montag. The beach and the lights at night. They were close to victory until the giant BG cruiser jumped in on top of them.

  “It can’t be,” said Barthelme. “How is this possible?” The man started to fall again and the former chief grabbed him. “Get this man into the med bay, now!” he yelled. “This is Captain Jolo Vargas! He’s alive!”

  The man could feel the warm, padded hands of the med droids, then movement as he was flown into the med bay of the recon ship. He drifted in and out of consciousness for the next day, but one thing stuck in his mind: the name, Jolo Vargas.

  He was taken to the core Federation planet Sol, and given the royal treatment from the med staff and Captain Barthelme, who stopped by several times to check on him before being sent away by the doctors. And after two days he was starting to feel better.

  He sat up in bed and looked across the room to the glass divider. He could see himself clearly in the reflection, a dark-haired, middle aged man with a strong jaw and blue eyes. He rubbed his chin, the beard gone, his hair short. He said his name aloud while looking in the mirror, hoping for some bit of recognition, but nothing came.

  Soon Barthelme came and told him of the last days of the BG war, when Captain Vargas, hero of the Federation, was presumed to have died. The man listened to the stories, of the things he had done, like he was listening about some other man. But even though he still could not remember much, he was happy. Happy to be alive.

  Late that night, just before falling asleep, the man thought to run his name through the computer. Computer, who is Captain Vargas of the Federation? he thought.

  Captain Jolo Francis Vargas, Federation Star Captain, last assigned to the Federation Gunboat Jessica. Deceased. Pretty much what the Chief, uh, Captain said, he thought to himself.

  And then he had a realization: the pod, and the computer within, was three levels down in a storage bay in about a hundred little pieces.

  Computer, the man thought, how can you answer me if I’m not in proximity to the escape pod?

  Invalid query, came the reply.

  The President

  Federation Home Word: Sol.

  Office of the President.

  “Please tell me he's a synth,” said the president, staring down from his suite high atop the Federation’s core legislative building.

  “Negative, Sir. The scan says human.”

  “That's not what we need, Johnson.”

  “What do you mean, Sir,” said Johnson. “I thought that was good news.”

  “Look down,” said the president. “What do you see?”

  Johnson stared down into the mass of lights and people moving about in the city below. “Uh, people.”

  “Yes, it's beautiful isn't it. People moving around. People doing things. Commerce. People not afraid to be on the street anymore.” The president stared down into his glass of synth-whiskey. “That's a hard fought peace. That's what you're looking at. Peace. Jolo Vargas will destroy that peace. He'll stir up the military. Get them thinking they can fight again. And then we’ll lose all of this,“ he said, motioning with his hand toward the people below, ice tinkling against the whiskey glass. Both men stared down into the bright lights in thought. There were vendors selling roasted meats, mothers pushing strollers, couples walking together.

  “I can't risk this,” the president said.

  “There are some who complain about prices,” said Johnson. “About pirates on the edge of Federation space, about the draconian commerce regulations set by the Bakanhe Grana.”

  “Yes, but that is a small price to pay for this peace that we have now. I'll take slightly higher prices over those shiny black bastards and their warships any day.”

  “So, Mr. President, what's to be done with Jolo Vargas?”

  “Maybe he's a synth after all. And then those BG monsters can take care of him.”

  “But Mr. President, Vargas is a war hero.”

  “Yes, I know. But Jolo Vargas died on Montag. Another war casualty. There will be an inquisition and I believe the BG emperor himself will attend. The merchants will side with the BG. And so will we. It's all we can do.”

  “And what about the military?”

  “They'll fall in line like they always do.”

  Hospital

  Federation Home Word: Sol.

  Federation Military Hospital, secure wing, level C.

  After being in an escape pod for more than a month, having attractive young nurses bringing food was a wonderful thing.

  "This fried, uh, fried meat is fantastic," said Jolo.

  "You don't even know what that meat is,” said Barthelme. “As a matter of fact, you never liked that highly processed, protein-based, meat substitute crap before.”

  “It's just so salty and warm,” said Jolo with a big mouthful. Barthelme stood there watching, slowly shaking his head. “So what brings you back here?” said Jolo. “I thought the powers that be had to you out protecting the Federation from the pirate scourge on the edge of space.”

  The former chief eyed his boots for a moment then rubbed his chin with his good hand.

  Jolo looked up at the big man
and could tell something was wrong. "Listen, I have been having a blast here for the last week eating this,” he poked his fork into a greenish square of Federation food and held it up, watched it wiggle, then shoved it into his mouth and chewed. "So don't come and give me bad news.”

  “That's called fed green,” said Barthelme. “You hated that, too. How much do you remember?”

  Jolo scratched his head for a moment, looked over at the man sitting in the corner wearing a black suit, shiny shoes and a thin black tie. The man was looking out the window down onto the Plaza of Planets, pretending he didn't care.

  Jolo looked the chief right in the eye and said, “I remember most everything,” which was a lie, but he hoped the chief understood.

  “I just stopped by to give you some reading material. Compared to the escape pod this place must be heaven, but I figure on old western novel from Old Earth might help pass the time.”

  The chief started to hand a small screen to Jolo but suddenly the man in the black suit stood up. "I'm sorry Captain, but you know the regulations.”

  “Yes, I know the regulations you little slime-coated shill. This man is not an alien acquisition. He's one of us.”

  The man in the black suit just smiled and sat down. Barthelme squeezed edge of the chair with his mechanical arm and the wood started to splinter.

  He put the screen back into his pocket then looked down at Jolo and tried to sound cheerful. “Make sure to eat all of your green tonight at dinner. It'll keep you healthy and safe. Plenty of good nutrients there.” He looked Jolo in the eye and smiled. He said nothing to the man in the black suit.