Cryptic Commands: Vincent Chen, #2

By Steve Rzasa

Watch your back…

Vincent Chen makes sure his comms ferry satellites don't harbor malfunctions. He'd prefer they didn't hide people inside, too.

The woman left comatose aboard one he recovers is on a vital mission. She must stop criminals from stealing classified secrets and selling them to the highest bidder. But those criminals know she's on the run, and Vincent is caught up in the chase.

Determined they stay silent, she's left him only one choice: to seek help from his fellow comms jockeys, in hopes they can fend off a raid and keep the data safe. When their plans fall apart, Vincent must rely on others when he'd rather be on his own…

And trusting anyone is dangerous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Rzasa
• Release date: Oct 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386969259

Steve Rzasa

Steve Rzasa is the author of a dozen novels of science-fiction and fantasy, as well as numerous pieces of short fiction. His space opera "Broken Sight" won the ACFW Award for Speculative Fiction in 2012, and "The Word Reclaimed" was nominated for the same award. Steve received his bachelor’s degree in journalism from Boston University, and worked for eight years at newspapers in Maine and Wyoming. He’s been a librarian since 2008, and received his Library Support Staff Certification from the American Library Association in 2014—one of only 100 graduates nationwide and four in Wyoming. He is the technical services librarian in Buffalo, Wyoming, where he lives with his wife and two boys. Steve’s a fan of all things science-fiction and superhero, and is also a student of history.

Book preview

Chapter One

01 November 2613

Tersane Star System

Unauthorized biological presence.

That is the last thing I want my ship’s sensors to warn me about.

Maybe not the absolute last thing. Singularity destabilization would be worse, especially in those fleeting seconds before the Raszewski drive bends space-time so that RMS Marconi can blink across light-years. Getting myself stuck between two points in space simultaneously rates low on the list.

But ­­Declaration-Class comms ferry tenders are well-maintained machines, what with a couple dozen hamster robots roving their autonomous selves into every niche, into every access tunnel, into every storage space. The backups have backups. If things became especially dire, the ship’s navigation computer could park my command around the nearest comms ferry and send a distress signal.

So, I’m understandably relieved when Marconi clarifies the original warning. The biological presence is aboard Comms Ferry 550, the one I’m close to intercepting.

Tersane is a dull orange star, not worth much to its surrounding system in terms of heat or other radiation. What it does offer is not one but three touch tracts leading to three different star systems, each of which harbor anything from scattered settlements to major manufacturing centers.

I queue up the visual feed from Marconi’s sensors, so I can get a good look at 550’s exterior even as I parse the data from the scans. There’s not much to see at the moment, except for the glare from the anti-matter mains. I’ve got the engines firing opposite my direction of travel, decelerating toward the ferry’s position. I’ll have to cut thrust soon, so as not to damage the ferry with the super-accelerated particles streaming from the drive nozzles.

There’s enough data unimpeded by the radiation blasting out of Marconi’s backside to confirm the initial scans: a bio sign. With all the interference, though, I can’t get more specific.

Perfect, I mutter. Guess I’m going for a spacewalk.

550 is due for replacement after a decade on station. It’s one of three comms ferries orbiting Tersane, and MarkTel likes to stagger these tasks so multiples in one system never go off-line at the same time.

As soon as Marconi’s velocity drops below a few dozen kilometers per second, I kill the main drives and kick on the ion drives. Mains are good for brute force acceleration; it’s the ions you want if you need to fine-tune your course and make precision maneuvers.

Nothing appears amiss with 550. Nav reconstructs a holographic image derived from the sensors. It’s a silvery sphere, burnished bronze in swatches facing the star. I instruct the sensors to run a more detailed analysis while I query the ferry for an update. Marconi is only 40,000 kilometers away, so I get the response in less than a second.

Hmm. The readout spills down the spherical surface of the bridge, which has my command seat plunked in the middle. Numbers and words skitter, filling a good quarter of the starry field Marconi’s sensors paint across the surface. No major glitches. Limited malfunctions. A record of every tract shift 550 made during its service, complete with transmissions sent and received...

Hang on.

There’s one filed under Code 77A. Hatch Access.

You’ve got to be kidding. I’m well aware that, as captain and sole Interstellar Communications Ferry Deployment & Maintenance Specialist aboard, no one is listening. Except maybe the bots, and their audio pickup isn’t the best. That’s my job.

I double check. No other comms ferry tender has made a scheduled stop. Nor should they. MarkTel doesn’t accidentally book two tenders to check on the same ferry.

So, either the Code 77A is an error, or the hatch suffered a malfunction...

Or someone opened it.

It takes a good ten minutes more to close the remaining distance, until Marconi slides alongside 550, a handful of kilometers away. Sensors are certain—there’s a bio sign inside. And it’s weak, without discernable form.

Marconi is in station-keeping mode, using thrusters to keep it steady. I’m on my way to the airlock on the lower deck, not far from where the skipjack shuttlecraft is docked. I pass a pair of hamster autonomous robots hard at work replacing a buckled deck plate. They’re silver bugs, albeit the size of my boot, with stubby antennae and pincers, the latter of which are handy for repairs. One of the two has a blue stripe along his side. He stops what he’s doing and wheels after me, like a loyal pup.

My wrist comm blinks a message at the same time lights flicker across his silver shell. [Destination?]

Heading outside to see what kind of critter snuck its way onto 550, I say as I clamber into the spacesuit.

Blue doesn’t respond, waiting as I make certain the seals of the orange suit are secure, and the white ceramic plating is in place. Finally, he repeats his inquiry. I swipe the response, [Extravehicular inspection.] Then I add, [Standard protocol.]

Blue wheels away, flashing instructions at his partner, who’s still busy at repairs. He’ll relay the message to the other 14 hamsters aboard, plus the eight brassjackets that hover about the maintenance spaces. Anything goes wrong, they’ll work in conjunction with Marconi’s computer to make sure I’m safe and the mission continues.

It’d be a lot easier if there was another person aboard. But people are expensive.

As soon as the airlock lights cycle from red to white-blue, and gravity dissipates, I trigger the outer hatch and drift into space. The first few seconds are always disorienting. I pick one star—any star will do—and focus on it and it alone. Running a section from Luke’s gospel helps narrow that focus. I’ve been reading the whole chapter, so it’s the easiest bit to recall.

550 spins in front of the Tersane star, a gleaming pearl against a ruddy disc. My suit’s HUD gets an update from Marconi’s sensors, while the visor darkens against the harsh glow from the sun. Tiny thrusters on the suit’s back and shoulders propel me toward the comms ferry, as I pinpoint the hatch’s location.

Quick bursts from the shoulder jets slow my approach enough I can get a grip on the handles inset in the ferry’s hull, just outside the hatch. It doesn’t appear anyone’s physically tampered with its locking mechanism; that leaves software intrusion.

The compartment inside is spare, with a few sealed lockers on one side and a diagnostics screen on the other. It’s lit up pale blue.

Makes the spacesuited figure a teal statue.

My heart rate rockets so bad sensors warn me its elevated. No kidding! There’s a person floating inside 550!

I pull the scrambler attached to my midsection. It’s a stubby gray weapon, vibrating with an energy charge that, when fired, will shut down the voluntary nervous system. Makes the average person as limp as a piece of unpowered memory fabric.

But the person—body—whatever doesn’t move. The sensor rod affixed to my suit’s right wrist informs me that her vital signs are far too low for a person in good health, yet simple scans can’t find a cause.

Her. Yeah, it’s a woman. That much is evident from the shape of her suit. Probably my height, which is to say, not tall.

I spool a signal across the general citizens’ communication band. Miss? Or is it, ma’am? What’s the protocol for polite public speech to an unidentified woman hiding inside a piece of MarkTel communications equipment with a value well over a half million? Miss, are you hurt? I have to inform you you’re trespassing on MarkTel property.

That’s me, Vincent Chen, consummate gentleman.

I pull myself inside the compartment. The visor’s interior rim glows with soft orange lights. Her face is serene, as if she’s enjoying the most peaceful nap in the galaxy, but there’s a waxy quality to her skin that doesn’t look healthy.

The sensors bring back more results: blood pressure low; heart rate low too, but steady; body temp below normal; brain activity minimal.

She reads like she’s in stasis, yet I’ve never heard of anyone this deep in hibernation just hanging around in a suit. It’s the kind of state you’d need a full-fledged chamber to achieve.

Whatever her state, I can’t leave her here. First, though, I interrogate the onboard screen. There’s no sign of malfunction, but it confirms the Code 77A I received during the initial query.

Wait a microsec. This is new: a command sent from outside, triggering the hatch release. It’s the same MarkTel code I used to gain access. Except the logs also confirm there was no MarkTel ship in the vicinity.

So, this lady got dropped off on 550 without her vessel being seen?

I shake my head. There will be time to dig deeper beneath the records after I’m back aboard Marconi. For the moment, I have a patient who needs recovery.

A CLARIFICATION: I am not a medic.

MarkTel makes sure all its comms ferry jockeys have basic med training, so they can render aid in situations such as this. It also helps when a jockey is injured or ill by cutting down on time needed at a station-borne recovery center.

Why interrupt the comms