Sleeping Boys

By E.W. Story

When a brilliant scientist goes missing in the heart of an alien artefact, her husband will stop at nothing to get her back . . . A meeting of impossible people in a world that shouldn’t exist.

Love and loss on the edge of knowledge, where anything is possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.W. Story
• Release date: Oct 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995380837

E.W. Story

The initials in the name “E. W. Story” stand for “Evelyn William”. He might also be called “Ed”. Ed was possibly born in Cleve, South Australia, and raised in Adelaide, where he may have studied mathematics. Some propose that he lived in Perth and Darwin as well. It’s not beyond the realm of chance that he has a wife (Liz), two children (Luke and Sarah-Jane), and a dog (Darth). He definitely sold a story called “Cold Sleep, Cold Dreams” that was published in the landmark 1994 Australian science fiction anthology Alien Shores.He is also, almost certainly, the author of “On the Blink”, a story that rated third in a readers’ poll of the Canberra SF Society in 1992. That story appeared under the name “Bradley MacMillan”.He could also be #1 New York Times-bestselling author "Sean Williams".Which is the pseudonym? You decide.

Book preview

Sleeping Boys

Part One

Docking took time and required the full attention of the Captain and AI of both ships. From the initial approach to the overlapping of orbits, delicate learned systems co-operated with human instincts to swing the Matthew Langford Kindler along its designated path, slowly and steadily, until perfectly-matched airlocks clamped together with an audible clang and automatics assumed control.

When the shops were docked, K. Ben Ireland, shipmaster of the deep-space vessel Karl Jansky, sank back into the pilot’s seat with a heartfelt sigh. Even with AI-support, six hours was too long to spend at the helm. He should have delegated some of the intermediary stretch to his second, Oscar Dziadek—and would ordinarily have done so, had the circumstances been less volatile than they were.

But he had felt a need to demonstrate his ability as a pilot—to himself, if not to Captain DeCandia, his opposite number on the Matthew Kindler. He had also felt a need to drown in work, to forget the events of the previous forty-eight hours.

In that at least he had succeeded, although now that the docking was complete the memories returned as vividly as ever.

He waited until the umbilicals had sealed themselves and atmospheric pressure had equalised before rising wearily from the seat and heading down to the embarkation bay, leaving Dziadek at the helm. Head of Research, Rob Parmiter, followed him, looking more like a harrowed diplomat than a scientist. Although tall and solidly built, he radiated an air of uncertainty, as though constantly out of his depth.

Ireland studied him as they walked the cramped, angular corridors to the bay. First impressions were not always accurate, he had learned. Parmiter had proved a supremely capable administrator and negotiator in the time Ireland had known him. And on a superficial level, his grey shipsuit was actually clean—a remarkable achievement after six months confined to the ship.

Come to watch the show, Rob?

The scientist’s grey eyes were trapped in a frozen wince. It didn’t have to be like this, Ben.

Which part?

Both. Parmiter brushed back the grey hair that lay in untidy waves across his forehead. DeCandia’s over-reacting, as always, and Caroline… Well, she always got what she wanted. You know that as well as anyone.

You said it.

Ireland tried to keep the pain from his voice but obviously failed. Parmiter stopped in mid-stride and turned to face him.

Ben, I’m sorry, said the scientist. I should have said something earlier, but—

That’s okay. You don’t have to say anything at all.

I do. Some of us have been avoiding you—myself included—because there’s no easy way to put into words what needs to be said.

I know. Ireland took a deep breath. We shouldn’t have let it happen. Caroline and I—

"No, not that. You can’t fight these things, Ben. No-one’s blaming you for that. Parmiter smiled. None of us disapproved. I just wanted to say that we’re all sorry that she’s gone, too."

Ireland nodded, acknowledging the choice of word as much as the sympathy the research head offered. She was gone—not dead. And it was his job to find her.

Parmiter touched his arm. We should keep moving. DeCandia will be waiting.

Damn him. Ireland struggled to focus his mind on what was to come, forced his legs to move. I can’t even blame him for what he’s doing.

Parmiter simply shrugged, unwilling to agree but unable to deny that Ireland was right.

V. Booter Boutros was waiting for them at the embarkation lock. Even he seemed gloomier than usual, his wide-set, brown-skinned face missing its habitual grin.

The Big D’s been waiting, Boutros said as he tapped the command sequence to ready the lock with fingers that looked more suited to hard labour than hard science. Shall I tell him you’re ready?

No, said Ireland. Just open us up.

Boutros whispered the command, listened for a response from CARMEN, the Jansky’s AI interface, then tapped in manual confirmation. With an audible hiss, the massive door slid aside.

Standing in the umbilical were three uniformed officers: Captain Jared DeCandia and his two Lieutenants, David Weis and Sere Volmer. Volmer was a woman of average height with the cropped blonde hair, high cheekbones and figure of a pureblood Swede; Weis’ ancestry was more diluted, a mixture of Asiatic and Afro-American. DeCandia himself was of uncertain origins: taller still than Parmiter and thin with it, he possessed receding black hair and a nose that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Roman bust.

If the abrupt opening of the airlock doors had surprised the military Captain, he didn’t show it. Waving for his Lieutenants to follow, he stepped forward and entered the Karl Jansky for the first time since the beginning of the mission.

Welcome aboard, Captain, Ireland said.

DeCandia nodded stiffly. Your key, please.

Ireland lifted the necklace from under his shipsuit and unsnapped the silver pendant. A device of entwined metal strands barely three centimetres long and half a centimetre wide, it gave the bearer ultimate command over the ship’s AIs and subsystems. To be used only in the most extreme situations, the key acted as a shipmaster’s badge of rank—proof of Captaincy, if any was required.

Ireland handed the key to DeCandia with the barest of mental shrugs. So what? he thought. That was the deal. If we hadn’t screwed up, then we wouldn’t have had to dock the ships.

If Caroline hadn’t screwed up—

He firmly stamped down on the thought.

I have relayed our situation to St. Sebastian, DeCandia was saying. They will await further information before advising us.

Ireland nodded. In theory St. Sebastian, the nearest military base and nominal overseers of the joint mission, could veto any decision DeCandia made, but in reality DeCandia was in charge—and Ireland knew it. Docking the ships and forcing him to submit was just a formality.

I require a detailed summary of the incident, said DeCandia, adding pointedly: Don’t hide behind the jargon, please.

We have everything ready for you, said Parmiter, filling the silence where Ireland should have spoken. I guarantee you our full cooperation.

Good. DeCandia seemed pleased. "Then perhaps we can begin. David, you will remain with the Matthew Kindler until I