Ocean in the Sea Page 41

  Herman added his own touches to the vision from what he remembered on approach to Freedom-3, that being five rings running over a central pillar. The exterior was entirely white, designed to make it visible. Solar panels ran around the northern and southern ends of the central pillar. The rings hosted bumpy protrusions and gaps, probably separations and major complexes of some kind. Lewis included them in his visualization, and watched them take shape until it was perfectly congruent with what he remembered. Looking at the northern and southern ends, he could see where he’d place the power plants if he were the designer.

  “What are the odds,” he stated mentally, “That the power plant to this station was built with a fatal flaw that at this very second will fail to operate correctly, and release massive amounts of radiation?”

  He pushed and felt a bizarre sensation creep through him. The usual feedback mechanism, the ‘shiver of nerves’ was missing. Without a physical body, the push produced a kind of synesthesia releasing a muddle of colors and smells and tactile sensations. It was not unpleasant, nor easily mistaken, simply different.

  More. There needed to be more of a threat. Even if there was a radiation release, or the cooling system failed, Arsus might not attribute that to him. He had to send multiple messages – additional failures. One event could be accepted as within the laws of probability. Many could not. Bend the odds, and Arsus would know for sure it was him.

  “The oxygen recycling system. What are the odds that will fail? And the heating and cooling systems. What are the chances they’d fail at the same exact time?”

  And the computing system – Randuu would be controlling it.

  “And what are the chances that the main computer will suffer some kind of catastrophic malfunction? What are the chances that the failure will block Randuu from the system?”

  Herman pushed hard and let fly. What were the odds he’d made the right decision? That was an important question, but it didn’t change reality. Whatever he’d done had been done. The cards would now be presented, and all bets were off. He had no input, but if his output were good, something would happen. Until then, there was nothing he could do but wait. Betrayed. Alone in the darkness. Left here to rot.

  “You are not alone,” said an unfamiliar voice. “But you may wish you were.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Alarms blared and panels flashed for attention across Freedom-3’s command center. The Colonel swiveled the ceiling-mount of his center chair, looking expectantly at the row of uniformed technicians. Heads-down, they pounded away at keyboards and scanned their screens, searching for the problem. Markus Barokinte waited, clenching his fists nervously. He could already hear Admiral Wright’s asking him what kind of a station he was running up here. He could literally feel his reputation slipping away.

  “Coolant leak confirmed,” said one of the technicians. “It’s a major breach in the primary seals, Sir. Conduits 12 through 24 have ruptured. Secondary systems refuse manual activation.”

  “Main batteries are at 98 percent,” announced another engineer. “Circuits have switched to solar charging. We're okay on power.”

  Wonderful, the Colonel thought bitterly. The station could operate indefinitely on solar, but without the reactor there wasn't enough energy for laser defenses, rendering them vulnerable to missile attack. If this was intentional… “Scan for incoming targets,” he ordered.

  After a few seconds, the scanner technician shook his head. “I’ve got nothing unexpected on any wavelength in threat range Sir. If there’s anything out there, it’s using stealth. Too bad we never got to install those Russian mass-detectors.”

  The older engineer sitting next to him rubbed his bald head with one hand and pounded his chair's arm with the other. “The reactor coolant’s been evacuated to vacuum. The pile’s exposed and temperature’s climbing. Sir, we've got less than ten minutes before we lose the core.”

  “Comms,” shouted the Colonel, “get me the reactor room NOW!”

  “I’ve been trying, Sir, but there’s no response.”

  “Keep trying, and inform Falcon. They’ll have to delay docking. Someone turn off those damn alarms. Pruite!” he called to his head engineer. “Is there any way we can force coolant into the reactor?”

  “I’m trying, Sir, but there’s a… oh shit.” Screens and consoles throughout the command center flickered and went black. “Computer problem,” finished Pruite. "We just lost connection to the mainframe. All CPUs spiked at once. Some kind of overload. Maybe an EMP."

  “Do we have communications?” demanded the Colonel.

  “Negative. Radios are down,” shouted the female communications officer. “And there’s static on the intercom. It couldn’t be the array and the switching station too. They wouldn’t both fail at once.”

  “Backups?” shouted Barokinte. What the Hell was happening to his station?

  “They should have automatically kicked in, Sir,” said Pruite. “The mainframe has triple redundancy. This has to be sabotage.”

  “Sabotage of the computer, communications, and the reactor? And the backups? All at once!?” The Colonel shook his head. “It would take an army of spies. It isn’t even possible.” He hissed through his teeth. “They must be related somehow. Something we didn’t think of.” Clicking a button on his chair’s panel, he grew more frustrated. Nothing worked. “Sanders, Barton, Jones, take portable radio units and get to the reactor, the computer core, and the communications relay. Find the engineers and give them the radios, then get your asses back here.”

  “Sir!” shouted Jones.

  Barton and Sanders grabbed radios and followed Jones out the main hatch. Once in the hallway, Barton suddenly stopped and looked confused. “Um… what are we doing out here?” He scratched his head and looked at the radio in his hand.

  “Don’t be stupid,” snapped Jones. “Get to the communications relay. I’ll take the reactor. Barton, you’ve got the computer core.” He squinted at Barton. “What’s wrong with you, man? You having a brain-fart? Take them the radio and get back here.”

  “Right,” muttered Barton. He moved off down the corridor muttering to himself. "I must've... blacked out or something."

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Back in his own mind after possessing Barton, Xanatos blinked and moved his jaw. He looked through the red emergency lights toward Arsus who stood before the windows staring down into the operating theater. Doctor Eignholn had just finished closing Michael Garibaldi’s skull, leaving the rest to the anesthesiologist.

  “Arsus,” said Xanatos. “It’s worse than we thought. The reactor’s melting down, but communications are out too, and the main computer has shut down. Seems like everything’s going wrong at once, and even the backups are failing. It’s got to be sabotage. I mean, what are the odds?”

  “Indeed,” grumbled Arsus. “The odds are the problem. Tanandor is accessing the Attistar through the probability interface he gave Lewis. The sabotage is a message. If Tanandor wanted to force-jump us, he could have fired the orbital adjustment rockets and sent us into re-entry. He wants our attention. He’s not ready to jump yet. We still have the advantage.”

  “Why isn’t he ready to jump?” asked Shanzea.

  Arsus gestured to the remaining half of Valruun’s bricked body where it lay in the seat behind Shanzea. “He must not have access to the Conduit interface. Or he can’t undo Valruun’s callbacks. Either way, I’m betting he needs you to unbrick Valruun.”

  “In other words,” smiled Xanatos, “our trap is working. Maybe we’ll finally win and Arsus can stop being such a dick.”

  Jenny abruptly leaned forward and sprayed vomit all over the plexiglass windows in front of her. Arsus stepped aside to avoid it. Sitting next to Jenny, Shanzea put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders and pulled her hair back out of the way. Jenny moaned. “What did you give me Arusus?”

  “Same thing as Lewis. A Saiben-D neutralizer and a neural sedative. Sorry I didn�
��t inform you earlier, Jennifer, but we needed Lewis Herman’s memories of his time with Tanandor. And it was worth knowing. Shanzea can fill you in. We’re waking Lewis now.” He looked at Shanzea. “Bring Jenny to the operating room and meet me there. You as well,” he told Xanatos. “Senjiita, stay until Evaeros returns with the radio, then join us. With the mainframe down, Randuu will decant. We can expect her soon.”

  Arsus turned away. Phasing the row of chairs behind him, he stepped through and picked up Valruun. In the low gravity, what remained of the little man didn’t weigh much. Arsus threw him at the observation windows. Valruun’s bricked body passed through and dropped out of sight. Arsus followed, jumping through the windows and the lower wall. Falling to the floor below in the 0.6 Gs of the station’s gravity, he bunched his legs to absorb the impact.

  Hearing the clanking crash of Valruun’s solidified body against the deck, the anesthesiologist and the two medical assistants looked up and saw Arsus step out of the darkness surrounding the ring of lights above the surgical table.

  “Deputy Director!” Dr. Richards appeared relieved that someone in authority had finally appeared. He pointed to the flickering green screen displays behind him. Numeric boot sequences and error data scrolled from left to right. “Computers are offline. What’s happening with the reactor? Everything is on backup.”

  “Relax,” said Arsus. “It’s just a drill. Systems will be up soon. He stopped at the edge of the table and stared at Lewis. “How long before the subject is lucid?”

  “Any second,” replied the Anesthesiologist. “He can probably hear you now. The paralytics take a bit longer, but he should be able to talk in a minute or two. He may be confused, though, so give him time. Coming out of general may produce a short period of hallucination as the brain readjusts. It’s particularly prevalent among CRAPPERS. They’ve been known to become violent after surgery even with Saiben suppresants. The restraints will keep him from attacking us.” He frowned and turned to the female medical assistant next to him. “Check the restraints, Margaret.”

  “Are there any other adjustments you need to make?” asked Arsus.

  “Uh… no,” said Doctor Richards. “Probably not. I mean, it’s best if I stay in case there are complications. If he’s in a great deal of pain I may need to…”

  Arsus waved his hand, cutting him off. “Pain is not my concern. Keep in mind the subject is here for interrogation. I need all of you to leave the room. I have confidential questions to ask. If there are any problems, I will summon you.”

  “Of Course, Deputy Director.” Richards flipped a switch on the intravenous drip machine and checked the heart rate monitor one more time as his two assistants moved toward the exit hatch. “Doctor Eignholn and I will be just outside,” he told Arsus.

  “Make sure the hatch is sealed,” said Arsus.

  After they were gone, Arsus marched to the gurney holding the corpse of Starman First Class Kingery and wheeled it over next to Lewis. Positioning himself behind Lewis’s head, he leaned down and spoke softly.

  “We’re almost there, Lewis. I know you’re angry with me. I know you think I betrayed you, but listen carefully, this is important to all of us. Tanandor jumped with you. That means you’re linked. Remember when he said it was a tandem jump? That’s not something any of us can do, but we’ve seen Tanandor do it before. It’s just another one of the questions we’d like answered. What access does he have into the Attistar? How does it work? But, more importantly, we need to know what he’s doing. What are his intentions for us? What are his ultimate goals? Without these answers, Lewis, we have no purpose beyond mere existence, and that isn’t enough. Paradisians need a purpose. Tanandor knows this. We need a goal or we might as force-jump ourselves into an afterlife buffer. We’ve lived too long, and we’ve sacrificed too much to give up.

  Tanandor, if you can hear me, then I want you to face us. I want you to jump into the corpse next to me. We need answers. We deserve answers and we’ll follow you forever until we get them.” His voice dropped in pitch. “You destroyed my world. You took my people from me and scattered them across the ring. They were MY people. I was responsible for them. You must answer for that. And for the destruction of Paradise.”

  The hatch opened and Shanzea entered with Jenny, helping her walk with an arm around her shoulder. Xanatos trundled in behind them, pushing his huge bulk in the slightly lower gravity and sweating profusely at the effort. Finding a place near the operating table, he sat down on the floor and pushed his back against the wall while shoving another of the food tubes into his mouth and sucking down its contents.

  “What did you do to Lewis,” croaked Jenny.

  Arsus raised an eyebrow and looked at Shanzea. “You didn’t tell her.”

  “I told her about the memories,” said Shanzea. “I didn’t tell her exactly how you extracted them.”

  “A minor surgical procedure,” Arsus smiled at Jenny. “He’s fine. Nothing was altered, and he should be awake soon. If not….” He pulled a silver tube from his pocked and gazed solemnly at it. “Then we’ll try Saiben-D. The neurons in his host brain are adapted to it. Should be like sliding a key into an ignition. We’ll give him a few minutes.” He peeled back one of Lewis’s eyelids. “Wake up, Lewis. I can see your iris dilating. I know you’re in there. We need your help. You’re the only one who can finish this.”

  The Fourth Lesson

  Into the blank nothingness, Herman’s thoughts sounded as real to him as if he had spoken them aloud. “Who’s there?” he demanded of the voice that had spoken.

  Out in the darkness, shadows within shadows slid across each other, and Herman withdrew his perceptions in defense. It was his own mind generating this illusion, not him. They were phantasms and lies. He was hallucinating and, devoid of input, this type of distraction would only get worse. Unless it was something else. Something from outside. That was important to know.

  And then the paranoia kicked in. Could be, should be, might be…

  He reigned it back. Paranoia would take him to a place where nightmares waited – subconscious illusions fucking with him just as his inner mind had always fucked with him. In his dreams and his nightmares, he and his subconscious mind had never been on good terms. It had taken years to reach a truce, and the current situation represented too much of a temptation for the beast within. Their old bargains might no longer apply.

  He checked his boredom level and found it sadly lacking due to the phantom auditory input. In retrospect, he really should have counted the seconds. Now he’d pay the price, and he could be out of cash. Forget about loans. His subconscious could kick his ass if it wanted to. A point worth remembering.

  Unbidden and bereft of any volition on his part, a light appeared in the darkness, and like a curtain being drawn on a medieval stage, a scene unfolded. At least this was something new. Boredom levels decreased as tension rose, but a threat was not immediately apparent.

  The floor was clean and white. A ring of lights hung from the ceiling illuminated a muscular male body on a surgical table and a bank of computers and medical machines chirping and flashing. On a small table next to the man lay a bloody basin filled with filthy surgical tools – several different kinds of scalpels, a saw, and shards of bone flakes still fresh from removal. The subject’s partially shaved head was mounted in a stereotactic cerebral frame, an object entirely too familiar. Herman stared at the face. He knew this man. He remembered it from looking in the mirror.

  Michael Garibaldi.

  A shiver ran up his spine, alerting him to the fact that he suddenly had one. Hands and feet too, and a torso. Was the perception illusion? Maybe. He had to be careful here. If his subconscious was generating this shit, it would be unpleasant. The lessons of the inner mind were seldom merciful. But this time was different. He wasn’t simply Lewis anymore. He was Herman.

  Looking past the glaring ring of lights, he traced the hanging mount running up to a vaulted ceiling. The mounts held additional cameras, speakers and oth
er sensors. Around the chamber’s upper edge, the reflective sheen of dark windows provided a clue as to where he was – or at least what this place was – an operating theater. Lewis had seen medical procedures in such places on his own world. Mainly for cosmetics jobs detailing experimental techniques on lab animals. A few times on corpses. Was this a place of healing, or a theater of pain?

  Moving to the table, Herman examined Garibaldi. Staples bound fresh linear cuts over his scalp in perfectly rows. Neural surgery, but to what end, and why was his subconscious mind showing him this? He half expected Garibaldi to reach up and strangle him. Jump scares – his childish inner mind had been rife with them.

  “Staff Sergeant Michael Edwin Garibaldi,” said a voice from behind. It had a strange aquatic warbling quality, a sing-song verbiage in some impossible language, but Herman heard it in English. Automatic translation from thought to hallucination and back did nothing to remove the accent. “Green Beret,” the voice continued. Lewis looked down on Garibaldi as he listened. “A combat veteran of countless NACSAC campaigns. Three more in Africa, and a brief stint in occupied Spain. Awarded so many ribbons that his rack mount required reinforced fabric on the inside of his uniform to keep it from sagging off his chest. A hero and a patriot. More lethal men are rare.”

  Lewis spun around to confront the speaker. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He felt his legs balance themselves reflexively, ready for violence. This was where dream became nightmare.

  The speaker was humanoid, but not human. He stood roughly seven feet in height, and his skin, what Herman could see of it, was pale blue. What clothing he wore consisted of ornate crystalline plates hovering just over his body in curved segments matching his lithe outline. Dark blue lips lay too far below a small nose, and above them large almond shaped eyes peered beneath a prominent heavy brow devoid of hair and extending several inches higher than a human’s. In one of his webbed six-fingered hand, he held a long staff of white crystal tipped at the top by a hovering sphere of glowing light. The sphere flickered with continuous internal motion.