Centurion III

By R. Blair Sands

A small scout is thrown a million parsecs across space, when the huge freighter blows itself into ten billion pieces. Captain Windham lies slumped over in his console chair of the scout's control room, passed out. When he finally recovers, he discovers he is lost.

He eventually finds his way to earth, and with his knowledge, gives earth the stars. The Centurian III is born, and sent on missions throughout the then known Universe.

.This mission is to find out who is swapping stars and planets, and why, and stop them if necessary. What happens when the device that swaps the stars and planets malfunctions?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Blair Sands
• Release date: Apr 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311792075

R. Blair Sands

I began my writing career in 1972, while in Thule, Greenland on assignment with Ford Aerospace. My first novel never made it into print because I considered it too bad to print. Hopefully, I improved along the way. Now I have more books that I did publish, and hope everyone likes. You can read 10 percent of any of my books on Smashwords.com and I invite you to peruse them. Thankfully, people who read the previews, usually buy the book. Hope that keeps up...Thanks everyone...

Book preview

Centurion III

by

R. Blair Sands

Copyright 2013

All rights reserved

Prologue

Captain Farrell Windham

Captain Windham strode onto the flight deck. Cargo is all stowed and those passengers who are coming with us this trip are all safely tucked in. Are we ready to go?

Almost, sir, said the chief engineer from his console. One of the drive veins won’t open completely. It’s looking like it might take a spacewalk to clear it.

Before you get the crew all suited up, let me go out and take a look," said Windham.

The first officer grinned. You’re always looking for an excuse to fly that scout.

And because of how well you run this ship, I never get any chances. Besides, I need to renew my license. You’re in charge until I get back. He did an about face and headed back out the door, busting into a sprint as soon as it closed behind him, grinning, feeling like a boy again.

He climbed into the small ship, the thrill making him feel only a hundred and twenty again, climbing into his first trainer, anxious to put all his simulator training to the test in actual space for the first time. The feeling always sent a tight thrill of excitement up his spine and he couldn’t help but grin even wider, if that was possible.

His fingers quickly danced over the controls as he hurried through his checklist. Open the bay doors please, he said to the bay’s control engineer.

Venting atmosphere, the man replied.

Windham watched as the man worked his panel behind the heavy pane of glass that would protect him from the vacuum of space once the doors were open.

Pressure equalized. Bay doors opening. See you soon, Captain. He waved.

Windham waved back. Be back in less than an hour. He pulled the attitude stick back a fraction, lifting the craft off the deck. As soon as the landing gear light came on, telling him they were no longer in contact with the deck, he flipped the switch that retracted them. The moment they were secure and the light was off again, he gently eased the throttle under his left hand forward. The tiny ship leapt in response and shot out of the opening and he let out a shout of glee as he threw the ship into a tight corkscrew spin, first to the right and then to the left, returning to steady flight after three full turns in either direction. He’d taken to doing that every time he took off. When a classmate of his called it his signature take-off, he decided to make it so, and had made the same maneuver every time he flew.

With the thought of his renewed license far away, he put the small craft through its paces. He wove, twisted, and dodged in an imaginary battle where he was hopelessly outnumbered. He hadn’t had this much fun in a long time, not like this, not since his early days of military training, back when he was only two hundred years old. He and the others in the squad held mock battles against ghost displays. Those battles were supposed to teach them how to lose. He’d won once, being the last one left in the squad, he’d blown up the last ghost simulation only seconds before his ship supposedly blew up. It was only a mock battle, no lives were lost. After his lifeless ship had been gathered into the training vessel and opened up, he heard the cheers and laughter as the entire company had celebrated his victory; one of only a handful in the history of the exercise.

He glanced at the rangefinder at the top of his display and saw that he was twenty miles from the ship. I better get back to business or we’ll never make our connection. He keyed the mic under his right thumb. I’m about to start coming around to the rear of the ship.

Copy that, Captain, said the first officer. We’re watching you on the screen.

So they were watching him play like a kid. He grinned as he brought the scout into a smooth gliding turn heading for the rear of the freighter. As soon as the drive veins came into view, he slowed and eased closer, hoping he could spot something out of order. Of the ten massive engines that emitted a gentle glow of idle, engine number nine was dark, belching a black smoke, and half the drive veins were closed and looking lifeless.

He keyed the mic to report his findings, but heard shouting instead. What’s going on in there?

Captain, the first officer’s voice sounded strained, one of the engines has misfired. We’re trying to shut it down. You better get out of there in case it blows.

Windham glanced at the smoking engine and then at the rangefinder. At only ten miles, he was far too close even if he wasn’t directly behind those engines. He shoved the throttle into it’s stop, but even though the tiny ship leapt forward it didn’t save him from the blinding flash. As soon as the brilliance darkened, he glanced over his shoulder. Expecting to see the freighter, damaged sure but there, he was stunned to see nothing but an expanding globe of debris barreling down on him, carried on the shockwave. The thought of water-going ships breasting waves head-on flashed into his mind. In desperation, he pulled the stick to the right and back, pulling back on the throttle to allow for a turn rather than a spin, but there wasn’t enough time. The shockwave hit him before he’d scarcely begun to turn, and then everything ended.

Awareness returned slowly. With it came a considerable amount of pain. The pain told him he was alive. It also reminded him of the explosion, the shockwave, his ship – gone. He sucked in a lungful of air and discovered broken ribs as the pain picked that moment to send streaks of lightning around to his back and up to his head, which he discovered, was radiating it’s own range of pain. Dizzily he struggled to make his lungs work, though the pain wanted to keep everything frozen, especially his ribs, but he had to breathe. It would have been nice to sink back into the oblivion that numbed all pain, but now the pain wasn’t going to allow any such thing. He was among the living, and he was here to stay.

Desperate to look for his ship, to see how it fared, Windham could only close his eyes and wait for the pain to subside to a more manageable level. He couldn’t even focus on his controls yet; he wouldn’t do anyone any good, not until he could see better than blurred and doubled images.

There was too much pain for actual meditation, but the exercise accomplished its purpose. With his body mostly quiet now, Windham glanced over his shoulder, the move telling him that his shoulder was part of the pain in his side. Outside, there was nothing to see but the far-away stars orbiting his craft in a gut-wrenching spinning tumble. He reached for the controls instinctively, but his right shoulder complained loudly and he couldn’t reach the attitude stick between his knees. Left-handed he halted his tumbling spin and took stock of his situation.

The ship’s timer showed that six days, seven hours, forty minutes, and seconds counting had passed since he’d fired up the scout. Six days! Surely no six days had passed since he’d blasted out of the dock to play at fighting an imaginary battle, since his ship had blown to smithereens. If he hadn’t played, maybe his crew would have had a few seconds more to shut down the engine. If he hadn’t been acting like a kid, maybe his crew and his ship would still be right there, right outside where he could see it. Then it occurred to him, there was no planet either – none. No close sun even – nothing. Where am I?

He needed to return home and report what he’d seen, to help the experts try to puzzle out what had gone so terribly wrong, to go to each of his crews’ families and offer his profound regrets. He wondered briefly if there might be some type of sabotage, but he simply couldn’t conceive of anyone who would destroy an entire ship. Accidents happened, and in space they were almost always deadly, but really so few they were barely worth counting. If the company had enemies, they never let on. He imagined himself before the board, sadly lacking in answers; he wondered if he would get any answers to the questions that plagued him now.

If six days had passed, they would long since have sent out rescue and salvage ships to investigate the blast and look for survivors. They had not found him. Did they know to look for him? Was there enough left of the computer’s core to tell them that he had been outside of the ship, that the bay doors had been open waiting for his return, that a scout was missing from the bay? There was no way of knowing.

His eyes blurred with tears of grief, he reached across with his left hand and punched in the familiar coordinates for home and then stared blankly at the screen as it blinked, No coordinates found, over and over again. Frowning, he shook his head to clear it, regretting the move when it aggravated his shoulder. Carefully, methodically, he punched the coordinates in again only to get the same response. Puzzled, he punched in the coordinates of what would have been his destination and there was no difference in the display. Computer, are you functioning?

Function normal, replied the computer’s female voice. It’s flat, purely functional tone was not reassuring.

Computer, why can’t my coordinates be found?

All points out of range.

All points? Computer, clarify. How can it be that all coordinate points are out of range? Some of them span hundreds of lightyears.

All points out of range, the computer repeated, helpless to give a more detailed response.

Computer, check your data banks. How many coordinates do you have listed?

There are six hundred and eighty-nine thousand coordinate points on file, updated from the main computer eighteen days ago.

Computer, search for each point and alert me when the task is completed.

Searching. Estimated completion in three hours, forty-four minutes, and five seconds.

Windham sighed. To fill the hours of waiting, he set about assessing how things stood. Whereas he had scarcely given his checklist a cursory glance when he’d jumped in to check the trouble from the outside, now he went through it with methodical care. With ten small attitude boosters both on top and underneath the scout, and four larger ones, two on either side of the nose and two on either side of the tail, he clicked through each one looking, not only for the green light that said it was operational, but also watching out the canopy to see if it pushed the ship like it was designed to. With green lights across the board, he turned to the internal checklist. Thanks to his diligent crew, he was fully stocked with food tabs and water. Air scrubbers had been freshened less than six months ago, and the fuel cells were fully charged.

His checklist complete, he gazed out at the glittering stars. His check of the attitude boosters left him in a slow tumble, but there was little to do but wait until the navigation computer had completed its search. Irresistibly and out of habit he looked for familiar patterns in the stars that drifted by. When he thought he’d found the third one only to decide it wasn’t quite right, he smiled to himself. Finding patterns in the stars came second nature to him. He could always find patterns in the stars; finding the right patterns would be difficult. He halted his ship’s slow tumble, intending to make a more disciplined search, when the computer came back with its findings.

Search complete. All points out of range.

I still don’t believe you. Computer, by what parameters do you make your search?

A point must match at least seventy-five percent of the listed details on file.

Computer, list those parameters please.

Radiant amplitude, rotational velocity, rotational attitude, galactic drift speed, size, proximity to other suns, orbital bodies yes or no, orbital bodies how many, orbital bodies range, orbital bodies speed.

Windham sighed. Computer, what percent were you able to find?

Nothing within range matched better than twenty percent.

Windham sighed again. Lost and adrift in the vastness of space. He’d never felt so small before. He swiveled his chair to look into the belly of his tiny ship. Two steps down and in three strides, he would be in the tiny cubical that passed for the bathroom. Along one side of that narrow hall was the bench that would be his bed for the next year, longer if he rationed his supplies. Just now he was badly in need of a shower and some time under the med-lamp. If he was bleeding somewhere inside, he wouldn’t last a year.

Computer, pilot down time. You have the watch.

Affirmative, replied the computer.

Some hours later, Windham was much refreshed and no longer in pain. Only some ribs had been broken and they still ached some, the torn muscles in his shoulder and the cut on the side of his head were now only a memory. Now, it was time to figure out how to get home.

Computer, pilot on board.

Affirmative.

Windham buckled into his seat and took the controls in hand, but which way to go? He tried again to find a familiar star configuration, then he got the idea to flip the ship over and look again, but then he had to accept the fact that there was no way he could see something the computer couldn’t. That far out of range, anything he would recognize would be located in the microscopic dust particles of stars he could barely see, certainly nothing closer, and it would more than likely be warped beyond recognition. There was no further question remaining in his mind; he was lost. He could not see a way home; he would starve out here all alone and no one would ever know what happened to him.

Then he saw it, right there in front of him, hanging there like a ruby. Computer, that red star directly in front of us, zero vector thereabouts. How long has it been there? He’d seen it when he first looked for configuration, now it looked brighter, maybe bigger."

That star has been distinguishable to the mortal eye as a red star for two days, three hours, nine minutes, and thirty-nine seconds.

You don’t need to count down to the last second. Adding ‘computer’ would alert the computer that the spoken words were to be responded to. Telling the computer not to count down to the last second would have been pointless, so he didn’t try. Computer, point our tail to that star. We now have a direction. Whether it’s the right one or not remains to be seen, but it’s better than a mindless drift.

The ship spun around. New vector marked.

Windham punched the throttle all the way forward once again and the small ship leapt ahead. Computer, mark this direction of travel. I want to stick as close to it as possible. If it took him six, or seven days now, to get here, with luck, he’d be back home in as much time. With luck, but it was something to look forward to.

Course marked and locked.

Thoughts of being in the arms of his lovely wife carried him through the day that simply refused to pass any quicker than the timer on his dash would allow. He remembered asking her to marry him. She was so young and fragile then, only a hundred and sixty-seven, barely more than a girl in knickers, only just blossomed into the svelte woman she was today. Now, his oldest girl who reminded him so much of his mother, was taking those same steps. She had her eye on a young man only seventeen years her senior. At their last supper as a family, she had announced that she was certain he would ask her any day now. She was only a hundred and sixty-five. Ah they grow up too fast, children. His boy had just entered the academy. One day soon, he would be testing out the simulators, intent on being Just like my dad, he’d always say.

His warm family memories were suddenly interrupted when the proximity alarm went off and the view screen came to life on his canopy showing him a massive hunk of rock as a glowing outline. He would have preferred not to changed anything, but his course vector line took him directly through an end of it, so he swerved around it, giving it a wide birth. Asteroids were notorious for being accompanied by much smaller rocks that the proximity scanners might not pick up in time. Sure enough, more dots showed up as he passed, but he was able to avoid them, and then he returned to his original course. As soon as he was back on course, the vector lines disappeared from his canopy.

When the canopy was clear again, it occurred to him that he didn’t want that line to be his only means of keeping track of where he was or where he had been. Computer, show me where we are.

Once again lines appeared on his canopy window. This time there was a complex grid around his point. Each outer point was accompanied by an ID marker. Good girl. Computer, clear the canopy. The glowing lines disappeared leaving behind the perpetual nighttime of space.

Computer, how far have we traveled?

We have covered point two lightyears since course vector was locked.

Frustrated at how slow they were going and anxious to be home, Windham thumbed the button that would separate the two halves of his throttle lever and pushed the right half into Vortexian drive. With nothing to see in the dull gray outside, he stared at the timer as it counted off five minutes, and then he returned his throttle to a single lever. With a slightly new view out there, he searched once again for something familiar.

His eyes raw from too many hours of searching, he rubbed at his face and realized that his hands were trembling. Rationing was one thing he fully intended to do, but he hadn’t eaten since just after his shower. He swiveled his chair to the right and retrieved a food pill and a cup of water from the bin at the foot of his cot. He looked at it, thinking of resting, and listening to some soothing music, but that very thought made him realize that he’d neglected a different kind of searching. Audio signals. Audio and visual signals were broadcast into space, intentionally or otherwise, around the clock, twenty hours a day. He might end up picking up something ancient but it would be sounds from home and he could follow them, track them. Once again filled with the excitement of possibly finding something familiar, he threw himself into the search.

He scrolled through all the known frequencies, but he couldn’t pick out anything over the background hiss of the occasional hot star or throbbing pulsar. Still, it was his best shot of finding home. Ultimately he scrolled slowly from one end of the spectrum to the other and back again, and then he broadcast a distress call, which included his name, the name of his ship, his planet of origin, ending with, I’m lost. Find me. Then he would boost into Vortexian drive for five minutes and do it all over again.

Hours later and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He set the scanner on automatic and informed the computer that it had the watch, then he wedged himself out of the pilot’s seat and made his way to his narrow cot for a soothing, refreshing stretch of meditation.

And so