For the next six and a half hours, Perry would slowly maneuver to the precise exit point, and Stiles would be painfully aware of every inch of the grueling journey.
He finally gave up and got out of bed.
PERSONAL LOG, Day 21, Year 500, 0100 hours: It’s all down to this. After breakfast, we finally leave Antares; after escaping an unconquerable foe; after breathing life back into a dying ship; after three wasted weeks in space surrounding a sterile, red supergiant star.
It brought us here, calling us with his mighty voice reaching out across six hundred light-years. A thousand stars could have interrupted our fall along the way, but the rival of Mars does not readily release the prey he discovers once captured.
But neither does the animal trapped in his snare.
Stiles paused several minutes, rereading what he just typed. He rubbed the tension from the base of his neck. Rising like a man condemned, he drew a bulb of ice-cold water, drinking half. He threw the rest away, for it did nothing to quench his growing thirst. Falling back into bed, he continued to write.
That fool, Campbell, has spent the last two days fruitlessly searching for a needle in a haystack, but to what effect? I told him he was wasting time, trying to recall that speech-teach crap his father used. No wonder he couldn’t find a likely planet. Everyone knows you can only learn under deep-teach. But no; he clings to that Old School stuff like a superstitious fool. How in all the Colonies could anyone consider him a leader? If we aren’t careful, he’ll be the death of us all ….
Stiles suddenly stopped typing, unable to fight a sudden, but overwhelming, sickness. He hurried to the bathroom, blaming his sickness on a simple case of nerves. Who wouldn’t be nervous? Stiles mused. They’re all depending on me.
Drawn back to his PAD as if possessed, he reviewed his written legacy. He reviewed what he just wrote as if reading for the first time a draft in someone else’s hand. He erased the last paragraph with a vengeance, futilely hoping it would flee his memory as easily as it disappeared from his PAD, but the indelible mark in his mind remained. He replaced the missing paragraph with another.
A hundred times we should have failed, but did not. A hundred times a hundred times I lost hope, but did not waiver. A hundred times a thousand times I’ve questioned my decisions, but they were done for the good of the mission. I have but one purpose: bring this ship back to humanity. And nothing, including my life, can stand in the way.
-Captain Stiles F. Essen, UCSA Sampson K. Perry, T-Minus six and a half hours to jump.
Stiles spent the remainder of the long, chill evening staring at his screen, enmeshed in the silence that had become his companion.
* * *
Jimmy felt totally refreshed in the morning. He took a quick shower—the last one for the next 110 days—and slipped into the fresh CT-suit he requisitioned through the manufactories the previous evening. Yesterday was his turn as ship’s steward, and his final duty of the day was the recycling of the crew’s old jump uniforms. For today, being the most important day of the mission, he added something special to the uniforms; something no one would expect.
Everyone else would find their suits hanging outside their cabin doors, where Jimmy had placed them late last night, but his was lovingly waiting, neatly pressed and hanging in his closet next to his bed.
He zipped the jersey with the formality of an old admiral, and ran his right hand along the left sleeve, relishing the silky feel of the life-giving suit. His fingers lingered near the top, just below the shoulder.
The CT-suit was almost a friend, and would sustain them for the next three months in K-T-space—twenty years of normal space—while the sophisticated suit flooded nutrients into their slumbering bodies. He walked to the mirror and turned his body side-to-side, admiring the dapper view.
He was so proud of his work. “Yeah, Jimmy; you did good,” he told his reflection. “You look like someone that could save the universe!”
He glanced at the wall chronograph and noticed that he still had an hour to go before chow at 0600. That was fine with him; it would give him plenty of time to posture in front of the mirror.
* * *
“So, Jimmy,” Peter accused sternly, “everyone else is here already, and has claimed ignorance. I guess that makes you the culprit.” Peter made a point of sounding angry.
Stiles and Peter joined Henrietta and Ali in the galley a little before 0600. The talk at the breakfast table was on the new CT-suits, which was unusual because it ignored the elephant in the room; their impending jump.
“W-what are you talking about?” Jimmy asked. He looked guilty as sin.
Peter relaxed his stony face and smiled, “The CT-suits.”
Relief washed over Jimmy’s face. He looked at everyone for confirmation, happy he was not in trouble. “Oh.” He started to beam. “You like ’em?”
“I think they’re wonderful!” Henrietta remarked.
“Looks like a monumental waste of time and resources to me,” Stiles threw in.
Applied to each left shoulder was a shiny embossed patch. It was a three-inch wide circle with a fierce scorpion in orange outline framing a burning yellow-red sphere. The creature had a razor-sharp stinger poised over its head and was obviously itching for a fight. Strung along the centerline of the scorpion were a dozen bright points of white representing the stars of the constellation. In the background—occupying the band of space between the bloated body of Antares and the edge of the patch—was a deep star field with faint yellow wisps. Bold silver letters dominated the lower quadrant, spelling out “Antares Rangers.”
“So this is what you’ve been secretly working on these past few days.” Ali remarked.
“Yep. I thought it’d give us a sense of identity.”
“And here I thought you were plotting a mutiny,” Stiles suggested.
“I was,” Jimmy joked, “but that didn’t stop me from designing this in my spare time.”
Henrietta got up and strutted across the galley, modeling the new look. She turned suddenly, like a secret agent ready to strike. “Do I look mean?” she asked.
“No meaner than usual, Doc,” Ali replied. “But I’ve always been scared of you.”
Henrietta pouted. She then flexed her muscles with her arms down low, body-builder style. “You’d better be,” she warned. She made sure her new patch was facing the threatened crowd, like a shield of protection. Everyone but Stiles laughed.
“Well,” Jimmy added, “I figured if we ran across anyone in our travels, we should let ’em know we mean business. Let ’em know we aren’t pushovers.”
Henrietta relaxed her pose and put her arm around Jimmy, squeezing him tightly, “We are a team, after all. Time we start acting like one. I—for one—feel proud wearing this.”
“Me too,” Peter replied. He put his arm next to Henrietta’s, comparing them to make sure the patches were identical. “They are pretty neat,” he added with a hint of a giggle.
Perry hummed, wanting to be included in the new conversation. “Am I a Ranger too?” he asked.
“Actually, you are,” Jimmy said. “I have a wall plaque designed that I planned to hang by the security room, like a squadron symbol. But I couldn’t justify wasting any more resources on it until we get more supplies. But soon as we can, I’ll have it manufactured. That way, it’ll be the first thing visitors see when they enter the ship.”
Jimmy’s response made Perry purr.
As if on cue, everyone quieted down, giving each other the chance to soak up their new identities as the Antares Rangers, a hand-chosen, elite fighting force from the powerful human species.
After a moment of reflection, Stiles broke the spell. “Well, if we’re all done with this silly mutual-admiration society meeting, I want you all to report down to medical in thirty minutes. There’s something we need to do prior to the scheduled jump. And, Null-Grav, make sure you get something to eat; you’ll need it to carry you through the next three months.”
Ali gathered up the d
irty breakfast plates as Jimmy whipped up a quick breakfast. It was time for the Rangers to stop playing games and snap back to the tasks at hand.
* * *
Stiles walked into medical with Jimmy and Ali close behind, where they found Peter lying under the med unit. He sat still as a statue, patiently waiting for Henrietta to position the injector. He looks so vulnerable, lying there, Stiles thought. Stiles had to do everything he could not to look disgusted as he took in the scene. He decided not to bother making the effort. “You two almost done over there?” he asked in loathing.
Peter winced as the medication passed into his body. “Excuse us,” Henrietta countered in annoyance, “we didn’t realize you’d barge in without knocking.”
Henrietta finished the treatment and rolled her chair away, allowing Peter to snap up his jersey. Reaching her desk, Henrietta stopped her motion with an angry, outstretched arm and finally answered Stiles, “Now we’re done.”
Peter slowly weaved away from the med unit and lurched into a nearby chair.
“You alright?” Stiles asked suspiciously.
It took Peter a moment to reply. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. It just feels weird when that stuff starts messing with my blood.”
“Sure; if you say so. Okay, listen up,” Stiles began.
“Oh, not another great idea,” Jimmy complained.
One-two-three, Stiles counted silently. “As I was saying, this jump needs to be perfect, and I’m determined to have us do everything in my power to pull it off. Perry’s still unreliable in my book; much of his memory needs to be rebuilt and his navigation system is worthless.”
“It’s not that bad,” Jimmy argued.
Perry hummed. “Actually, Jimmy, Captain Essen is essentially correct. There is a high probability that—left exclusively to my present abilities—we stand a fair chance of experiencing noticeable navigational errors during the upcoming jump.”
“Shush! Don’t say that in front of the captain,” Jimmy warned playfully.
“Real funny,” Stiles suggested. “So we’re going to do everything we can to help Perry out. To do that, Henry, please make up five syringes with enough epinephrine to keep us awake as long as possible as we transition into K-T-space.”
“What’s epinephrine?” Ali asked.
“It’s only adrenalin,” Henrietta replied. “It’s a mild stimulant; something your body produces naturally when it is alerted. The shots will produce an artificial adrenalin rush.”
“Yeah,” Stiles continued, “exactly. So as I explain what needs to be done, get the stuff made.”
Henrietta flinched at the rude command, but let it pass, ordering up a batch of epinephrine as Stiles explained what he had in mind.
“I want everyone strategically stationed in case Perry needs help. I want fingers on critical buttons, ready to be pushed.
“So, Ali, as soon as we’re done here, I want you in engineering; Jimmy, you go to missile control; Henry, I want you in the forward sensor room; and finally, Peter and I will go to the bridge. Peter will take nav and I will monitor everything else at the conn. Most of us will also be prepositioned for any actions needed after we come out of K-T-space—hopefully with little to no lag—but Henry, your main job will be as we jump. I want you to keep the target star in the crosshairs for as long as you can stay awake; line up the jump as accurately as we can when it is first being set up. That will give us our best chance of exiting at the spot we’re targeting. Everyone, take your stim-shots at your stations, just before we jump.”
“Makes sense to me,” Peter conceded.
“Of course it does,” Stiles said, “that’s why I thought of it. Perry won’t have access to any maps, so whatever you do, Henry, keep us in the groove. Perry, I want absolutely no chatter from you; it distracts you. We concentrate only on the jump until we enter K-T-space. Once the jump engines spin, we go radio-silent, and everything we do is for the jump, and only for the jump. That includes all PA traffic. Any questions?”
“What if something goes wrong?” Jimmy asked.
“It won’t. We need food; without it we all die. Therefore, this jump has to work—period. There are no other options. Perry, the only ‘abort’ order you can accept is from me at the conn, or from Ali, if he sees something wrong with the engines. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Captain Essen,” Perry replied.
“Alright,” Stiles concluded. “Once we confirm jack-in, its total concentration! Let’s do this, people.”
Jimmy and Ali headed their separate ways after getting their syringes from Henrietta. Stiles looked at Henrietta who was still sitting at her desk, wondering what was taking so long.
“You waiting for an invitation?” Stiles asked her.
“No,” she glanced up hurriedly, “I just have a couple things to throw out from Peter’s treatment. They are slightly radioactive and they can’t sit around the living spaces for long. It’ll just take me a couple minutes to dispose of them. If I leave them here, we’ll have a hot spot waiting for us when we come out of jump.”
She scurried around her office, gathering vials and tubes. She glanced up at Stiles, “Don’t worry; I’ll be in the sensor room within five minutes. Go. Do what you need to,” Henrietta suggested with an impatient wave.
“You need any help here?” Peter asked.
“Nah, I know where everything is. You guys have enough to worry about. It’ll just take me a few minutes.”
“Okay. See you at the other end, Arietta,” Peter said. He looked at Stiles, “Ready, Stiles?”
Stiles reluctantly led Peter out of medical toward the lift, leaving Henrietta behind. They waited for the lift in silence like two strangers. Stiles fidgeted with his collar while they waited. “Perry, to be sure you’re not distracted, I want the whole ship at ‘Privacy Levels’ now, except for the bridge and engineering.”
Perry hummed, obviously disappointed. “Complying ….” The background white noises on the ship went silent as a mouse.
“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?” Peter asked.
The lift arrived. Stiles glared at Peter. “Hey, it’s one extra variable taken care of. One less distraction for the ship.”
They entered the lift, settling in on opposite sides of the small space, as if subconsciously wishing the other was not there. Breaking through the awkwardness of the sudden silence, Stiles offered, “You must be getting pretty used to getting injections by now. I mean, with all those treatments.”
“Not really. I hate them,” Peter clipped.
They traveled up through deck two. “Yeah, me too. Here,” Stiles said handing Peter his syringe, “stick that thing in me; I don’t think I can do it to myself.”
Peter took the offered needle and slipped it into an injection port on Stiles’ shoulder.
As the needle penetrated Stiles’ skin, he flinched. “Ouch, that hurts!”
The lift advanced to deck three, the one that was twice as high as the others. “Sorry,” Peter offered.
“No problem,” Stiles replied meekly. “Okay, turn around, I’ll do you now.” He palmed the syringe Peter gave him and took out another one he prepared earlier, this one containing a strong sedative. Stiles counted on all the evidence of the drug working its way out of Peter’s body within the long scheduled jump. Stiles injected the needle into Peter and depressed the plunger.
The lift continued to climb through deck three.
“Oh, I feel dizzy … gravity in a space elevator, huh?” Peter slurred, rubbing his forehead. He wobbled on his feet and slumped down onto the lift’s floor like an empty sack.
The lift continued on its way, oblivious of its contents, and passed through armscomp on deck four. Jimmy was somewhere on this deck, just outside the passing lift. Stiles cringed, hoping the lift would not make an unscheduled stop. He gathered Peter’s limp body and hefted him up on a pair of shaky legs that became weaker by the minute. The lift continued upward toward deck five, to the officer’s quarters, and to an uncertain fate of whic
h Peter was blissfully unaware.
With relief, Stiles saw the deck five indicator light turn on. He arrested the lift and waited forever for the door to open. He peeked out and, seeing nobody nearby, dragged Peter through the corridors to his cabin. With a quick jab of his elbow, Stiles opened Peter’s door, shuffled his body inside the cramped room, and unceremoniously shoved him onto his bed. He carefully jacked-in Peter’s CT-suit and made a rapid exit back to the lift. He breathed heavily from the exertion and paused for a second to catch his breath, as well as his waning composure.
Just before he called for the lift, Stiles heard it coming up on its own from below-deck. Someone’s inside. It must be Henry coming up. He pulled his finger away from the button at the last second, allowing the lift to pass by unimpeded. That was close! Stiles’ heart rate picked up to frantic levels.
Stiles waited a few minutes before calling the lift again. When it arrived, he desperately hoped no one would be inside. The door opened in super-slow motion.
It was empty. Relieved, Stiles entered the lift and hurried to the bridge. He rushed to the conn and opened the station, jacking in his CT-suit at the same time.
“Perry, open the PA for one announcement.”
“You have access, Captain Essen.”
“Perry, give me a brief jack-check status. Is everyone currently jacked in?”
“Yes, Captain Essen, I—”
“That will be all, Perry,” Stiles interrupted. “Henry, I assume you got that.”
“Roger, that,” Henrietta replied.
“Fine. Ali, prepare the engines. I’ll issue the command in a moment. I need to check one more thing. Perry, initiate ship-wide secrecy levels for a moment. I’ll tell you when to open up the bridge and engineering in a few minutes. Ship-wide secrecy levels can be cancelled after we come out of jump.”
Fully committed now, Stiles flew out of the command chair and back to Peter’s room. He opened the door, expecting an army of phantoms to jump out at him. Instead, he saw Peter’s limp body crumpled in his bed, just as he had left him. As quickly as he could, he disconnected Peter’s jack and rolled him onto the floor. Peter fell with a faint grunt. Stiles lifted Peter’s shoulders and pointed his head, face down, toward the exit.