In space no one can hear you scream… Wait a second! That one’s already been taken… hmmm… how about… In space be careful who you invite inside…
Clay Waters
Rhiannon's funeral was the
second one on the Yarbro--the first since Captain Willis had also failed
to wake from the cyrosleep freezers.
How long ago had that been?
Malloy wondered… fifty years… at least. None of the crew cared to know
precisely. They'd been in and out of the freezers too many times.
Captain Willis had looked bad
for a while. Although the liquid balm of cyro theoretically froze body
functions, sometimes nature abruptly rebelled--as if Willis' chronological
clock had abruptly begun ticking down his real years, not just his
"warm" years.
Now the freezers had
unexpectedly taken young Rhiannon as well. The Yarbro crew, already
skeletal, was down to six: Plus Troy, a government man from colony council
who'd cadged a free ride to Earth.
Luckily, they'd made their last
jump and were heading into the wormhole--the extra-stellar portal that would
take them to Earth for some well-earned downtime. For Malloy that would mean
all the steak she could devour. Having just swallowed whole her first
post-freezer meal, she was looking forward to eating something that hadn't
already been digested.
The remaining crew had gathered
around Rhiannon's freezer pod, which sat just outside the ship's main airlock.
Orchestral meanderings filled the vast antechamber--a room usually reserved for
ceremonies for chief executives and the occasional fleet captain. It had an
aesthetic absent from the ragged utilitarianism of the rest of the ship. The
curved sides were plated gold (Earth had since run out) and bulged with
biomorphic embellishments, resembling a god's assembly line. One side displayed
a line of breast-like objects, another a bas-relief of jutting geometric
figures, which were either elbows or an artist's conception of six-dimensional
space.
As first technician Thorpe,
handiest with mechanics, worked the music, acting captain Orson approached
Rhiannon's pod, wearing the traditional red-and-green striped funeral
vestments. Malloy found the ponched hat and stripes tacky, but it was
tradition... someone's tradition, anyway.
She was startled to realize
Orson's eyes were actually wet. Something about deep space required extra
stimulation to make lachrymal glands work. Other body parts tended to dry out
as well, which often meant that space travelers resorted to sex by other means.
Was that why Rhiannon and
Orson had gotten on so well?
The casket (Rhiannon’s cyro pod,
transferred robotically to the antechamber) had been sealed for disposal. With
unsettling ease the freezer pod had morphed into a burial chamber.
By unspoken tradition, female crew
members prepared the dead for burial. Rhiannon had done it for Willis. Now
Malloy was providing the same service for Rhiannon.
And who would do it for her?
Nosgard would leer too long.
Kalute the navigator gave her the creeps. Thorpe perhaps. Never Troy.
Malloy had passed on Rhiannon’s private
stash of checked skirts and rubber-soled shoes, choosing instead to dress the
dead girl in her warrant officer uniform (neatly pressed, rarely used).
Rhiannon's frozen face was grandly blank, in death as it had been in life,
except when it was contorted under some Orson-inspired beastliness.
Rhiannon would be accompanied by
her stuffed frog and diary. Malloy tucked both items under the dead girl's
folded arms. The diary's pages were spilling out of their bindings. Had Orson
ripped the hot bits out?
Malloy kissed Rhiannon's
forehead and then got out of the way for Orson. The resulting emotion was too
naked to look at (and Malloy's memories of the two in the ship's relaxation
chamber too horrid). After an indecent interval, she motioned to Thorpe, who
began lowering the freezer's shield.
Orson had wanted to bring
Rhiannon to Earth for burial, but Prentiss reasonably noted Rhiannon had never
been to Earth. Like most space-jumpers, she'd been a colony kid, birthed on a
small sphere orbiting a minor sun several trillion klicks away from the home
planet. Space burials were typical. Even Captain Willis had gotten the standard
heave-ho through the airlock.
Orson had no real pull to demand
otherwise. Though he was nominally in charge by superior rank, Prentiss had
taken practical charge of the Yarbro upon Willis' death.
Of course, if they waited a few
hours longer, Orson would get his wish. Once the Yarbro reached a
certain point, it couldn't expel any space junk out of the airlock. At that
point the ship would be too close to the wormhole, which required a near-vacuum
of space in which to inject exotic matter. Space junk within the ship's
parabola could cause sufficient corruption during transmogrification to
annihilate the ship. It was virtually the only way to harm a near-light vessel
like the Yarbro, which was full of fail-safes.
The airlock door irised open,
allowing Rhiannon's pod to slide inside, then closed up again. All was ready.
Orson began reciting the
standard funeral recitation, plugging in "Warrant Officer" and
Rhiannon's name at the appropriate places. When he hit the concluding phrase,
"We commend her body to the stars," Thorpe fingered a sequence of
buttons and opened the outer doors of the airlock, the depressurization
shooting Rhiannon into space.
Automatically, Malloy turned to
the telemetry screen, though it was a hologram simulation, not an actual view
of space. The first near-light speed travelers had found the real thing too
disorienting: Doppler effects and the distortions of travel at .96 light speed
made people ill.
Represented on screen as a
thick, pale, slightly curled cylinder, the wormhole was actually a bright-white
loop of plasma throated by a frame of exotic matter that turned on its central
axis every 108 years. The Yarbro had arrived just in time--in 30 more
hours the wormhole would "turn," becoming unavailable, and they'd
have to go back into cyro and wait another century. Prentiss had tried to
explain it to her once, but he could just as well been speaking Chinese.
Otherwise, black nothingness
reigned onscreen, perversely reminding Malloy of wide green spaces. This would
be her first trip to Earth and she wasn’t a little excited.
Carrying into deep space the
context of centuries of speculation, man had been both proud and disappointed
to find itself the most interesting thing in a vast and mostly empty universe.
Sporting near-light speed ships and aided by Tachus wormholes, he'd found
metals and minerals, and--most luckily--orehounds to work the far-flung mines of
entities like the Argus Co., sponsor of the Yarbro. But the decadent
home planet retained its pull.
Malloy stared out the porthole
longer than the view compelled, to avoid eye contact with the others. With
Rhiannon's death, she'd become unique.
She was the girl.
Orson had plucked Rhiannon; did
he count on having first dibs on her? Females weren’t common in deep space, and
it got lonely at night. In space it was always night. A good thing the trident
in her scabbard was more than an antique holdover from Earth sea ships. It
could come in handy, if someone tried to grab her down one of D Deck's long
corridors.
The funeral ceremony complete,
the group broke up, some to workstations, others to loaf until launch. Malloy would
loaf. On-planet, she was charged with laying mines. Off-planet, she monitored
the production of the orehounds--the slave race that lived, worked, bred and
died in the Yarbro's vast hold, digesting the mountain rock and
breaking it down into tergenium more efficiently than human technology could,
while leaving an inoffensive byproduct. Big metal shitters, Nosgard the tech
called them with offhand affection. Men in colony bars loved her job
title--Slaver. As if she went around in black vinyl wielding a whip. Her actual
work was rather boring and benign, especially now that the mining of the
planetoids was over.
She entered the lift, which
irised shut. "B Deck," Malloy said.
*****
As she'd expected, Thorpe was in
the A-V room. Old Earth news flickered on the wall. She saw the datelines--the
stories were from the last batch of newswire reports received centuries ago,
with intriguing headlines like "Model Mugged in Central Park"
alongside boilerplate like "Chow Down on Chowder."
She lay beside him. "Hit
the end of the world yet?"
"Can't tell," Thorpe
said. "The headlines could give out and I wouldn't know whether the planet
blew up or the company didn't pay its bill. It does make me miss the old place.
Ironic, innit?" He'd never been to Earth.
"Anything strange this time
around?"
"I had an epic. Lots of
tragic turns and twists. One of those hundred-year dreams. Bugger if I remember
any of it, though."
Their dreams got stranger as
freezer time got longer, they agreed: The kind you’d wake sweating from if you
weren’t already frozen.
"Poor Rhiannon," she
said.
"Yeah. Too young. It's past
time for us to be home."
"Wonder what it'll be
like?"
"Dunno," Thorpe said.
"Prentiss is the only one who's been, as he never hesitates to remind us.
Listening to him slag it, you wonder why anyone would bother."
Kalute's soft voice horned in on
the quiet: "Attention, please, your attention. Please, all crew, come to
the bridge." The navigator cleared his throat for the full two trillion
meters of ship volume to hear. "There has been a development. Thank
you."
Thorpe clapped his hands,
shutting the A-V feed and lighting the room. "Are we evacuating or having
a birthday party?"
"He's Jamaican, mon,"
Malloy said with irony. "He has to be casual. Plus he's dead tired."
"I can relate."
Physically, Kalute suffered
worst from the cyro, though he played stoic. Jamaicans are great sleepers, he'd
say, grinning and showing off a gold cap he'd acquired for his perfect teeth,
which were constantly chewing through his stash of freeze-dried caffeine pills.
People like Kalute needed to stay out of cyro.
Perhaps, Malloy theorized, the
navigator embraced his ancestry as a comfortable cubbyhole to reside in during
warm hours. She recognized the impulse: The same one that had gradually made
her "Irish," from her purposely furred accent to her acquired thirst
for stout. A DNA analysis she'd had done on a colony mall had slotted her
heritage within .95 certainty as Domebrough County, Ireland. Her red hair and
all-over freckles were additional clues. To tease her, Thorpe would point out
that as a menial Irish worker on a British-flagged colony ship, she was
recapitulating a millennium of Earth colonial history.
They arrived first on the
bridge, followed by Prentiss and Nosgard. Orson showed up last, sporting the
monocle he reserved for official appearances. Malloy thought it made him look
rather ridiculous.
"To be blunt," Kalute
began, "we are stuck in orbit. I can’t plot to the wormhole. There’s a
ship in the way. It won't respond to our handshake. Look."
The wall filled with a schematic
of space dominated by the wormhole and two smaller masses.
"Well, tell them to
move," Prentiss said.
"I cannot. The spacecraft
is not of human origin," Kalute said.
Prentiss' eyes got big.
"That's impossible."
"No, merely inexplicable.
The first Earthlings have seen." He smiled. "And it's parked
precisely--to the last micron--at our required point of entry." Kalute
enhanced the view of the alien ship.
Thorpe stroked his chin.
"It looks like a harmonica."
"Most definitely not one of
ours'," Orson said. "Unless we've been asleep a millennium too
long."
Prentiss shook his head.
"Not even then, probably. They're already bumbling near-light tech. The
point is we must access now. Rendezvous is in 28 hours. Otherwise we have to go
into ellipse and risk another long sleep. We’re on the long side already."
Every space-jumper knew the numbers:
1 in 458 cyrosleeps ended in failure--death. The longer out, the worse the odds
became--creeping to nearly 1 in 200 at the fag end of longer runs. The Yarbro
was going thru entropy, making odd lurches that couldn't be explained away by
theory or practice.
"So what will we do?"
Malloy asked.
"Send a scouter ship,"
said Orson.
"We don't have any,"
Nosgard said. "There's just the prospector buggies, the jalopies."
"A space buggy as peace
emissary?" Prentiss sounded doubtful. "Not very dignified."
"Sending a scout is
standard procedure," Orson said.
"Do they know that, I
wonder?"
"So who gets to go in the
tank?" Malloy asked.
Nosgard raised a beefy arm.
"I’ll go."
"Wait! There's no
need," Kalute said.
"They've gone?" Orson
sounded hopeful.
"No. They're here."
Kalute punched up the vid. "The visitors are now resting in the Yarbro airlock."
"They opened it themselves.
Without permission." Orson sounded awed.
Kalute shrugged. "They are
superior beings."
"Should we greet
them?"
"We'll need weapons,"
Troy said.
Thorpe shook his head. "All
we have are pulse rifles."
"If they could open the
airlock by themselves," Kalute said, "Weapons might just make them
angry."
Prentiss shrugged. "That's
sensible, actually. Thorpe, it's the two of us."
*****
Thorpe's hands were shaking, so
Malloy adjusted the pressure seals on the back of Thorpe's suit for him.
"The ship looks strange on the vid," Thorpe said. "Imagine they
do as well."
"You ready yet,
Thorpe?" Prentiss said, peering into the airlock through the embedded
polyglass.
"Getting there,"
Thorpe said. He gave Malloy a tentative thumbs-up. “Update that supermodel
mugging for me, won't you?"
"Sure thing. But I can't
miss this."
"It'll be no orehounds,
that's for sure." Thorpe pulled on the security belt. It would offer
little in the way of actual security, if it came to that.
"Just use the right spoon, don't
embarrass humanity, and you'll be fine." She patted him on the back.
"Get
back, Malloy," Prentiss said. "We're receiving them."
She left
the antechamber and let the door dilate behind her so Prentiss could open the
airlock. She made it to the bridge just as Kalute made contact on the low-res
monitor.
Orson spoke into the mike.
"Do you see the alien craft?"
"Yes," came Prentiss'
voice, made gravelly by imperfect reception. "Incredible, isn't it?"
"What must they look like,
in a ship like that?" Orson asked.
The ship was square-shaped,
plated in a strange orange-bronze alloy, intricately filigreed with thousands
of ridges over its surface. Were they atmospheric receptors, an arcane steering
mechanism, or perhaps a source of thrust? Pure abstraction? There was no
telling.
It struck Malloy like a renegade
shape out of Thorpe's dreams--a spiky, squared-off star fruit, some five meters
high, far too small for a near-light ship. Where would they keep the fuel?
Perhaps it was a scouter pod.
But then where was its mother ship?
Then, horribly, the purpose of
the ridges became clear. The filigrees exploded outward, transforming into long
arrowed tentacles. The airlock filled with sharp white strands, mummying up the
view from the bridge. Some speared Thorpe and Prentiss where they stood; those
which shot past the target whipped back around and connected.
Malloy felt as if her boots were
packed with uranium; rooted, she watched as a strip of the thing's opaque
surface begin to shimmer, folding out into a dark, vaguely muscled maw into
which were tossed the writhing forms of Thorpe and Prentiss. She only hoped
they were already dead.
Malloy jammed her hand in her
mouth. With fear and shock was intermingled an odd shame--is this how pathetic
we look to them?
"I'm going out there,"
Orson said.
"And end up like
them?" Malloy said.
"Well what do we do?"
Orson pummeled the back of his chair, impotently.
The maw uncurled again--spewing
out two burnt, ravaged forms that had once been their crewmates. The bodies hit
the airlock floor with a damp plop, like squeezed-out fruit.
Malloy retched.
Kalute stood with arms folded, shaking
his head. "It raped them," he said, unnecessarily; even the screen's
poor resolution gave that much away. "What a foul creature it is."
"Maybe that's how they
kill," Troy muttered blankly, as if it was some kind of comfort. Malloy
found that it was.
"What is it?" Nosgard
pondered. "Spaceship or animal?"
"Or both?"
Amid the turmoil something
caught Malloy's peripheral vision: Thorpe's news feed, ticking on a secondary
screen, suddenly revived with a renewed flickering.
The headlines began scrolling,
alighting on: Loud Booms Heard in Boston.
Booms? "It's talking to
us!" Malloy shouted.
Nosgard took the seat.
"Here comes another."
"Read it aloud," Orson
said, straightening up. He's realizing he's in charge, Malloy thought.
"'Titans soar to victory,'
it says." Nosgard called up the full story. "It's from an ancient
football game."
"It's using the stupid
headlines from Earthnews to talk," Malloy said. "Thorpe was plugged
into them."
Orson nodded. "It can't
speak to us, but it can parse our language."
"They must call themselves
the Titans," Nosgard said. "Arrogant bastards want to scare us."
"Shh," Orson said.
"Here it comes again."
Seconds later: We Are The
World.
"Who's 'We'?" Troy
said.
"It's saying it's not the
only one out there," Malloy said, and shivered.
"Perhaps they’re claiming
they made Earth. Or else--" Nosgard's voice dropped--"that they are
God."
The screen scrolled to: Opening
the Doors to College.
Nosgard's chin jutted.
"We'll give it an education."
"No, Opening the doors,"
Troy said. "Get it? It wants access to the wormhole."
"We can't," Orson
said. "It will attack Earth."
"There’s nothing left to
harvest down there," Malloy said.
"All the worse. That leaves
just one thing. You saw what it did to Thorpe and Prentiss. Like the
Sephals."
Some sinister nerds had figured
out how to stack the Sephals' DNA chains and had used the species as
human-shaped sex toys.
"At least it's not using
the personal ads," Nosgard said. "Can you imagine?"
"Nosgard, this is serious,"
Malloy said.
"Oh, I'm being quite
serious," Nosgard answered. "We're in big trouble."
Another headline: London Jets
Football Team Looks to the Stars for Help.
"Stars. Looks." Orson
nodded at Kalute. "Show the porthole view again."
Where there had once been two
small distinct masses there was now one large irregular one.
"I believe it's a number of
ships similar to the one in the airlock," Kalute said.
"Ships?" Nosgard
sounded dubious. "Ships don't have mouths. That thing's organic."
"Organisms can't traverse
cold space without protection or transportable atmosphere," Orson said.
"Unless it's got a seriously thick hide and some internal means of
respiration, not to mention a fuel source. It must be a ship. Or some incredibly
evolved hybrid."
"Beyond our
imagination," Nosgard muttered.
"We should do what it
commands," Kalute said. "Perhaps what it did to our friends is a
warning."
"Do we have any
weapons?" Troy asked.
Orson shook his head. "This
is a tug crew, not a combat vessel."
"Let's open the airlock and
blow it into space," Troy said.
"Tempting," Orson
said. "But the space junk might get in the way of our wormhole launch. And
there's no guarantee it would budge. It looks pretty settled in."
Nosgard stroked his bushy chin.
"We've got tanks of liquid nitrogen for cyro outside the airlock. We could
try and freeze the bugger."
"Too complicated. How would
we open them?"
Malloy felt compelled to speak.
“Perhaps we wouldn't have to."
Orson folded his arms. "What's
on your mind, Malloy?"
"Well, we’ve still got a
half-load of mining bombs left over. They’re better for ripping holes in
mountainsides, but they'd probably be effective. They're on C Deck but we can
get them if the lifts are still intact. We could plant one near a nitrogen
tank."
Nosgard nodded vigorously.
"It could work."
"Without blowing a hole in
the airlock?" Orson asked. "I'd rather not get sucked into deep space
before I have to."
Malloy nodded. "They're
designed to shake up rock, not structural metal."
Kalute broke the ensuing
silence. “Whatever must be done.”
*****
Twenty minutes later the
remaining crew had reassembled on the bridge.
It took Malloy a moment to
figure out what was different about Nosgard: He'd shaved his beard to match his
bald top, so that he resembled a perplexed monk. Nosgard had volunteered for
the airlock.
He thinks he's going to meet
God, she thought; a God with a thousand little arms that flies
through space.
Then again, why not appear
clean-shaven, like a newborn with no sins to conceal? She's seen Nosgard on
colony leave; the man was no innocent.
Kalute was playing with a knife.
"Thanksgiving,
Kalute?" Orson asked.
"In case it's my
time." He returned the blade to its jeweled scabbard.
"God wouldn’t do
this." Malloy draped the mining suit over Nosgard's squat frame.
"He'd know the way in anyway."
"Who's to say?"
Nosgard tugged the suit tight. "Read the Bible archive. God's arbitrary.
And perhaps not as smart as he thinks."
Orson nodded. "It's like
Prentiss used to say, damn him. Wormhole physics was a fluke. Even near-light
speed pales beside it. This creature in the airlock is far ahead of us in every
technology, save wormholes. It needs us to learn a shortcut through
space. Otherwise it's stuck in its little near-light universe forever." He
turned. "Ready, Nosgard?"
"Ready, cap'n,"
Nosgard said, with bluff cheer.
He followed Nogsard to the lift.
They shook hands. The lift closed on Nosgard, who waved goodbye through the
lift's transparent doors.
"Goodbye," Malloy
said, after he'd disappeared.
*****
Malloy had used the shudder bombs for years without incident, but she'd been trained. Though crude-looking, the bombs were actually rather delicate--she thought of Nosgard's fat fingers gripping the delicate edges and closed her eyes in worry. It was one thing, laying down the shudders on arid mountain plateaus, with you the only living thing for klicks around. Down there, next to that…of course Nosgard's fingers would get sweaty.
They watched his slow progress
on the monitors. He laid one of the bombs on top of a nitrogen tank, then
huffed away the best he could. The explosion seconds later was audible even on
the bridge, and whited out the screen.
"Is he still there?"
Orson tried to see what was happening.
"I think so," Malloy
said. "And so's our friend." Whatever it was had not reacted.
Nosgard put another bomb down on
another tank, and tripped. No--been tripped: A Titan tentacle had
whipped out and planted Nosgard on the floor, where he unsuccessfully struggled
to free his leg.
Malloy, Kalute, Orson, Troy--the
bridge was silent.
Other creepers darted out.
Nosgard wasn't going anywhere.
And neither was the bomb he'd
laid.
Malloy looked down.
The second explosion was even louder
than the first.
She looked up.
The screen unfrazzled, revealing
a charred airlock and an unmoving alien. A gash in the titanium-plate flooring
was evidence of Nosgard's final bomb. All the nitrogen tanks had shattered,
leaving pink and red frozen bits that could have only been…Malloy turned away.
Orson shook his head. Then he
started. "Malloy! Arm me like Nosgard and show me how these bombs
work."
She took a deep breath, then
stared at the captain a hard moment. She caught the import of what he wasn't
saying.
He was going down with his
ship.
*****
As Malloy tugged the mining suit
over Orson he spoke, clipped and fast: "They call themselves the Titans,
which fits. They were giants from Greek myth, overthrown by Zeus. I can't help
wondering if humans aren't being judged."
"Nosgard shaved to meet
God," Kalute said. "Is this your idea of God?"
"I don't believe in God. I
do believe in that thing in the airlock. Think about it. For a thousand years,
the whole universe was nothing but half-formed creatures like the orehounds,
and us. Now, suddenly, we meet something that's so advanced we don't even know
for sure if it's organic or artificial. It's almost too much to be
coincidence." Orson took a long breath. "I'm not sure if Earth is inhabited.
And as we're the most remote craft, it's possible--just possible--that we're
the last humans alive." Orson nodded. "Kalute’s senior officer."
There was no time for
politeness. "He's in charge?"
"That's not what I
said." Orson winked. "Being senior officer didn't help me. Take this,
in case."
Orson handed her a printout. She
scanned it, recognized its import, placed it in her vest pocket.
"I'll just let our guests
know the captain's taken notice. And if that doesn't work--" Orson put on his
monocle, manipulating the glass so it glinted off the pearly stanchions of the
bridge. Somehow it didn’t look so stupid. "One way or the other, I'll get
its attention. Plant myself near the nitrogen, call it names, then set the bomb
off in its face, or ass, or whatever. Should shake it up a bit, anyway."
The monocle's glare made her
tear up--though perhaps that wasn't all due to the bright light. "Good
luck, sir."
"Goodbye sir," Troy
said. Kalute waved morosely.
"Put the kettle on,"
Orson said. Improbably, he began to whistle. Malloy couldn't help smiling.
Soon, however, the cold alloy tunneling rendered the warm notes faint and
small.
"We are doomed,"
Kalute said, when the sound had died completely. "It's a god and we're its
flies."
"He's made it," Troy
said. "He's opening the airlock."
She didn't want to look at the
screen--it was like one of her slow-motion nightmares, like falling through
some strange planet's filthy atmosphere. But she did.
Orson's defiant voice filtered
through: "Get off your ass, you orange-plated freak! Come and get me, or do you just want to lap me
with those silly tongues?"
Orson set a shudder bomb and
heaved it at the thing. It clanged home, bouncing off and exploding without
consequence. Yet the thing roused itself at last and slid nastily across the
airlock deck toward Orson.
Orson waited. She thought,
crazily, of an ant beside a harmonica.
"Now," she
whispered. "Do it now."
"He's got time," Troy
said.
At last came the faint,
elongated cracking sound of a shudder bomb, followed by the much louder sound
of the nitrogen blasting off.
One, two, three seconds passed.
The screen cleared.
"Damn," she said.
"What do we do?" Troy
asked.
"We can't let it get to
Earth. You see what it can do. And it has friends."
"Even if we die?"
"We're gonna die
anyway."
"Maybe we can make a
deal," Troy said. "Give it access, give them what they want. We'll
use the news feed, send them our own messages."
"You buying this,
Kalute?" She looked around--but the navigator had slipped away… with his
knife.
Malloy glared at the bridge's
sealed door. "He always was a selfish bastard."
"What about it?" Troy
moved closer.
"No thanks." He
grabbed at her, but she was quicker.
"Malloy, I work for the
gov--" he shouted, the closing door shutting off the rest of Troy's
protest.
Now what?
The tearing, crashing sounds of
the Titan had gotten louder. Had the thing honed in on their location? If so,
the end would come sooner rather than later.
Not even suicide was an option:
The ship had too many redundancies to even consider trying to blow it up.
She could hide among her
orehounds, blind to everything while the monster figured out how to work the
ship. With time enough it would, even if it had to wait a hundred years. By then
it wouldn't be her problem anyway.
But sometimes you have to get
out of bed and get to work.
*****
Troy was peering
uncomprehendingly at the controls when she irised back onto the bridge. He
smiled softly at her, as if figuring she'd changed her mind. In a way, she had.
She paused, staring for a long
moment, then hung her head down. "I don't care. I'm tired." She
slumped into Troy's arms.
His lips parted as he leaned in
expectantly. "I've always liked you, Malloy." She felt his last-wish
need-hope stirring.
It was a moment she'd expected,
and she didn't hesitate. Hefting her trident, she plunged it upward into Troy's
chest.
Troy gasped in shock and pain;
he looked down, surprised, at the embedded prongs. Looking back up, his lips
trembled with words, but they were unaccompanied by respiration and remained
unexpressed.
"Sorry, Troy."
He slumped to the deck. She
stamped her boot on his chest for leverage and pulled out the trident. Troy's
dented lungs collapsed slurpily.
She winced; it was a bad way to
go. But she couldn't have piloted through the wormhole and kept him at bay as
well.
Ignoring the Titan tearing
through the ship toward her, and the softer struggling sound of Troy expiring
on the deck, she typed in the override codes Orson had handed her, giving
herself captaincy of the Yarbro. Orson had known they were doomed all
along. Only his damned noble British bluff had stopped him from saying it
aloud.
Troy stopped making noise.
There was no one to second-guess
her now.
She toggled down through the crew
log of dead (or good as dead) crewmates until she hit Malloy: The last
notch on the totem poll.
As acting commander, she had
authorization to open the outside airlock, which would sweep everything not
nailed down into space. But the Titan was safely out of the airlock, out of the
antechamber, and was rapidly crashing toward her. The only thing opening the
airlock would accomplish would be to create space junk and imperil the wormhole
launch.
She opened it. An explosive decompression
followed, as ship oxygen rushed into space.
The Titan was moving, sucking
itself along by its tentacles. She switched off the vid, but could still hear
it. Judging by the noise, the Yarbro's interior walls, meter-thick at
the support junctions, offered little resistance as it crashed its way toward
the bridge.
Launching the Yarbro into
the wormhole was terribly easy. Malloy placed it into the recommended glide
path, then ran through the launch commands that would put the ship at the mercy
of the wormhole's matrices.
As she'd expected, the ship
detected a problem: The parabola was clogged with junk--the sundry ship
detritus she'd just expelled from the airlock. Not a massive hunk of junk, but
more than enough to register as a danger, enough to possibly ruin the wormhole
jump and annihilate the ship, and most importantly, everything on it.
Or perhaps the Yarbro
would survive intact, leaving the Titan and its friends to feast on Prentiss'
fat, lazy Earth, making her an unwitting transmitter of catastrophe. Then
again, maybe Orson would turn out prescient on his assumption Earth was barren
and that they--she--was it for humanity.
That would be a kind of glory,
anyway. She hoped not to be around to grab it.
The wormhole loomed. She ignored
the mainframe warnings, but couldn't shake the sounds. In a few seconds the
thing and its roving appendages would arrive.
Again she unsheathed her
trident, pointing the Troy-bloodied tips to her own chest, amazed at her own
calm.
Just one thing left to do--in
case the Yarbro reached Earth.
Thinking back to something
Nosgard had said, Malloy typed words into the news feed search. Up popped an
ancient personal ad, which Malloy blared across every available screen on the Yarbro:
Master
Seeks New Flesh.