Eight year-old Pablo Aguilar’s flashlight illuminated the green START button. He pressed it; a motor started with a clunk then rolled into a hum. The hum pitched higher as the motor spun the centrifuge faster and faster. Pablo steadied the flashlight as he placed a small jar under the tap of the centrifuge. He opened the tap so the rich golden essence—the pride of the village of Pastrana—could flow into the jar.
Papa will not miss one jar, only one frame of honeycomb. It does not all have to go to the market. The bees will make more.
The centrifuge shook; the hum of the motor changed to a harsh, strained warble.
What’s wrong? I did it just like Papa!
Pablo recited the steps Papa showed him yesterday:
“Remove the honeycomb frame from the hive, slice open the honeycomb with the comb-cutter, then fasten the frame in the centrifuge.”
Pablo had done just as Papa did, but only one time instead of eight.
As the centrifuge noise grew louder, Pablo looked about. The first light of dawn awakened the barnyard outside the honey shed. The roosters in the yard crowed “buenos días” with their calls of “ki-ki-ri-kiii!” With his flashlight shining on the tap, Pablo begged the honey to hurry into the jar.
Light golden honey, a prize treasured by the pharaohs, passed through his flashlight beam into the jar. The honey’s heady lavender bouquet mixed with a new burning smell coming from the wobbling centrifuge. With the jar nearly full, Pablo closed the tap and pressed the STOP button. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if his nervous energy could hurry the stringy trail of dripping honey into the jar. Losing even a drop would feel like he’d spilled real gold.
The centrifuge clattered to a stop. Pablo opened the machine and unfastened the honeycomb frame. The frame felt paper-light, not like before when was as heavy as a cinderblock. In the flashlight’s beam, the broad expanse of identical hexagons in the comb played tricks on his eyes, appearing to move in kaleidoscopic shifts. Trying to focus on the pattern made his eyes hurt. Pablo looked away, then back. The mechanical regularity of the hexagons hypnotized him with its geometric beauty. He imagined himself an artist-bee, sculpting the wax into perfect pockets for honey.
The lights in the shed flickered on. Pablo turned to the door. His grandfather squinted into the light, sniffing.
“Abuelo!” said Pablo, “I have the freshest honey for Mamá!”
The thumping, rattling sound continued in Pablo’s ears. Thump! Thump!
The centrifuge stopped. What’s that noise?
“General quarters! Battle stations!” announced the Forward Orbital Base intercom. The alert klaxon sounded again. Captain Pablo Aguilar shook away the dream of his youth.
That thumping—not the centrifuge—it’s the crew moving along the handholds in the passageway. Another nightmare?
Aguilar released his sleeping tether, hustled into his lightweight pressure suit, then pushed his feet into the gecko boots stuck to the floor at his bedside.
Yes, but this one’s real.
He grabbed his flex-helmet from beside his cot and brachiated monkey-like along the handholds to the C3—the Combat Control Center.
Escher-like layers of video screens, cubicles, and columns of handholds created cramped zero-gee workstations filling the C3. Its designers minimized the volume required to keep tabs on the myriad systems keeping FORBASE operational, but did not account for the heat that the density of equipment and crew would generate. The current buzz took the usually inadequate but tolerable air conditioning to a sauna level. The heated anxiety and urgent chatter of the crew surged over Aguilar like a breaking wave. He absorbed all he could and distilled it to a cold trickle sweat running down his back.
Commander Kleist, the executive officer, kicked off the far wall with her tablet trailing behind her. She sailed across the C3, then landed beside the captain, a sparrow settling onto a perch beside a raven. “Captain” was her only greeting. Aguilar understood. No pleasant greeting felt appropriate for the situation: impending doom for millions on Earth.
Aguilar nodded. “Status, XO?”
“Sir, the Xiphos patrol sighted a mother Hole. We’ll have the range in a moment.”
Aguilar moved along handholds to his station with Kleist following. He lofted his body into his seat, then wrapped the lap belt in place. Kleist pushed her gecko boots into a firm grip on the decking beside him.
“Radar?” prompted the captain.
“No echo, sir,” answered Kleist. “Same as the last one.”
“Notify ISA command,” said Aguilar. The move was redundant with the automatic relays, but he felt the need to do something. “Who’ve we got on patrol?”
“Kojak and Inferno.”
Kojak was Lieutenant Commander Laszlo Keresty, and Inferno his wing, Lieutenant Luisa Monti. “Their triangulation report just came in,” said Kleist. She forwarded the data from her tablet to Aguilar’s display. “It’s closing on Earth at sixty klicks per second. ETA at Earth, thirty days. Closest approach to us will be in about two hours at four thousand klicks.”
Aguilar checked the diagram on his display, then looked to the C3’s main display.
“Lagrange point four’s the right place to be. The ISA was right about that, at least. Let’s show them the trillion dollars spent on this station is worth something. Try to get a response from the Hole using the pan-spectrum signaling protocol. Everyone, helmets ready.”
“Yes, sir,” Kleist acknowledged.
“Tell Kojak and Inferno to make a surveillance run a thousand klicks out. They must not engage,
And stay off the visual boundary of the Hole. See if they can pick up any details at that range. I want Kojak talking on his radio all the way in.”
“Yes, sir.” Commander Kleist used her tablet to send the captain’s orders to the patrol fighters. Acknowledgments from Koiak and Inferno crackled over the C3 speakers.
“Kojack to FORBASE, message received. I’m a thousand klicks from the mother Hole. My camera’s rolling. Still just black, no detail. It’s eclipsing all the stars behind it. No radar echo. Missiles will not lock on. Even on the sun side, the thermal image matches the background, so there’s nothing to target on. We’ll have to shoot from the hip.”
Aguilar shivered despite the heat, then choked back a wave of nausea. Kojak’s report echoed the description Aguilar had radioed during the Holes’ first attack on Earth. Two years ago, the mother Hole entered Earth orbit, then dropped six smaller Holes to the surface in pairs. Aguilar flew his jet to intercept one of the Holes over Madrid, but his missiles did nothing to it. His wingman Alfonso tried holding his jet in the path of one of the Holes to force a standoff. Just before the Hole hit Alfonso’s jet, the warplane disintegrated into dust as if its atoms had never held together.
Aguilar screamed, then searched in vain for Alfonso’s parachute. Aguilar’s eyes watered when he realized he could do nothing more than chase the Holes and report as they carved long ravines of smoking slag through his city. Others hit Singapore and Cairo. Millions died in each of the three cities without a word from the aliens.
Aguilar knew there would be no warning from the aliens this time either. He put his communications earbud in his ear, pulled at his pressure suit to improve the air circulation, then gave his order. “Kojak and Inferno, FORBASE here. Proceed with missile attacks.”
“Yes, sir!” came Kojak’s immediate response. “Kojak and Inferno, on the attack.” After a few seconds of silence, he continued. “Missiles armed for proximity or impact detonation. Firing missiles. One away! Two away!”
After a pause, a female voice called on the radio. “Inferno to FORBASE. Missiles armed. Firing. One away! Two away!”
“Kojak here. No effect. The missiles went right at the Hole. It swallowed them. I saw no detonation, I repeat, no detonation. They just disappeared into the black. Pinheads on a black velvet…a black velvet—I don’t know—a black velvet moon, I guess. Damn, that thing is huge! They act like we’re not even here. I’m getting in the way of the damned thing. Maybe I can force it to change course. Like friggin’ Tiananmen Square.”
Aguilar switched his microphone on. “Kojak, FORBASE here. Do not attempt that maneuver. You can’t match its velocity. It will not stop or veer.”
“Kojak here. Yes, sir. We must do something…try everything.”
“Negative, Kojak. My wingman tried that. Return to base so we can try the particle beam weapons.”
“Do you honestly think they’ll work, sir?” asked Kojak.
“No, I don’t,” replied Aguilar. He searched the display’s star field for the mother Hole. The two patrol fighters showed as little flecks, a wide space separating Kojak and Inferno. Aguilar found himself wishing for a way to override Kojak’s control, to reach out and steer him to safety. Temporary safety.
“I’m in the path of the mother Hole,” reported Kojak. “It’s like trying to find footing on a cloud. I’m about a thousand klicks ahead of it, going to engines full to put on as much speed as I can. Dammit, I can’t get a distance, can’t tell what the closing speed is. Inferno?”
“Inferno here. Kojak, you can’t gain enough speed to make a difference. It’ll smack you like a bug. Get out of its way!”
“Kojak to FORBASE. I’m turning so my landing skids are toward the Hole for best shock absorption. I’ve exhausted almost all my fuel. It must go through me to get to Earth.
Contact estimated at fifteen seconds.”
“Kojak, move away!” shouted Inferno. “You can’t take that kind of impact! This is crazy!”
“Not as crazy as letting another three million people die. Kojak out.”
“FORBASE here,” said Aguilar. “Kojak, all major cities will be evacuated. They have a month’s notice thanks to your sighting. Now get away from there!”
“Too late,” Kojak announced. “Impact imminent. I’m transmitting the belly camera video. My landing lights are on.
Aguilar looked at Kojak’s display. One of the main landing skids of Kojak’s Xiphos glowed against the flat black of the Hole below it.
“Kojak here. Something’s wrong with the lights. I can’t see the back third of the skid.”
Aguilar studied the video. There was no back third of the skid left. As he watched, the skid’s support struts disintegrated into powder and streamed into the Hole.
“It’s unraveling!” shouted another voice on the radio. “The landing skid—the struts—they look like they’re unraveling!”
“Identify yourself,” demanded Kojak.
“Stay off the frequency, whoever you are!” shouted Aguilar. “Kojak, get out of there, now!” He checked the display; one of the two Xiphos pips was gone. He barked again. “Get out of there!”
“Full throt—” A sharp click sliced off Kojak’s voice.
“Oh my god. FORBASE, this is Inferno. Kojak’s fighter has been consumed. No sign of ejection. Kojak, this is Inferno. Do you read? Respond, please. Kojak, this is Inferno, do you copy, over?”
“FORBASE here,” said Aguilar. “Who else is out there? Who reported the unraveling struts?”
“Call sign Platypus, sir,” replied the unidentified voice, “Training flight. Approaching blast ramp.”
“Sir, that’s Lieutenant Cole,” said Kleist. “He’d just rounded remote turret six on his fam-flight when we got the alarm. We’re triangulating with Inferno. The mother Hole’s course shows no change. No sign of Kojak. No debris on the radar.”
“What is this…this platypus?”
“Egg-laying mammal, sir,” replied Kleist. “It has a duck’s beak. I don’t know the Spanish for it.”
“Ah, ornitorrinco.” Aguilar shook his head. “He must have laid eggs in flight school. And he somehow made it here. I wonder who he knows.” Aguilar keyed his mic again. “Inferno, FORBASE here. Shadow the mother Hole as it approaches. Keep a range of at least five hundred klicks until you’re past the remote turrets. Then return. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. We can’t keep up with it, but we’ll stay as close as we can. Inferno out.”
“XO,” continued Aguilar. “Assign this…what is it? Platypus. Assign him as Inferno’s wing. Target the particle beams on that thing. The best we’ll do is annoy it, but I’d rather have it come after us than after Earth. Make sure the fighters stay clear of the beams.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Captain Kleist. She tapped a message on her tablet. “Weapons control reports the beams are engaging the target. No effect yet. Sir, Platypus is unarmed. Wouldn’t you rather have a more experienced pilot out there?”
“Like you, Commander?”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Cole just arrived on the last supply shuttle.”
“No. We’ve lost one experienced pilot and a Xiphos fighter. Until I know the opponent better, I lead with my pawns. Kojak and Inferno have demonstrated that missiles are useless anyway. Perhaps Inferno and this platypus will see something of the mother ship that will be helpful.”
“And Kojak?” asked Kleist. “Killed in action or missing?”
“Killed. Calling him ‘missing’ would indicate hope. I have none. Schedule a memorial service.” Aguilar checked his display. The mother Hole showed no change in course. “The beams are as useless as the missiles. Our only service to Earth has been an early warning. Tell me when Inferno and Platypus have returned.” Aguilar stared at the display, watching the mother Hole’s relentless track edge toward Earth.
#
In the four days since the mother Hole reached Earth, Aguilar had not slept. The medical officer offered a sleeping pill and insisted that Aguilar get six hours of sleep. Aguilar swallowed the prescribed pill, went to his quarters, and closed his eyes.
His despair grew unchecked as thoughts of the Holes plowing through cities—Miami, Tokyo, and Caracas this time—repeated in his mind. The Holes, the cities, the destruction continued to plague his thoughts. How many people did the Holes bury in the molten slag-filled ruts they left behind? It would never be known. Some said a million, some said two. Some said the evacuation orders came early enough that it might only be five hundred thousand—the people who couldn’t or wouldn’t evacuate. When did five hundred thousand dead become a small number? A good number?
Aguilar pushed his memory through the events, wondering what more he could have done to provoke the Hole to attack FORBASE instead of Earth, how to evoke any response other than more lethal terror on Earth. Any response might lead to communication, but there was nothing but silent death. Aguilar made a futile effort to organize his memories for a few minutes, then he slept and dreamed.
#
At age fifteen, Pablo Aguilar took his first paying job. The men on the condo construction crew said a young, skinny kid like Pablo lacked the strength for man’s work. Renaldo, the team leader, handed him a shovel and pointed to a spot marked by an orange survey flag.
“The corner goes here,” Renaldo said. “We mark it for the excavator by digging a hole.” He pointed to one side and said “Not here.” He then pointed to the other side. “And not here. Right here.” He pointed in front of the toes of Pablo’s boots.
Pablo nodded and pushed the shovel blade into the dirt. When Renaldo laughed behind him, he turned. The crew chief, sitting on his pickup’s tailgate with the other men, laughed and gestured at Pablo to hurry up.
Pablo stepped on the shovel blade to push it deep into the soil, then scooped the dirt to one side. He dug in again, and again, ignoring more snickers from the crew.
What is so funny? Did they put a sticker on my butt that says kick me? Or worse?
He brushed his hands across the seat of his pants, then his shirt, feeling for a sticker and found none.
What is it, then?
The next shovelful answered Pablo’s question. He dug in deep again, and the shovel came up laden with bits of white that looked like puffy rice. Thousands of large, angry red ants flowed around and among the white bits. Pablo dumped the shovel load, then glanced at his feet. Thousands more ants swarmed in waves across his boots, and hundreds of them headed up his trouser legs. Pablo dropped the shovel and brushed the stinging creatures off as he ran.
The men in the pickup roared with laughter. Pablo kept running, removing his clothes as he went. A minute later, standing naked but for his work boots, he shook ants from his underwear and slapped ants off of his red-spotted butt. He pulled his underwear back on, then shook and inspected his other clothes. He dressed, then carefully stepped to Renaldo’s truck. The painful welts screamed from his ankles to his face, tempting him to walk away, but he and his family needed the job.
“See?” said Renaldo. “You need a belly. It keeps the ants out of your pants. Here,” he said, offering a cold can of beer. “Use this inside and out. It will help with the sting.” Pablo opened the beer can, drank some, then pressed the cold can against the stings on his neck and cheeks. He sat on the edge of the pickup bed while he drank the rest. As he drank, he watched Rico move the excavator to work the flagged corner where the dirt still rippled with angry ants.
Under Rico’s control, the excavator’s hydraulic pistons pushed its steel scoop into the earth, taking a huge bite. The ants, a single-minded army of fury, attacked the scoop and its arm. The excavation revealed the ants’ intricate caverns, many of them as large as Pablo’s fist, and most of them full of shiny eggs or white pupas. The excavator scooped again and again, revealing meter after meter of the colony. Each scoop brought up more enraged ants and revealed an endless network of tunnels and rooms.
Rico used the excavator to bury the ant-laden soil under tons of more dirt, then backed it toward the truck. Its warning horn sounded with a shrill, repeating beep.
#
Aguilar bolted awake. He checked the time, then sighed.
Four hours of sleep.
He listened.
Another general quarters alarm?
The sound repeated, Beeeeep…beeeep. A message alert on his phone. He released his sleeping tether, watched the message from the UN Secretary-General, then sent a reply.
Aguilar’s voice turned stone-cold. “Secretary-General Ducreyi, this order is not a wise choice. You are ordering me to throw away two hundred crew, a trillion dollars, and two years of development for something that almost certainly will not work.”
After sixteen minutes’ delay, Ducreyi’s response reached FORBASE.
“The Security Council has approved the decision unanimously,” replied Ducreyi. “We have made every imaginable attempt to communicate with the Holes. This is the appropriate next step. To do nothing would mean the Holes’ assault goes unchallenged. This second attack makes a third nearly certain, and the population cannot take much more. The FORBASE design team specified a nuclear plant far larger than necessary with the meltdown possibility in mind. Our crew selection criteria required minimal personal attachments here on Earth so you could carry out this order without remorse. You have no choice. We have no choice. The last attack destroyed the supply shuttles and wiped out the Caracas spaceport, including the maintenance and repair facilities. You will have no resupply. Die saving the Earth or die a coward in the cold from starvation or lack of oxygen. That is all, Captain.”
The screen went dark.
Aguilar contemplated Ducreyi’s order. A suicide mission to pacify Earth, a political gesture. A suicide mission that will do nothing to change the course of the Mother Hole. Kojak proved that attacking the Mother Hole to provoke engagement is futile. Total loss of ship and crew for an unknown gain. Common sense screamed for mutiny. The crew of FORBASE could split into factions, for and against. What then? No, Aguilar told himself, it cannot go there. Leadership, one way or the other, must hold the answer.
Which path would Kleist choose? Loyalty to crew or command?
She had talked of writing about how the crew, isolated from Earth, with no culture in common and no economy, had grown into something new, a sociology textbook waiting to be written. For a minute, Aguilar pondered the problem and his options, then he called the C3. “XO, Status?”
“Condition yellow, sir. The mother Hole has left Earth orbit and will swing by us on its exit. ETA is thirty-three days.”
“Has ISA revised its mass estimate of the mother ship based on the latest orbital profile?”
“No, sir. They’re still saying it’s between 1016 and 1017 kilograms.”
“A trillion to ten trillion times our mass. We might as well shoot missiles at the Moon. Review the orbital mechanics before and after the attack on Earth. Pull the video on Kojak’s maneuver from Inferno’s camera, and from Platypus, too, if he got any footage. With Kojak’s
telemetry record and the video, we should get a good mass measurement. Also, limit outgoing signals to standard telemetry.”
“NONCOM sir? Why?”
“I’ll explain later. I’ve got some checking to do myself.”
“Aye-aye sir.”
“Aguilar out.”
Aguilar maneuvered from his quarters near the C3 to an adjacent hatch. He opened it and entered the Computing Systems Core.
Aguilar greeted the apprehensive crew. Their expressions plainly asked what warranted a personal visit from the commanding officer. Aguilar addressed the department head. “Commander Zivits, a moment?”
Zivits dismissed his staff to an adjacent room. Aguilar pulled himself to a seat across from Zivits. “Commander,” asked Aguilar, “How do you determine who controls the computers?”
“Sir?”
Aguilar explained his concern to Zivits, then after more discussion, pulled his way aft along FORBASE’s longest axis. The sunlit port side housed a hydroponics greenhouse producing
modest amounts of fruits and vegetables fed by processed sewage.
Because the supply ships made regular deliveries and the hydroponic crops depended on the station’s sewage products for fertilizer, the crops usually went uneaten and were fed into a
compost bin for recycling. Aguilar opened the hatch to the chief’s office.
The surprised chief’s jump to attention exceeded the grip of his gecko boots on the floor. Flat up against the ceiling, the chief said “Sorry, Captain. I know you said not to do that. Now I know why. I couldn’t help the habit.”
The chief pulled his way back to the floor, then reseated his boots.
“No problem, Chief,” said Aguilar, then in a lower voice, “I need to know real answers. No fluff, not what you think I want to hear.” Aguilar asked about crop production, taste,
artificial light sources, seed stocks. To most of the Captain’s questions, the chief replied with thoughtful nods and mildly speculative answers. To the captain’s question of adequate fertilizer, the chief assured the Captain of the abundance of that particular resource and described its safety after being reduced to elemental components by a sterilizing thousand-degree treatment in the power plant’s heat exchanger. Aguilar thanked the chief, closed the hatch and continued aft to the oxygen-recovery plant and power station. After more questions there, he peeked into to the gym, the largest room on FORBASE other than the C3. He scanned the walls, estimating dimensions.
It’ll work.
#
The Mother Hole loomed large, blocking the view of Earth that Aguilar usually saw on his display. The display switched to a message alert.
“The time has come,” said Secretary-General Ducreyi, “We on Earth thank you in advance for your sacrifice.”
Aguilar prepared a reply. “I refuse to carry out your order. The likelihood of benefit to Earth is too low to warrant the sacrifice of my crew.”
Aguilar made adjustments to a document titled “Last Will and Testament” until Ducreyi’s reply arrived.
“Captain, only action can settle Earth’s growing unrest now. Your sacrifice will fill the news channels for weeks, perhaps months. Whether your effort damages the Hole or not, we will have several more months to work with before the next mother Hole comes. It is in the best interests of all concerned that this step is out of your hands. We appreciate your dedication to the FORBASE project, but we have new orders for you. You are relieved of command. Commander Kleist—that is, Captain Kleist—is now the FORBASE commander. She accepted the orders and agreed to carry out the mission as necessary for Earth’s protection. Captain Kleist will inform your crew, so they still have time to send their farewells to Earth. Good-day, Pablo.”
Aguilar cut the connection and brachiated into the C3.
Kleist sighed. “With all due respect, Captain. I’ve made the announcement. You’re to go to your quarters.”
Aguilar’s face went pale. Faces of the C3 crew stared at him from all directions. Some looked worn, others sad. All looked uncertain. Aguilar’s chin fell to his chest for a moment, then he looked up at Kleist.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this! You’ve gone from piloting the first construction load for this station to commanding its suicide mission.”
Kleist kept her gaze on the deck. “We’re doing what we—”
“Ma’am,” the maneuvering officer interrupted, “We have an unprogrammed thruster burn!”
“Program a neutralizing thrust,” replied Kleist. We’re going to do this because we choose to make the sacrifice, not because they force us!”
“Ma’am, no response from the maneuvering system. I don’t know how, but Earth took full control.”
The engineering officer interrupted. “Power plant reports coolant valve malfunctions in the reactor cores. Overrides are unsuccessful. Core temps going critical!”
Kleist issued orders to manual recover control.
“They don’t trust you, either,” observed Aguilar. “They’ve forced the automatic program in place. I’ll go to my cabin and remove my things. It’s your cabin now. I hope you have an opportunity to use it.” Aguilar turned away just as a twitch flickered across Kleist’s cheek.
Aguilar turned back. “I suggest you let the crew say their goodbyes. Little else matters now.” Aguilar went to his cabin, collected some of his things, signed and transmitted his revised will to Earth, then brachiated at top speed to the racquetball court.
Lieutenant Cole saluted Aguilar’s entry. It wasn’t proper to salute indoors, but Aguilar appreciated the reminder and returned the salute.
Lieutenant Cole spoke proudly. “Captain, sir, the crew is ready to serve. Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Status?”
“So far, so good,” reported Cole. “We’re on full fake telemetry now, looks like Earth is buying it. Aside from that, the only things going out are the taped farewells and the video feed from the C3. You and Captain Kleist deserve Oscars.”
Aguilar took his seat in the makeshift control center. “To your ship, Lieutenant. The show must go on. Laser coms only—no radio!”
“Aye-aye, sir.” Lieutenant Cole brachiated clumsily away toward the blast ramp.
“Have you all said your farewells? Signed and sent your wills?” asked Aguilar loudly of the crewmembers arrayed among the improvised collection of consoles and cables that mimicked the C3.
The collection of nods said “Yes.”
“Proceed. Are we all vented?”
“Just now, sir,” reported Commander Zivits. With the real XO busy running the charade in the control center, Zivits executed CAPT Kleist’s usual duties, tablet and all. “Item ninety-six complete. All non-essential spaces are open to space.”
Aguilar checked the situation displays. On the left one, with a hand-written label of “SHAM OPS” the reactors were overheating, approaching meltdown. On the right, labeled “ACTUAL” they were cooling, their power output plummeting.
Thruster rockets fired out of control on the left. Kleist battled to regain control of the computers as the automated program forced the reactor to overheat. On both displays, FORBASE held a collision course with the mother Hole.
The C3 laser receiver crackled with Lieutenant Commander Monti’s voice. “Inferno here. Patrol lead in position.”
The receiver crackled again. “Platypus here,” reported Lieutenant Cole. “Patrol wing in position. Range triangulates to one thousand, one hundred eighty-six kilometers.”
“Range to surface, one klick,” reported Inferno.
“Thrust program activated,” reported Zivits. “Rockets firing. Attitude rockets firing. Telemetry feed to Earth shows impact is imminent.”
Aguilar studied the SHAM OPS display. The C3 clamored in chaos. Sweat glistened on Kleist’s face .
Zivits called to the patrol fighter via laser com. “We’ve got proper momentum. Time for item ninety-seven. Land the fighters so we can roll the station.”
immediately went to her radio. “Inferno, here, firing all missiles…One, two, three, four away. Kamikaze impact in five, four, three, two—” Inferno’s voice halted with a click.
Lieutenant Cole—Platypus—took his turn. The radio crackled again. “Platypus, firing all missiles. One, two, three, four away. Kamikaze impact in six, five, four, three, two, one, zero…um…” Cole’s transmission ended with a harsh click.
“Commander Zivits, status?” prompted Aguilar. “Are we in orbit?”
“We’re behind her, eclipsed from Earth,” replied Zivits. “I can’t get a range on the Mother, but our inertial nav is saying we’ve got the right angular momentum. Another few seconds and we’ll know i f we’ve got it.”
Aguilar counted off seconds to himself. One…two…three…four.
“We’ve got it, Captain!” shouted Zivits, “We’re orbiting the Hole!”
“Station power, blackout, now!” called Aguilar. “Cut the telemetry!” The lights in the substitute control center went out, leaving it lit only by the video displays. FORBASE continued its
orbit on the far side of the mother Hole, cooling fast, invisible to Earth.
“Elliptical path, sir!” Kleist whispered. “We’re getting tangential acceleration! The Hole’s gravity’s got us in tow! Engaging thruster program to rotate the reactors toward the Hole.”
Aguilar gripped a handhold tightly, twisting his grip around it. “Power Station, we’re eclipsed, what’s your status?”
“Both reactors are at about four hundred kelvins and cooling. Sir, we doin’ okay?”
“We’re orbiting the Mother Hole. It appears we’re stable.”
Zivits turned to Aguilar. “We’ll be Earthside in forty seconds.”
“Okay, everyone, keep it cool,” advised Aguilar. “We have to play dead a little longer. Commander Zivits, make sure the reactors stay one-eighty away from Earth.” Aguilar took a deep breath and smiled. Starship FORBASE was born. A hitchhiker, yes, but one on an interstellar journey.
#
The rings of Saturn arched across the C3’s main display. “I never thought I’d get this close,” said Kleist. “The view from FORBASE was amazing, but nothing compared to this.”
“Nor did I,” replied Aguilar.
“We’re still accelerating,” said Kleist. “Any idea what’ll happen next?”
“I think we’ll keep accelerating.”
“Something’s been bugging me. You made a choice I think I would’ve made differently.”
“Which one?” said Aguilar. “We had to make a thousand choices.”
“Why keep it from Earth? Why not let them know what you were going to do? Once Zivits got the rootkits out of the computers, they couldn’t have stopped us.”
“You knew that the station designers made the reactor valves such that FORBASE could be made a weapon, yes?”
“Yes, it was always an implied option.”
“I couldn’t imagine they would order it. When they did, I guessed there were other things I didn’t suspect initially. So I imagined more. Like a rootkit that would let them take control of the ship. Force us into the mother Hole.”
“But Zivits found the rootkit!”
“He found three rootkits, one for each level of bureaucracy that thought they should have the final say in our fate. He couldn’t be sure he found them all. If Ducreyi is right—that sacrificing FORBASE will help stabilize Earth, then not telling them means they still have that.”
“Good call, Captain. You know, the aliens must know we’re hitchhiking.”
“We are an insect holding onto their windshield, trying not to get blown off. They may have noticed, but they don’t care. I doubt there are aliens aboard the Hole. It’s a mining tool, an excavator. Aliens would have turned on the windshield wipers by now.”
END.