The Derelict

By Anthony L. Williams

The Derelict is a space saga centering on a stellar skirmish and a meeting with an unseen menace known to be heading for the Milky Way Galaxy. United States Naval Battle Group One intercepts this strange contact miles beyond the galaxy and finds an immense, creeping derelict spaceship billions of years old. It is not until they board this dangerous, burned-out hulk that they discover they are trapped there by murderous diabolical forces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 1, 2000
• ISBN: 9780595725403

Anthony L. Williams

Anthony L. (Tony) Williams was born in Bridgeport Connecticut in 1958. Life, and a love of science and the literary arts, has molded his writing to an inimitable style all his own...Join him! The journey begins with his first: A Gift From Beyond!

Book preview

THE DERELICT!

Anthony L. Williams

Writer’s Showcase presented by Writer’s Digest

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

The Derelict!

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Anthony L. Williams

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase presented by Writer’s Digest an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

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ISBN: 0-595-12937-4

ISBN: 978-0-595-72540-3 (ebook)

Contents

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CONTACT!

The cosmos rolled smoothly to port like a fluid display of perpetual radiance. The star clusters formed a random spatter of pin-pricked light which in places cascaded downward into a waterfall of continuous white and dispersed gases blossoming in cosmic fury every eerie color of a galactic rainbow.

This was what the human eye revealed of Star Chart 0-234-6-1; galactic point Sierra-Tai. Nothing was claimed here by man as Sierra-Tai was a pristine region of space, not yet touched by even the American Advanced Explorer Corps of the NASA.

Captain Masao Ogawa saw the magnetic disturbance now coming into view from the left of his Forward-Looking Scanner. His charge, the armed heavy merchant Japan Space Explorer League Bushido Maru now lie at the extreme fringes of the Milky Way. Infinity itself lie beyond this magnetic barrier.

Strange that sealed orders directed his vessel to this silent, dark region beyond all man has ever touched; it was fifty light years to Yosemite—the nearest Earth outpost. And he was ordered here merely on circumstance—a deep-space docking with the great luxury platform TDSDS Shirane’.

The two were to join for four days for what Ogawa considered a silly interlude of useless frolic at the edge of creation. For his superiors this was to be a momentous occasion—theirs was a vision of lofty ambition, to step in newfallen snow where man’s footprints had yet not tread. To Ogawa, this was merely another scheme orchestrated by Command to wear good people and the priceless machinery they drove.

Pomp, circumstance, and the uncertainties at the edge of the galaxy do not mix; and the sumptuousness of expensive cuisine combined with the delicate discernment of flowery kimono seemed just as far detached….

The fools.

Time to link-up, Mr. Homa?

Three hours Earth Standard, sir.

Ogawa sighed long, vociferously while watching his chronometers, and during that time, as the galactic boundary drew near he went through two vessels of steaming tea and several operations folders filled with memoranda for his signing. They were stacks of boring documentation which kept his ship running on schedule and on budget. As ordered, Homa relayed to his captain news that their target vessel was within visual normal; and pitted against the starry boundary was the stream-lined shape of the Herculean Shirane’ of the TOA Deep-Space Delivery Service.

Both pilots extended their customary salutations as their wayward vessels slowly aligned for docking; and after a successful operation, the human compliment intermingled in the vastness of their two great star cruisers.

Ten bells later Ogawa thought deeply while lingering within his private quarters when his wife of twenty years, Hiroko, met him for the third time since docking. She noticed first of all that her husband did not have his formals laid out. This she did for him while Ogawa’s stoic eyes surveyed the colorful ionization two thousand kilometers beyond his stateroom clearview.

You must hurry, Hiroko cheerfully chirped.

A long, drawn out grunt was all the captain managed in accord. He laid his teacup to his bedside desk and sat wearily to the low bed. His wife, her semi-full lips glowing a bright rose bud red, eased herself stiffly to his side. Ogawa watched with some detachment Hiroko’s delicate meticulousness from the clean white tabi on her small feet to the neatly done gold knot on the tyings of her obi sash. Her knees were drawn tightly together, yielding to the fabric of a dark blue kimono which fitted her form like a full silken sheath. Her coiffure glowed jet black, straight and unmistakably Tokogawan and her husband realized at once that within her personal tonnage somewhere there was stashed a professional hairstylist; one knowledgeable in the finery of antiquity. And unharried for the many hours it took this person to boast, albeit modestly, his refined craft.

But what of it? Ogawa inwardly sighed. A rich wife with expensive tastes, looking as though she had just shuffled from a Tokogawan teahouse; while just outside their rice paper confines there raged a zone of unearthly ionization millions of miles deep at the edge of the galaxy. And nearby, his full-dress ensemble added an additional tinge of absurdity to it all with its golden ropes, substantial shoulderboards, colorful ribbons and jeweled pins.

Yet his wife beamed silently, wanting to hear from him some approval of her time and trouble to get things right for them both. Ogawa stood slowly and barely audibly grunted, You look good. Hiroko blinked her long, dark lashes slowly in silent response.

When you come to the party I have a surprise for you, she said.

Ogawa soon found the surprise his rich wife had brought along with her expensive tonnage onboard the huge transport, Shirane’, together with her still unseen hairdresser. It had been four years since he last saw his son, Toshi. Ogawa smiled fleetingly, then he and Toshi embraced tightly, and extended handshakes and bows amidst cheers and clinging glasses and rattling silver.

The two stood front center an expanse of fine tatami matting on Bushido Maru’s Forward Promenade Deck. A sectional dome shielded the antlike festivities on this massive upper level from the cold, inhuman vacuumed void beyond. And through its thick transparency the gases and ionization marking all civilized man has ever known swirled onward like illusionary mists in a sorcerer’s orb.

The straw coloring of the tatami contrasted subtly to a virtual explosion of silken color. Diminutive dainties shuffled to and fro, intermingling like doting dolls removed from glassed cases, entertaining their staid male counterparts who wore stylish uniforms of white, gold and business blue. The animated colors all orderly mixed, exchanging salutations, bowing politely, chatting, trading business and association cards—all in an established ritual determining rank, status, and power in their tight astronautics establishment. All never strayed far from banquet tables arranged in a great semicircle, from which swirled a virtual olfactory profusion of culinary exquisiteness.

Ogawa had just finished his second rice ball, very conscious of Hiroko’s occasional monitoring his liberal eating habits. Yet for him, the delicacies proved hard to swallow—he was constantly interrupted by duty and establishment which forced him to pose for pictures and gather pocketfuls of tiny white and gold cards presented to him by prominent people from lofty places who watched him closely. And it was not until two hours and six brimming cups of rice wine was Ogawa finally persuaded to become a human being.

Presently he found himself truly enjoying his eldest offspring and his son’s friends from the halls of academe. In his jocularity and slurred speech the humbled captain scarcely realized his elbows nudging aside tiny dishes and delicate tea cups in his uncultured yet harmonious attempt at lauding his son’s nuptial suitability to the giggly young maidens in waiting. And as the sake’ flowed both father and son embellished the lies of times long past, for in the commotion after the initial chilliness thawed warm the two melded once more to push aside the trials and the miles which for years had kept them apart; as an adoring wife and mother occasionally looked on.

The soused one in the dark dinner jacket and crooked spectacles finally ceased his rancor on the caraoke—the last amateur talent of that long, joyous evening. And in his partial inebriation Ogawa at last came to reluctantly amend his stubborn convictions. Ceremony, kimonos and the uncertainties at the edge of creation do indeed seem to blend quite well.

For now the culmination of the evening’s festivities was at hand with the opening of the divided doors to ‘Maru’s chilly No. 1 Delivery Deck to the right of the Promenade. Here, a carpeted area was prepared for the guests of honor. Two young men, both nineteen were to pilot a lone probe through the ionization zone two-thousand kilometers beyond the ‘Maru’s nose.

Like the steel jaws of a soporific leviathan the access doors parted, breaking in half the great chrysanthemum painted center as the two doors vanished into the overhead and deck, unveiling ahead the rapier like probe which pointed directly towards the Promenade Room like a glaring broadsword. On either side of the craft’s needle-like nosecone both young explorers rigidly stood in starched jumpers. Their heads banded in white and crimson hajimaki both boys drank their ceremonial rice wine in a solemn reflection of divine days of old. The women standing by began to robe themselves in huge expensive furs to fend off the powerful chill creeping into the Promenade from the Delivery Deck. Then, with blessings of family, rite and establishment both men eased on their matching helmets.

Masao Ogawa stood nearby, flanked by Shigae Watanabe, Captain in Charge of the TDSDS Shirane’, and the two watched impassively the young men climb ladders to either side of their craft as the lighting on the deck switched from soft white to battle red.

Yet Ogawa was the first to notice the stars beyond the pressure porthole to the right slip suddenly to port. The stars slowed, then once again began their rapid slip to port. Together both star ship commanders faced one another, each rationalizing in his own mind the strange developments causing such actions by the current watch captains on the Bridges of both interlinked vessels. Now both ships were descending. Then that stopped. In silent damnation Ogawa questioned the wisdom of Sachio Homa, his commander on watch at that time. How he would authorize a change of position without Ogawa’s specified orders. How both young watch captains could coordinate the movement of close to ten million cubic meters of spacecraft so quickly—a maneuver to send shivers down the spines of even the most experienced of pilots as Watanabe and himself.

Why has Homa not summoned me yet! The alarmed Ogawa raved silently in his alcohol bemused mind. He knew that if he called the Bridge, or showed up there without Homa’s beaconing, that the latter would immediately be demoralized; shamed in the eyes of his subordinates and peers—yet what both commanders were exercising was tantamount to criticality. They deftly performed an exacting, dangerous maneuver, even though no emergency had been called.

Many in the ballroom watched the stars yaw and roll while murmuring and gossiping to themselves as they stood in their colorful Tokogawan garb, to the expanses of straw tatami beneath their stocking feet. The near and thoroughly inebriated still cradled their long-necked bottles at cluttered, dwarfed tables. The giggly young maidens had stopped their sing-song prattle and watched disquietly the concerned faces around them. In a near fit the short, fat Watanabe stomped from the Delivery Deck back into the Promenade, across the tatami without changing his shoes. He hustled directly to the comm podium to scream at his Bridge, when over shipwide comm a calm, feminine voice called:

Captain Masao Ogawa, please report to the Bridge; Code Red. Immediately afterward a second feminine voice chimed:

Captain Shigae Watanabe please report to the Bridge; Code Red.

Watanabe’s portly bulk hurried for the Blue Exit. Ogawa huffed as he ran for the elevators passing his wife almost without noticing her. As the doors parted, he cast the now silent ballroom a sudden glance. Hiroko was surprised if not overjoyed when Ogawa beaconed his son follow him to Command; Toshi obeyed at once.

When the doors slid shut, neither man saw Hiroko ever again.

The airlift to Command was a seemingly prolonged one—they rode within a hollow sphere driven downward by metered, high-pressure air vectored on demand by computer control throughout miles of transport tube. This particular tube led straightway 700 feet to Bushido Maru’s panoramic Bridge. Both men remained silent throughout until the Bridge unfolded. An attendant on duty automatically presented to Ogawa the status board, telling of ship readiness and watched as her captain brushed her arm aside refusing the clipboard. She tried not reveal in her eyes the disturbing thoughts in her mind—even young Sachio Homa tried not betray that his captain was hopelessly drunk.

Yet inebriated or sober the rules stated that Ogawa be there; there was a dire emergency of some type in progress and his presence at Command was crucial. He watched unsteadily, casually across his shoulder and was pleased that Toshi was standing at rest, observing with a critical eye the Operations floor beneath him.

Watch captain, give me the nature of the emergency, Ogawa almost growled, functioning on near instinct due to the debilitating effects of the rice wine cup.

Sir…. Homa found it next to impossible to mask his overpowering dread but he hardened his 23-year-old resolve and continued onward in a nearly restrained voice, Sir; there is something out there heading this way at light factor eight.

"Originating from which stellar group, Mister Homa?’’

That’s just it; sir it’s coming from out… his voice waned into a whisper when Homa ended, there…. Intergalactic space.

Ogawa’s failing eyes narrowed perplexedly.

It has a guidance system of some type which is locked on to our nose.

He thought deeply and held within his next question; then he finally murmured, A, projectile?

Possibly, sir.

"But, fired by; whom?"

Sir!

Ogawa turned about, staggered, and was righted by his watch officer. His mind in a bewildering dither, he snapped at the middle-aged, fastidious woman in charge.

Shields!!

Homa released his captain and dove to a console, opting force barriers before the woman sitting there could move.

Shields will not stop it, sir. It is small and traveling at a fantastic rate of speed, a specialist whispered.

Effect emergency separation now, mister Homa. Give both ships maneuverability!

Homa whipped his swagger stick at the comm deck and a melodic, feminine utterance pealed tersely shipwide: Rig Now. Rig Now. Now rig for emergency separation…. This command repeated itself thrice. Immediately afterward the electronic horns toned for that specific maneuver energized and blared throughout blocks of decking onboard both imperiled vessels. Immediately afterward Bushido Maru’s Asteroid Splitters ripped ablaze from four points top and bottom of the ship’s front and the four dispatches converged into a blue-white point beyond the eerie galactic barrier—enough heat energy to melt diamond-15 targeted that spot and yet….

Sir! A-Splitters have failed! The, the object still approaches.

Captain! Object has just penetrated Outer Boundary!

Instantly the Collision Alert annunciators sounded a harsh, penetrating warning throughout both ships still in rig for fast separation; and in it all a cold-tin synthesized voice cried in portentous refrain: Collision Imminent…Collision Imminent…Collision Imminent…

The wailing annunciators, the tinny-taped voices, the flashing lights, the dashing uniforms, all infused into a surreal non-world in Ogawa’s inebriated, sweltering mind. And in this wrenching mire of anger and emotion Ogawa sensed his entire life in a effusive montage of passing time. Years; decades of study and rigorous training culminated in a commandership aboard one of the most prestigious exploratory vessels of Earth. Strange that JSEL’s establishment tabulated figures and ledgers using rank and status to parlay their offspring to high seats of the rigid Ruling Class; with faceless pawns as himself hinging in the balance, running errands with scores of men and tons of titanium12 to points distant to work their elusive wills.

…Collision Imminent…Collision Imminent…

In a silent, personal rage Captain Ogawa ignored the callings of his harried crew. He found himself transfixed in the moment, hatefully pondering the inane cruelty in it all—for once; for once! He could be a simple man, but no. Inexplicable meanness had to be the ugly ruler of the hour.

What impels men to leave their solitary yet safe world to venture into the vast reaches of the timeless void? Into regions of the unknown where he plainly has no business being?

Again the A-splitters ripped ablaze, firing a fruitless burst into an increasingly narrowing field.

Ogawa scarcely sensed the florescent lighting spin before his dilated eyes. Hands steadied him as he slowly slipped to the floor. Ashen faces appeared on the fringes of cognizant thought.

Strange how he allowed a powerful corporation to literally dominate his soul as his family silently stood by and passively looked on. Strange the number of times he failed to thank Hiroko for her years of tireless devotion and love, and her faithfulness while he worked on end the overbearing will of an establishment a thousand parsecs distant. Strange that the more he drove the less they did for the overall good of mankind….And in that solemn moment Ogawa finally realized that he truly loved his wife far more dearly than that soulless hollow of titanium which kept them so far apart, and which drew life slowly from the mortal bodies of men.

…Collision Alert…Collision Alert…

Footprints in newfallen snow the profoundest of planners dubbed their strange mission. Now that newfallen snow, after hard-hearted deception has revealed the precipitous sheet ice there below; and the gurgling undertow seething beneath.

How many times had he failed to tell Hiroko how much he loved her? How in that grave moment he could count on one hand the times he had kissed her and told her how beautiful she looked. How in that grave moment the Bushido Maru became an insignificant hunk of tin masked by the overpowering visages of a small, middle-aged woman; and the timeless memory of a bright, full moon through a torn rice paper screen in a thatched shack on a feudal parcel. How in that grave moment amid a swirling sea of concerned, ashen faces that the only one glowing clearly was that of young Toshi Ogawa. It lingered hauntingly in Masao’s memory; as the last Earthly thing he reached out to touch.

…Collision Alert…Collision Alert…Collision Alert…

-Three Parsecs Away in the Bartolian Vector-

Visions swirled in the slumbering mind of Antoine Ide—(E-day) slowly alerting his body that his unnaturally deep sleep was to be presently ended. Movement. His body moved from a position it had lain for three solid months. His eyes opened; he was a cognizant man now; oxygen slowly displacing the warm, pure nitrogen which had swirled about his covered nakedness for so long.

His eyes focused on collected dust on his face hood as it did so many times before; then, without warning a burst of metered air separated the coffin-like vessel in which he lie. In time Ide found he could move his appendages and he rolled upward and stretched, feeling as if he had just awakened from a short nap.

Was he human? Or merely an insignificant component of a technological mollusk which thrusting its metallic sinews throughout his entire being. The tubings lie all around. Transparent. Noxious. Throbbing life-giving fluids of variegated colors, even the deep crimson red of his own blood. They lie in his lap. Injected into his hip. Up his urethra. Stuck into his neck, chest, his temporal lobes. And in his dry throat he actually tasted the machinery which blinked and clicked and hummed and throbbed all around his pod.

Commander Ide realized his own horrific sight of thick, fleecy hair and full beard—an unshaven, uncultured three-month growth nurtured of a variety of nutrients pumped through the serpentine umbilicals curled all around him. His fingernails had grown and curled over the tips of his fingers; and he knew not whether to arise or lie back down and ponder the alternative.

The approaching sound Ide heard was a familiar one. He looked to the left to find Caretaker at the side of his sleeper pod. The device drew in closer and Ide loosened the banding about his arm to retrieve the information the robot device had stored within its complex protein brain.

Well, Caretaker, let’s see what you’ve got, Ide sighed, and placed back to the knee-high robot’s server tray the tumbler from which he had just drank a cooling refreshment.

Caretaker’s forward-looking cameras gave the face of the device’s spherical headpiece a grave, sadden expression; and a narrow, rectangular mouth emitter made this expression all the more so. What he learned made the lean Nigerian commander surprised if not alarmed, thereby making his detachment from his lifepod a swift one.

In Sanitary Ide removed the sleeper growth from his head, hands and feet, and dressed immediately into a clean set of thermal command blues supplied by Caretaker. He hurriedly clambered a ladder one level to the cramped, eight-station Bridge of the eighty-thousand-ton ore freighter, New Horizons. At the nav station he punched in the vector codes supplied by Caretaker and gradually the spattered constellations before the darkened Bridge slipped evenly to port.

Ide returned downstairs and stood silently over Sasha and gently, with a brush of his glove removed the gossamer film of dust from the transparent face hood of her pod. A slow smile brushed across his now cleanly shaven face in his beaming at her gentle loveliness even in this unnaturally-induced sleep. Her youthful face appeared a vision of warmth, infused by swirling ribbons of heated nitrogen which permeated the confines of her dimly-lit pod.

It was Ide’s decision to awaken Command, then the 50-member crew; and Caretaker looked on as he commenced the oxygenation process of the five Command sleeper pods.

Twelve hours later Command gathered at mess in the ship’s galley one deck below the Sleeper Deck. The six gathered in the lighted Blue Area fore of the darkened, expansive crews mess now devoid of diners and silent, before the ever-present spatter of stars beyond the Lucite which surrounded the deck in a transparent semi-circle.

Beneath a fine silk-screen of a placid gazelle standing vigil in the foreground as its herd chewed peacefully on the brown grass of the Serengeti, they enjoyed a meticulously prepared dish of lamb over rice and vegetables with wine, while their music played softly in the background. As is customary, no business was discussed then, so it was not until the after dinner sherry was poured that the Command began to speak.

Sasha slowly returned the decanter to its golden bucket and watched her husband lovingly as well as admiringly as he reared back in his great recliner beneath the broad silk-screen.

Astro Maruba Mobato, a 25 year-old Yoruban, head of ship’s astronautics was the first to speak. His boyish face taut, it refused to sprout even a follicle of hair. Mobato seldom watched one’s eye when he spoke but often chose to look askance or down. He spoke only when having something to say and these comments were always succinct and scathing, or muddled in so much arcane jargon.

Commander Ide, there are no usable planets anywhere along this new vector so why have you activated Command mid-journey?

"…Yes. But it is four years between Steersman First and Master Steersman."

I’d be an old man before making Fleet, Sub-Commander Moesta Carebo snorted.

His huge, dark fingers idly spun his sherry crystal on the tablecloth.

Of course Sasha here will make Captain years before her old man; won’t she?

Antoine’s demure wife chuckled quickly through her nose and looked downward to hide her grinning teeth in her settled show of extreme modesty. Ide pivoted his gray high-backed chair to the right.

Mister Agorbe. Ship’s status?

Standard Underway. Blowout in number two Environmental Condenser, but the ‘droids can handle redirect until we reach home. To be safe, though I’ll use a retrograde core to button up the system.

How many men will you need?

I can swap ’em with two techs—

Commander Ide. Why are we twenty-million miles off course, and headed straightway for the Quadratic Neutral Zone! Mobato again interjected.

Carebo reared back in his huge seat and began twirling the great golden command ring on his finger. His broad chest deflated and he watched his reticent commander for a reply to their cosmologist’s insistence.

Mobato finally looked up from his cherry, his circular spectacles reflecting dim lighting from the darkened overhead. Three others placed their crystals away. Not relinquishing his drink, Ide pulled a slip of paper from inside his jumpers and handed it to his wife. Agorbe’s wife, Marella looked at Sasha as she unfolded the slotted printout.

A distress signal; from the TDSDS, Sasha explained readily. Apparently the Japanese are in some sort of trouble; somewhere.

The Japs can handle their own affairs, Carebo impetuously snorted.

Answering his indiscretion indirectly Ide asked Sasha, Can you identify the Designator Code?

She slowly shook her head.

May I see it, please, Mobato asked abruptly. The sheet was passed three seats down to the thin Nigerian and he barely glanced at the ten-digit international code.

"It’s the Shirane’."

An audible gasp and murmuring immediately stirred among the others.

"The; Shirane’!" one choked.

Yes, Ide confirmed.

"How could something that big be in trouble?"

That’s what I’d like to know,Ide replied immediately. Notice the position,Mister Mobato.

She’s 51 from galactic center—just beyond the Perjul Arm.

What in the devil is a transport doing way out there—

It’s apparent, Mobato immediately replied to Agorbe’s query. The Japanese were preparing to leave the galaxy.

That is unexplored territory out there.

Precisely. The cosmologist pivoted his high-backed chair slightly to his left.

"Commander; have you tried raising the Bushido Maru?"

"According to Dispatch Restricted, the Bushido Maru was the closest Explorer Class heavy cruiser in that sector. I’ve tried Scan Alert on all three major dispatches but failed to raise either ship."

"That is odd. Why would Tokyo send the Shirane’ way out, past the Neutral Zone without the big lasers of the ‘Maru in escort?"

"The two usually journey within a solar day, flank speed of each other. How can the Shirane’ issue a distress beacon without the Bushido Maru rushing to her aid is beyond me," Agorbe added.

That too I’d like to know,’’ Ide said while refilling his crystal. The Bushido Maru has to be somewhere near; Tokyo never dispatches its transports without military or explorer back-up."

"However, postulations are academic now; seeing as that we cannot raise either vessel. And only a distress signal emanates from the Shirane’." Mobato’s dark eyes rolled in contempt toward his commander and he bitterly added, "And seeing as how we now navigate an intercept vector, without prior permission from Lagos Astro—"

Mister Mobato we are too far out to ponder the politics of Astro!

Interlacing his fingers the astute cosmologist continued, "Commander Ide, may I remind you that this vessel runs on fuel. Expensive fuel. And the crew. The crew. Their unions will slap a penalty on the owners of this ship so fast—It is not in their negotiated contract to vector rescue missions. And we both know whom the owners will sue to recover their losses!"

Commander, I am forced to agree with Maruba, Carebo exhaled. He slowly placed his fat cigar back to its geode ashtray—the tray being a souvenir Carebo took from the grottos where their mining machines carried out silent, surremptious operations from their previous planetary layover.

Ide and crew broke nine signed treaties to steal the enriched minerals holed in deep bins beneath their decks.

Carebo reared back in his plush chair, two blinking CRT monitors on either arm. The glow of the screens cast a deep blue shadow on Carebo’s massive chest. His beard was well-trimmed, grayed and clipped handsomely. His face was classic African with full cheeks, a prominent forehead, a broad nose and full lips. Third in the pecking order beneath Sasha, the 50 year-old Ibo was a jolly fellow with a biting wit and a personal coffer chock full of the bounties stolen from dozens of civilizations having had the misfortune of dealing with him, his ragtag crew, and his brethren on planet Earth afar.

For once, he added.

His commander broke a smile across his muscular face.

The Japanese have a thriving space industry; well-established planetary colonies; a huge fleet of big ships and a powerful navy. And more importantly…money. Yes, gentlemen, money. Carebo ended on a beguiling, "So then; why should we zip to their uh—unnegotiated aid?’’

Because it is our solemn duty to do so as pilots and as spacefarers.

Mobato unloaded his chest and reared back in his chair.

"A Nigerian with a conscience, Commander Ide?" Carebo jokingly gasped.

"May I remind the Commander that we are not prepared to assist multitudes of dead or dying people,’’ a mission specialist said.

"Shirane’ has a compliment of six-thousand. What can we do with six-thousand dying Japanese? Serve them sake’!"

We do what we can, Maruba, Ide sighed.

"And even still, why should we?"

Carebo turned to the others whose faces showed dimly in the subdued lighting and soft candlelight.

Wasn’t it their prime minister who said of there being no need for black men in space—

She didn’t say that really. Her true sentiments were lost in translation, Ide explained. "And even if she did,she had reason to.Seeing as what happened during the Asa Kaze incident."

This stirred a round of chuckles.

Captain Mugabe is a scoundrel and a thief! Mobato snapped, his teeth tightly clenched.

He’s Nigerian; what do you expect! Carebo laughed, rearing back with his cigar and sherry.

What, what was that he stole from the Nips? A consignment of tennis balls?

Laughter blossomed throughout the until then subdued group. Even the stone-faced Mobato managed a sudden chuckle.

Two-hundred metric tons of tennis balls for the Jap colony on Basorius Regular. No net-jumping this season, boys. The laughter gradually subsided to an occasional cough.

Yet, commander this does not release your responsibilities to the Nigerian government, Mobato persisted, to an audible groan among the group. Ide turned down the music by a small knob on his chair arm module, and rubbed his chin as his cosmologist droned onward in his usual comprehensive analysis of Ide’s moves, from a tiring governmental standpoint.

Responsibilities, Mister Mobato? Watching the silk-screen above Ide’s head, Mobato responded,

Of never vectoring this vessel from scheduled course without prior written permission!

Maruba, neither Lagos Astro, nor the Nigerian government runs this ship. I do. And with, or without their permission I will not simply ignore a deep space distress beacon! I won’t do it, Astro, I don’t care what you say.

I must agree with my husband, Astro. Sasha interrupted. Our ignoring the suffering of others would set a disturbing precedence, with Antoine at the pinnacle. Our intentions have already been sent via Dispatch R and we should be receiving a reply within the solar day. During that time Establishment will knock the political shuttlecock court to court while people on one, perhaps two interstellar cruisers suffer and die. Establishment will squabble and bicker the financial feasibility of doing something we all know is mandatory for them to do!

Establishment! Ide caustically snapped through his teeth, an embittered stare fixed on Mobato. Astro removed his circular spectacles and tossed them to the tablecloth.

"Commander Ide, I have no trepidation of my affiliations with the Lagos government. I am paid, by these people, to look after their interests on board this vessel. To see to it that when you do steal, that Nigeria gets its silent share of the loot. To see that government money does not silently slip into the pockets of mendacious space commanders such as you. To see mainly that you ragtag bunch of starbucks don’t go renegade!"

Of course, Astro! Of course! Carebo laughed. But even Lagos Astro can be bought. Just ask Captain Mugabe—

Those three representatives will be prosecuted the moment Mugabe returns to Earth!

Relax, Astro! Carebo laughed with a tap on the geode of his smoldering cigar. "The fellows merely held out long enough so Mugabe would sweeten the pot to their liking. After all, they are Nigerian. And any Nigerian can be bought. Carebo blew a hearty mouthful of smoke into the air, then he clenched the chewed tip of his cigar between his great, grinning teeth,and his eyes fixed on Mobato he tersely echoed, Any Nigerian."

Mobato slowly returned his glasses to his face.

And what of the Americans? Agarbe asked.

The United States has on station two major Battle Groups in this sector, Mobato informed. "However it would take their fastest platforms, the Texas-class battleships Amarillo and Fort Worth, weeks to rendezvous with the Shirane’ from her present position. At our speed now, we can expect to arrive on station in five solar days. And if we encounter mass casualties, the United States must assist us; therefore we should make our plans accordingly.’’ Mobato’s face pivoted Ide’s way.

"Seeing as how we will rendezvous regardless." Mobato returned the sherry bottle to its golden bucket.

Ide contemplated, almost meditated his next move on the chess board as he and Sasha sat head to head at their floor table. The pieces were fashioned of ivory and marble in the form of African kings and queens and their caste charges from obscure times long past.

Hiding painted steel which comprised their great stateroom was a full panel of rich woods surrounding the conjugal commanders. Upon the paneling hung in orderly arrangement were native artifacts from a continent of heritage and richness light years removed from the silent, cold vacuum shrouding the outer hull.

The commander slowly placed his hand on a pawn which was detailed into a Yoruban tribal runner, when the annunciator to their dimly-lighted chambers lowly chimed.

Lagos on the horn, sir, Carebo announced.

Thank you, Mister Carebo. I’ll take it in the Tank.

His communiqué to the Astronautics Bureau in Lagos, Nigeria was a brief one. The Councils on the big continent wanted to know why in blazes was the New Horizons so far off course and heading straightway for the Neutral Zone. Ide’s explanation of the Shirane’ incident and his reference to transcribed log information already sent via Dispatch Restricted did little to quell the hot subspace beamed from a tiny planet somewhere among millions so far away in the icy void. The orders from Command were explicit and succinct: Return on course and continue to Earth.

Ide said he would comply.

He returned to his runner and moved him one square ahead.

Four hours later Ide met Mobato at the commander’s chamber door. Mobato’s dark eyes were ice cold behind his bottle-like spectacles, his muscular neck drew taut. Commander Ide, you will place this vessel on course to Earth at once!

"No, Astro. Not until I find out what is wrong with the ‘Shirane’."

You mean you disobey a direct order from Command in Lagos!

"Mister Mobato please lower your voice! My wife is asleep! Now listen to me. Good.

Lagos will steer us on another vector four days from now in the same direction in which we are heading.

Mobato’s eyes narrowed perplexedly.

Experience, Astro. Wait four days. You’ll see. Ide bit off a slice of cantaloupe and closed his chamber door in Mobato’s face.

As the solar days dragged onward the fiery rhetoric emanating from Lagos gradually waned from all three major dispatches. Repeated callings for Maruba Mobato to seize command from Ide, Sasha and Carebo, and redirect the vessel were summarily shunned stiff-armed by Agorbe and the rest as an illegal order. But now, the space-waves stilled as Nigeria planned the type of political sleight of hand old timers such as Ide and Carebo reasoned she would. And, four solar days later Lagos beamed subspace via Dispatch Restricted:

…TO COMMANDER ANTOINE IDE, CIC NEW HORIZ….stop…

"Proceed directly on course, across disputed region known widely

as Quadrated Neutral Zone to galactic point 0-234-4-L Sierra-Tai…

stop…Investigate and assist to outfitted ability reported distress

callings from Platform 3/015-8c, known widely as TDSDS SHIRANE’…stop…

Advise situation immediately upon arrival on station, utilizing

Dispatch R….stop…stop…stop…stop…stop…stop…stop…stop…

Ide felt it in the pit of his stomach; how Council in Nigeria actually bartered the pleas of a distraught country anxious to learn the fate of two of her most prestigious deep cruisers.

Shoving the Red Borders into active file Ide pondered bitterly the reasoning of a government obliged to demand payment for a duty it was law bound to provide. Discretely he watched Mobato across the gray-black console banks in the electronics complex known as the Tank. And he realized that the inscrutable blinking bio-circuitry inside that thick African skull of his was registering a fat, juicy screw job from a government he tried so hard to represent.

The rhetoric demanding Ide change course back to Earth was no more than a ploy sent omnibeam via the three main dispatches, uncoded and unscrambled, so that any vessel with ears could intercept it. The Japanese heard the demands and accordingly offered Nigeria money—a lot of money to keep the New Horizons on course to Sierra-Tai.

Also Mobato knew that the indiscretions of his government did something which neither Japan nor Nigeria really wanted—and that was to alert and possibly dispatch the United States Navy to the region.

-On Station Point Eros; Galactic Point Sierra-Tai

Ide reared back in his great command seat at center the eight stations surrounding him in a cramped semicircle on the darkened, red-lighted Bridge of the archaic New Horizons.

Mister Carebo, give us an actual ahead.

From his station Carebo lowered the twelve blocker segments which guarded the Lucite surrounding the ship’s forward end. The windows revealed, directly ahead a solid, swirling phenomenon of purplish red, green-blue and vivid gold.

Sierra-Tai, Marella marveled as she placed her hands to the top of the Systems On-line bank surrounding the front. She leaned forward, her face nearly touching the window. Sasha Ide joined her to the left, bending her elbows to the panel top.

All stations have reported in, Commander. All crews on line, condition Zebra Critical in effect, ship-wide.

Very well.

Mister Agarbe slow to half speed.

Slowing to five sectors, sir. ETA one hour.

Astro; long range scan?

Still no significant activity ahead, Commander. We have pinpointed the distress signal. It is moving, erratically, along a defined course at a slow rate of speed.

"Can you lock on and confiqurate the Shirane’ itself?"

Tried. but it is impossible to do so.

She has been destroyed then, the commander murmured in damnation.

"Any readings of the Bushido Maru?"

None, sir.

My God. Moesta, at the first sign of trouble, get us the devil out of here!

The smoke of Carebo’s fat cigar floated like gossamer tendrils of pungent crimson on the red-lighted Bridge. Sweat had collected on Mobato’s spectacles while he tenaciously watched the battery of screens and switches and digitals all around his cramped station. No less than ten chronometers beat simultaneously the few remaining seconds calculated for contact.

Commander; readings! Dead ahead!

Full stop, Mister Agarbe.

On station…Now! Carebo reset all chronometers. Ide suddenly rotated his huge chair about to face Mobato.

Report, Astro.

"Sir what I read is a massive field of debris ahead. Ranging now…Metallic and composite pieces; organic matter—lots of organic matter. Fluids of varying consistencies. High levels of radiation and particulate matter—sir what we are recording is the whole-scale wreckage of both the JSEL Bushido Maru and the TDSDS Shirane’!"

Destroyed, Ide whispered.

Correct sir. There is nothing left.

All those people, he murmured, then asked aloud, Any survivors, Astro? Any at all?

"None, sir. Not even a, a bird.’’

The commander thought silently for two full minutes as his fellow officers watched on, awaiting his orders. Then Ide drew in his breath and murmured while staring straight-faced ahead,

"Moesta; send the following via low-level dispatch, omnibeam, non-scrambled:

Have arrived on station, Sierra-Tai, Point Eros—

Commander Ide, I must protest! Mobato screamed as he jerked off his glasses and dashed before Ide.

"Are you sure you know what you are doing?" Carebo gutturally croaked.

I know precisely what I am doing—

I don’t think that you do, Mobato snapped.

"And why are my orders continually being questioned the moment they leave my mouth!

"You’re talking jail time, mister. For us all!"

"Mister Carebo I’ve been to jail before, and I am hoping to go there again!’’ Ide stood stiffly and his head bobbing he paced the floor." And again, and again, and again—forever! Until our government changes its way of thinking!

"I want everyone with eyes and ears to see and to hear for themselves so that our government can’t distort the truth for its own political gains. Be advised. Every dispatch; every message; sent from this vessel shall be sent via Dispatch Friendly from now until we dock over Lagos!’’

Ide reached across Carebo and set the transmission banks to the desired settings and rubbing his forehead contemplatively he gravely murmured,

"Arrived on station; confirmed both vessels in question obliterated; no known cause of destruction. Televised imagery will be sent via low level dispatch within the solar hour.

Stop.

Ide’s third officer sat silently, his eyes fixed on the swirling smoke of his ash tray.

Will you send the message? the commander growled.

Good. Then I will.

He reached across Carebo but Carebo caught his arm.

I’ll send it, Carebo reluctantly agreed. His commander stood down and brusquely regained his seat.

Mister Agarbe; ahead two-point-five millisectors. The engineer tersely murmured the repeat. Moments later Mobato stood beside Ide’s chair and drawing next to his temple whispered,

"I’m not the cold, insensitive wretch you think I am, Commander; and in all fairness I know you will agree that I am not really a snitch for the Nigerian government. Many things Moesta and you do are simply ignored by me so that we can work together effectively. This gross aberration of protocol, however, shall not be ignored.

Be advised, Commander Ide. I intend to make a Command Log entry; citing you with articles 9, 10, 12, and 18 of the Aranius Convention Code of Nigerian Space Law—oh no, Commander; you won’t be getting off easy this time.

"Yes, Mister Mobato. You do that."

Sir debris dead ahead—

In a heavy slap a viscid tendril of black oil lashed the upper deck! Particles too small to be seen peppered the outer shell like shot from an erupting barrel.

We’ve just entered the field of debris, sir.

Full stop, Mister Agarbe.

Agarbe called the repeat.

Mobato was back at his station peering intently into his multicolored screens; Ide’s eyes narrowed slowly as he watched the tons of darkened, suspended material gently drift past the forward floodlights of his vessel. Referring to the oily mess across his

deck windows he asked,

"What is that stuff?"

It is an agglomeration of synthetic lubricants and; and human blood.

Sir…we wouldn’t dare venture deeper into this area.

I don’t intend to, Astro.

Thinking deeply he pivoted slowly to his left.

"Marella, turn on the movies; give ’em a point to point scan so there will be no doubt as to the fate of both ships.

Mister Carebo; stand by to transmit; on Friendly, wide carrier, unscrambled.

Yes sir, his third officer exhaled.

Marella, give ’em a magnified actual and three sets of infrareds, then let’s pull chocks and leave this devilish place…Mister Mobato.

Sir?

Tac-rep?

Nothing on Ranging, sir. Whatever did that damage out there is gone for good—

Let’s hope it stays gone, Astro.

In a wrenching lurch Mobato leaped to the floor! The Command Deck darkened suddenly and half the sensing devices on board clicked off line! At that exact same moment the entire ship shuddered in a deep, harsh electronic pip.

Mister Agarbe; Ship’s status!

Ship holding steady, sir.

Mister Carebo, all shields at maximum intensity! Raise them now, man.

As ordered, sir.

Mister Mobato—

Ide stood stiffly and rubbed his temple slowly. He pivoted his chair about and rested his arms and head upon the top of the back.

Astro; what hit us?

Sir, information sketchy due to equipment overload. But in essence what we just experienced was a pulse beam of some kind. Mobato removed his spectacles and wiped slowly his sweat-stained brow. His eyes narrowed while listening intensely to the tiny plug in his ear.

Sir, according to the Tank, the disturbance just experienced was no more than a simple radio beam of 1500 kilocycles sent via a four-trillion-watt carrier.

Gasps of astonishment blossomed throughout the command.

That is of course, impossible, Carebo choked. His huge hand was poised over the pulsating red button on his right console—the button being a direct override to the main thrusters to lob the ship into Hyperspace Drive at the first sign of trouble.

Astro, explain!

I have done the best I can, sir. From somewhere outside that field of debris a signal was beamed directly at us.

"Outside the field!"

Yes sir.

Can you pinpoint the source?

No—

Commander; the crews are calling in.

"Marella, report the situation, then tell them to clear that damned comm! Tara; give Marella a hand with Visuals, please."

Moments later the exact same phenomenon occurred!

First the expansive hull rumbled ominously in a rapid shudder; then the curious transmission itself rolled across the ship like an electromagnetic tsunami in that unearthly high-pitched double pulse; a pealing, electronic, WEEP! WEEP! which caused scanners to phase and breakers to pop. Easy, Easy, Ide whispered soothingly.

"Sir; the Tank has relayed to me an update on the signal and its source. True, the signal is Amplitude Modulation—"

Who would be using ordinary radio way out here?

No one. But basically the signal is harmless to ship structural integrity.

And its source?

"That is what’s amazing, sir. The signal originates coincident with the Shirane’s distress signal—at a point a million miles beyond this debris field, bearing 322 tack niner, moving away at a slow rate of speed."

Is there some, type of device the Japanese have that can cause this, this radio disturbance—

No way, sir. No way. Whatever the device, it’s totally alien.

I.…See.

Also, there is a time interval which the Tank estimates is established. To the millisecond the time elapsed between the first and second transmission is twelve solar minutes.

Ide stood slowly from his chair and rubbed his clean chin while staring at the oily substance clinging to his reinforced windows.

Have you a conjecture, Mister Mobato!

"Sir, I believe that this device has something to do with the destruction of both the Bushido Maru and the Shirane’. I believed that all danger is passed. And lastly I believe that it is well worth our while to seek out the device, study it, and if at all possible to recover it."

Recover it!

Yes sir.

Ide hummed lowly in thought.

"Moesta, you have the Comm. Should any criticality arise, do as you see fit until I return.

Astro, Sasha, Katella. Meet me in conference.

As Ide passed him, Carebo caught his arm.

Antoine…ah, as commander of this vessel you will see the time to convey to the relatives of the crews and passengers aboard both ships, and to the people of Japan, our most heart-felt condolences on this, this most heinous tragedy.

Staring straight ahead and unmoved Ide murmured bitterly, "A Nigerian with a conscience, Mister Carebo?"

"You must overlook my rhetoric at times sir. But I had no idea—"

No, Moesta! Neither did I.

"Sasha, I need an update on the status of the Tarsier."

Ide watched his young wife’s leopard headband fitted neatly over her combed and parted jet-black hair while her slender, adorned fingers rapidly roved the terminal keyboard. There was a terminal tie-in to the intricate silica-carbon banks of the Tank complex one deck below the conference room where the computers there configured, updated and prepared all operating systems of the one-man, five-ton grabber probe commonly called the Tarsier.

The conference room was dimly-lighted, the long hardwood table covered in the dust veil of non-use. The polished-wood walls were adorned in a modest array of African and Egyptian paintings of antiquity and ethnic handicrafts some authentic to the earliest dawn of man.

"Sir, the Tarsier can take on fuel at your command."

Commence fueling of the probe. Duration set at your discretion.

Katella was already at work at a nearby terminal, programming the Tarsier’s Astrological Navigation System for its anticipated mission. She informed Sasha that her course would take her directly across the debris field to the origin of the Shirane’ distress signal. Sasha nodded slowly while listening to her husband’s and Mobato’s instructions.

Your priority will be to locate, and record, and if at all possible to retrieve the device which transmits the pulses we have just experienced, Mobato said.

We did come here on a rescue mission, did we not?

"Sasha, your leaving this vessel is strictly voluntary. If any menace arises, you will be our last concern; we’ll have to maneuver to protect the ship, even if that means leaving you here. So, if you have any reservations, any fears whatsoever—"

"I’ll steer the Tarsier to its destination, Antoine, and do as Maruba asks, if there are no survivors." Her eyes switched objects.

"Survivors, Mister Mobato, not transmission devices shall be my priority.

Yet at any rate we won’t find anything by sitting here.

In a rush of surging hydraulics the elevator stopped in its well and both sets of doors rolled aside. The only corridor on this, the lowest deck led forward to a rounded pressure door stained in rust and radiated in stress cracks. Florescent lighting blinked on in sequence from the elevator doors to the pressure door some 100 feet away, drowning in white light this cold, usually deserted space. They walked ahead beneath a dreary, rusting overhead cluttered of peeling girders, dusty piping and seeping fluid accumulators. The space lie directly beneath the Horizon’s massive ore bins now heavy of an enriched ionic mineral stolen from the foothills and grottos of the barren Riias Basin on Iranius Class 11-M; Land Mass 8.

Ide, his wife, Sasha, Katella Agarbe, and the roving, vigilant Caretaker arrived at the door and the commander ordered it open. Immediately the ponderous shell unplugged itself and rolled aside hydraulically. Lighting automatically switched to a darkened red.

Inside the opened cell the probe sat silently. From a slender tip the 25-foot long ship widened dramatically to a set of clipped wings and broad, swept vertical stabilizers. A set of rounded, outwardly-canted ventral strakes completed the overall hull configuration of the compact explorer probe. And seeing it, amidst the darkened, bent plumbing and pockmarked bulkheads of its holding cell, Sasha could experience her deepest hidden apprehensions slowly creep to fore. Nervously she checked her mission pack for contents.

She wore a tigers’ tooth charm about her neck for luck and protection. Deep space lie ahead. She zipped her jumpers up to her neck against the piercing cold of the Tarsier’s, holding cell, and she pulled her leopard-skinned headband farther down her forehead. She finally released her husband’s hand and climbed aboard the cramped grabber probe.

No sooner had Sasha laid to her stomach did the vehicle come to life. Turbines slowly spooled up with their characteristic whines. Lights clicked on casting multi-colored shafts through increasing clouds of carbon dioxide and blown dust. Ide nodded to Katella and the two quickly departed the noisy cell. The pressure door swung close and squeezed inward amid the swirling clouds within the cell. The two watched Sasha through a circular porthole in the door. On the vertical stabilizers of Sasha’s probe a white light illuminated, revealing an applied transfer of a tarsier squatting wide-eyed and alert on its arboreal perch in an East Indian forest. Caretaker remained inside the holding cell alongside the probe and its sole female occupant.

Presently an alarm shrilled throughout the corridor and the lighting dimmed dramatically. The rounded door grabbed tightly to its recess as pressure bled rapidly inside the holding cell. Frost formed on every inch of the cell; which thickened immediately to layers of snow, then finally to hardened ice. Temperature within plummeted from 40 degrees to a minus 655 Fahrenheit as the doors beneath the ship cracked and parted unveiling a virtual sea of stars and swirling galactic gases. Then amidst wisps of carbon dioxide the Tarsier and Caretaker were jettisoned from the bottom of the New Horizons in a low burst of air. The bright blue of Sasha’s thrusters flashed against the ice of the holding cell before the doors closed behind her.

Commander Ide returned to his seat on the Bridge Level and peered ahead at the floating wreckage. The shrouding ribbon of blood and oil which before plastered the windows was now gone; cleaned away by scrubber androids commanded by Caretaker. The small robot device itself stood vigil on its magnetic pad like a sapient figurehead leading onward into the vast domain. The commander reared back in his chair and pulled his eyebrow panel downward before his face. His wife appeared on the monitor as she lie to her stomach amid the intricate array of instrumentation inside the Tarsier’s cramped cockpit.

Commander, I am venturing deeper into the debris field. Never before have I seen such destruction.

Sasha rolled to her right shoulder and placing a slow twist on her left quadrant the Tarsier banked gently to port and flew a course for a large piece of wreckage spinning methodically in the distance. Pebbles of frozen blood and water pelted her probe like a sudden hail shower, then silence returned. She slowed to 600 knots and overtook the twisted hunk in twenty seconds.

She came to within several meters of the 60,000-ton barrel and wing section of the once powerful Bushido Maru as it traversed listlessly amid the silent field. This sundered hunk was the strongest part of the spacecraft’s basic structure, therefore it remained virtually intact. And from its dissected decking frozen human bodies clung in ragged, decimated profusion, as the structure’s inside details shone in stark blue against a flood of starlight from all around.

Staterooms and engineering spaces were literally adorned in hemoglobin red as bloody icicle drooled in chilly dirks from mangled piping and fused, arching wiring. In places, small electrical lights still glowed from portholes tinged in red. Yet not a single thread of life spun in all that broken metal. Above the starboard wing the letters: JSEL were plainly discernible, before the related characters were masked by the heat soot of sudden rupture. Human bodies caught by the section’s gravitational pull twirled slowly about its imaginary axis, all frozen hard into grotesque poses like hearty contortionists condemned forever to remain the still objects of their bizarre craft.

Adding thrust Sasha rolled from the useless barrel section, past its cracked underside, leaving it to serve its solemn purpose as mausoleum for those lifeless souls still trapped inside its layers of ice-cold decking. She was careful to keep speed at a near crawl until clearing the wide field of wreckage about her. Again the forward blockers rolled upward into the Tarsier’s skin and Sasha noticed the ionization at the edge roll to starboard. At 200 knots she plowed directly into a floating, sticky mass of Skydrol-IV, and this cold, viscid oil clung to her outer skin like a gelatinous membrane. Induced skin heat gradually melted the tarry fluid away, causing trapped blood and potable water to ooze from Sasha’s windshield.

Organic readings graphed positive, extreme scale. Pieces of disintegrated humanity floated in the void ahead like so much flotsam after a catastrophic nautical disaster. A severed leg gradually rotating end over end drifted past the forward flood lamps. Rags of clothing encrusted in frozen blood. Another leg. An arm….

It could not be. Nothing short of a direct disruptor charge could cause so much utter destruction. And whatever caused it, must to have caught the Japanese completely by surprise—a brutal reminder! Telling man just how small he really was….As the colossus of the cosmos grinds onward its relentless mill.

What manner of madness impels this being to leave the safety of his idyllic environs to venture across distances immeasurable to find his fate wherever his frail technology ends. Blood, bone, flesh—the raw materials of a single species twist and whorl about a pin prick of life. She flew slowly onward through a virtual sea of dead humanity, burned metal and rended wood—a quagmire of bodies, wreckage and horrid cold forever embarked on a useless course across billions of miles. But why here? Here on the edge of Earth’s tentacular galactic arm and for what unnamed, untimely reason? Brutality! Senseless, unreasoned, bru…

Sasha literally screamed out when a solidified, pallid death face suddenly smashed directly into her windshield! She had snared a man’s body on her port ninety-gun and it clung to the front of her ship in a frozen, grisly mass. The eyes bulged; the mouth gaped in a silent, painful scream the instant of its fleeting death.

Panting and straining, Sasha decided to call in. She called, more because she wanted to remind herself that she was not alone. More to hear another living, breathing human being from somewhere beyond all that frightening, frozen carnage. More to reassure her rapidly dwindling courage!

"Horizons, do you see this?"

We see it, Sasha, came Carebo’s immediate and morose reply.

Sasha, remember, the decision to continue lies entirely in your hands.

I’m going in.

The grabbers beneath the Tarsier’s canopy area firmly detached the half naked, rock-harden scrap of flesh from the ninety-gun and released it to the continuing galactic forces. No sooner had the rock of dead humanity ricocheted from the port vertical stabilizer did the Tarsier shudder from another of the same electronic callings beamed from somewhere beyond the littered field, causing Sasha’s sensors to blink twice twelve minutes to the millisecond after the previous contact one minute after she had left the New Horizon’s hold. Nervously Sasha continued onward.

She rolled the Tarsier clear and engaging deep thrusters propelled herself miles away. Sierra-Tai gradually diminished into a disarray of stars amid a wide, fading band of colorful ionization as Sasha chased a glimmering reading into the black void ahead. At four-thousand kilometers per second ten minutes elapsed before the Tarsier’s forward lamps reflected off a dull gray-white object ahead. And as the computers suggested, the object was great; and rolling port to starboard on a useless course through the void. In time the size of the object dwarfed the tiny, one-manned Tarsier, until at 500 yards off the probe appeared as a simple trinket alongside.

The object was the massive tail section of the TDSDS Shirane’. Virtually intact, the 1,000 foot-long, sixty-thousand-ton section was severed cleanly from the Shirane’s fuselage and sent spiraling away from the debris field at thirty-thousand miles per hour.

Sasha noticed numerous flash burns of friction meaning fasteners and related structural elements separated in a split second from their mating points. Within its gaping forward end a mess of blackened, twisted decking and exploded compartmentation was exposed, coated in a thick layer of ice. No lighting shone in the aft portholes; the entire four-acre section was totally cold; and ruefully dead. And somewhere within this useless hunk of formed titanium-12 a waning emergency beacon pealed its ever weakening signal—a piteous gasp spanning billions of miles until entrapment in the sensitive ears of the New Horizons’ intricate receiving yard.

Too, alongside a dying five-ton beacon box there lie another sending device; one all powerful, and one all alien.

Sasha?

"Tarsier here."

Have you taken notice yet? crackled Ide’s voice across a million and half miles of space.

Explain.

The source of the alien transmission has expired its twelve minute interval by five seconds.

"The device