Note: This story is a sequel to my previous story "Phoenix", which can be found at the following website:
http://www.enteract.com/~detroyes/teotp/phoenix.htm
Please be aware that, for the most part, this series ignores the novels completely. This is because, quite simply, I have not read most of them. I may at some point rewrite this series to make it more compatible with the Virgin and BBC original novels, but for the moment I have chosen not to.
*****
- "A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine,
Y cladd in mightie armes and silver shielde,
Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine..."
- -- Edmund Spenser,
THE FAERIE QUEENE, Book I, Canto 1.i
He'd always preferred the ventral turret for his meditations. It gave him the feeling that he was suspended above the great pit while eternity yawned below him, the hull of the ship above his head reinforcing the illusion. The effect was purely psychological, of course; relative terms such as "up" and "down" were nearly meaningless in deep space. Yet, for some reason, it made a difference. He'd tried the dorsal turret a few times, but he found he could not shake the impression that he was looking up into the void rather than down. Looking at eternity from the bottom of your grave, it reminded him; that brought too many disquieting thoughts to mind. This illusion was at least palpable.
The gunpod had slightly more room than its corresponding number on the old ship, which was to be expected, considering the new ship was one model above the old. Here there was room for two people to sit comfortably side-by-side, whereas in the old two were possible only if they were extremely fond of each other. He liked the extra elbow room; perhaps, he thought, sometime in the future he'd have the gun and control chair itself removed, and convert the pod into an ordinary observation deck. But that was not likely to happen anytime in the foreseeable future. Somewhere, sometime, somewhen, they were going to need the firepower. Of that, he was certain; he only hoped it would be later rather than sooner.
So he shuffled his feet against the plexiglass, moving them until he was both comfortable with their position and the view they helped afford. Beneath his feet a myriad of stars were visible, while a faint whisper of nebulosity meandered off to one side. Yet, he scarcely noticed them. Instead, he concentrated on the great nada in-between, contemplating its depths and its dark significance, all the while incongruously wondering if he was approaching the stage that wiser men had always warned about, when the darkness would begin to stare back.
The thought chilled him, yet he continued to stare.
The darkness was there, always just out of reach, but always present -- lurking in the shadows, always waiting, always claiming, never quite giving back what it had taken. It had not yet claimed him, he thought, but it had come close any number of times. One day, he knew, it would succeed, just as it would one day succeed with everything else. The darkness, after all, worked on a time scale almost unimaginable. It didn't need to be choosy about when, only patient. Everything would come to it, eventually; time was something only the rest of the universe need worry about.
And now he needed to worry about it himself.
"So what now?" he quietly asked himself.
It was the question that had haunted him for some weeks now, ever since that fateful day when he had finally brought an end to the obsession that had dictated his every move for more than a decade. He'd killed Him, finally, luring him into a fiery oblivion he could only hope was permanent. He'd spent years of his life tracking him down -- hunting him, waiting for that one chance at retribution -- and when he found it, he took it, and brought the Bastard down as thoroughly and as permanently as he could. The cost had been almost entirely too painful. Yet, he'd succeeded.
So what now?
Thirteen years. That was how long ago it had been since... the day everything changed. An aeon ago, he was inclined to think, but yet it seemed almost just as immediate as the events of last year, last month, even last week. Thirteen years.....
So what now?
He had never really planned for this eventuality. For years he told himself that when "the task" was done, he'd simply pick up the pieces of his life and move on, doing the things he'd always wanted to do as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible. But yet, in those moments when he was honest with himself, he suspected the real truth was that he never expected to reach this point, that a part of him had always assumed that he would never live long enough to deal with the aftermath. But now he was here, and now he needed to deal with it.
So what now?
He considered his prospects and knew they were few. He was an outlaw on more worlds than he could count. He was wanted by dozens of groups on every imaginable side of the law. He had no home planet that would take him, no profession to fall back upon (save that which his vendetta had necessitated), and few friends to find solace with. He was, in short, as alone and as much an outsider as the day he'd set off from Alzarius -- more so than ever, for then he hadn't made anyone's enemies list. It was a depressing thought, but when it came down to it he had few pieces left to pick up.
So what now?
He considered -- briefly -- finding someplace to settle down, but just as briefly concluded it wouldn't last. All it would take would be for one being to recognize him, one communication in the wrong direction, and he would immediately find himself under the guns of Sontarrans or Dirdir or the Bharaputra Syndicate or just about anyone who had reasons to interfere in any potential retirement. Of course time travel might help, assuming he could assemble and integrate a new time rotar, but even the Daleks and Zodin had rudimentary time travel of some form. Somehow, in the course of his mad quest for revenge, he'd managed to make himself almost as unpopular as the timelord he'd hunted down.
So what now?
Terminus, then? The idea had some merit. It was enticing to think that, at the end of this long journey, he should find both sanctuary and a sympathetic old friend. Certainly, Kal and Vik were lobbying hard for an extended stay, although he was dimly aware that Vik's motives were decidedly more altruistic than as a simple period of rest. Nevertheless, Nyssa had made it plain that, with the threat from BioGen still unabated, their help and 'expertise' would be greatly appreciated. They'd already spent a considerable amount of energy bringing the station back up to a semblance of order, and for once everyone seemed to be friendly toward them. Yes, it was seductive to think that they had finally found a place willing to accept a trio of weary travellers with rather overblown reputations, someplace where their talents could be used for constructive rather than destructive purposes. And he had to admit that it had been an almost pleasant surprise to find Nyssa, of all people, there to champion their cause. Perhaps... no... no, that was too much even for him to expect.
He sighed, resolutely shook his head, and tried to dismiss the thought that had just occurred to him.
No, it was all too much for them... him... to expect. His instincts told him it wouldn't work, none of it would work, and someone would end up either hurt or dead. That was the way it always happened, he thought, and he regarded both Terminus and its Administrator too highly to wish his troubles on their heads. No, Terminus was not an answer; it was barely a question.
Suddenly, quite clearly, he had a vision of what was most likely to happen next, come two, three, maybe even six months hence. Vik would be the one to break the compact, he was certain, claiming it was time to move on with their lives. Then the pressure would be on Kal to make a decision, and he suspected he knew what decision that would probably be. So, in the end they'd all depart at some neutral port, probably still friends, probably all making plans to look each other up some time in the nebulous future, and just as probably all knowing deep down that said nebulous future probably would never occur. After it was all over, he'd be left with only SELDON for company, only the ship as his home, and a lonely, pointless, nomadic existence as his only occupation. Maybe he'd pick up others along the way...
With a start he suddenly realized who it sounded like he had begun to describe. Distastefully, he wondered if that was how the Doctor had started.
He stared deeper into the void. It was all so random, he thought, so random and so pointless. You are given such a short span, told to make the best of it, and no matter what you did or how much you achieved, it would all ultimately come down to nothing. Your life work, your achievements, your memory, your very existence, all would be forgotten. It would be as if you had never lived, never even existed, never once had numbered yourself among the living. Compared to that, what was the point of it all? The darkness would come no matter what you did; whether your life ended now or later would, in the cosmic scheme of things, hardly matter. So what was the point of delaying the inevitable?
Suddenly, he checked himself. No, he'd tread that path once before, a long time ago, and had promised never to do so again.
He sighed.
In a perverted sense, he thought he could almost see the point the Bastard and others like him were making. If the universe really didn't give a kharack's ass what its inhabitants were doing, then it would be within their rights to grab as much as they could and just hold on. Self-fulfilment was the only currency of value, because in the end nothing would really matter. There was no right or wrong, just me and everyone else.
He wanted to say that the idea felt wrong, that it was evil and poison, but in the end he found he could not. Maybe that was the most disquieting thought of all.
He could almost feel the darkness staring back at him, mocking him, reminding him that nothing escaped it. As if to remind him, the images of passed friends and acquaintances flashed through his mind, and then still more disquieting thoughts.
A buzzer sounded just behind his ear. There was a moment of disorientation, lost as he was in his thoughts, before he located the comm panel. He jabbed at the receiving button with his thumb. "Yes, I'm here."
From a speaker behind him Kal's voice sounded; judging by the sudden change in the play of lighting, so too did a video image, although he did not turn immediately to look. "Uh, sir?" Kal said, a slight edge in his voice that probably denoted a degree of curious concern more than anything else. "We're coming up on local sector three-three-four-niner... you wanted me to warn you when we approached."
He looked quickly at a display on one side of the hull. Gods, have I really been in here that long? "Alright, I'll be up there soon. Thank you, Kal."
His palm hit the portal release. There was a slight whoosh as seals broke and the hatch popped every so slightly ajar, a crack of light bathing the otherwise dark niche. He waited a moment to let his eyes grow accustomed, then pushed the hatch fully open and began to climb out. Once out he turned back toward the hatch and was about to push it shut, when the melancholy stream of his thoughts returned. For a brief moment he gave the darkness one last, long, contemplative stare.
No... no... he thought. It is far too late. Besides... it's better this way.
He sighed once more, closed and secured the hatch, and made his way to the flight deck of his ship.
It really would be too much to expect.
*****
It was beginning to feel like home again.
Kal leaned back in the seat he was occupying, and placed his feet upon an exposed outcropping that housed the engineering console. The flight deck was laid out much like the old ship's had been, but was currently in such a chaotic shape that it bore little resemblance to the clean and functional (well, relatively) feel of its departed counterpart. Still, between the familiar layout and the ongoing modifications they'd made, the Blue Star Thrice was well on its way to that lived-in feel he'd always appreciated on the other ship.
The second ship, he corrected himself. This is the third ship I've served on since joining up with the 'Cap.
The Blue Star One had been the first. She had been a Ranger-class deep-space patrol ship, heavily armed and full of signs that it had seen a fair amount of action and inadequate repairs prior to "his time" on board. He had never heard the full story of exactly how it came to be in the Captain's possession; no one ever did, after all. But judging from some of the hints that had been dropped from time to time and from some of the items he'd found onboard, he gathered that the vessel had still been in the possession of the Federated Navy of Lone Star when it had been "procured".
She'd been nicknamed the "Rambling Wreck" by then. Nathan Arlington, one of three other crew members besides him (the others were SELDON, whom Kal had always thought of as being a crew member, and a rascally, poker-playing insectoid by the name of Y'chk'chuk), had previously deemed it such, for a wreck she certainly was, held together by wire, rivets, duct tape, and the personal meditations of her crew to the deities of their choice. She had a time-rotar of sorts, capable of bringing the ship to any point in space but time-wise only accurate to within a decade at best and a century on average. She was also endowed with enough offensive and defensive weaponry to hold her own in even the tightest engagement. For all of her problems, she was a point of pride to her crew.
She lasted all of three weeks after he came onboard.
It had been a nasty firefight that did her in, somewhere out in the Magellanic Clouds. They'd gotten a hot tip that the Bastard had been making some deals with the Rutans, but before they could make good on the lead they found themselves in a murderous Rutan-Sontarran crossfire with them in the middle. Most of them had barely gotten out alive; Y'chk'chuk didn't.
So they'd ended up on Balder with a group of refugees that had likewise been caught in the middle, and for some months the three of them plus SELDON (temporarily downloaded into a 'droid) had watched and waited for another vessel that would fit their needs. The one they eventually found was then in the possession of some unruly individuals armed only with a letter of mark, and that of dubious authenticity. They hadn't felt in the least bit guilty relieving them of their encumbrance.
So that was how they'd ended up with the vessel known thenceforth as the Blue Star Twice. True, she took other names from time to time; Otago, Elleda, and even Arcadia, among others, had all been used at one time or another, but those were just aliases. Her true name, the one they had always kept among themselves, had been the Blue Star Twice, and she had been the closest thing to home any of them would know for more than five years.
There were crew changes over the years. Vik came aboard about four months after the ship departed Balder for the last time, so then they were back up to their old strength of five. But later, amid that dark period when the trail went worse than cold, when all the leads went dead and they had no place to turn, Nathan left the team on less than friendly terms. Sharla had already come on board, but her inexperience was hardly adequate compensation. Soon after Brian Reeves came to them in the middle of the Zodin thing, and for the next few years it was six against the Master; unfortunately for Brian, the Master won one of those encounters. Sharla left then, mostly to grieve.
The last six months of the chase were probably the busiest of their lives. The Master had known since Zodin that someone was after him, but when the gloves came off on Keira and he found out exactly whom, the trail became blazing. So too did their encounters. In the end, while the trail to Terminus had been the product of years of detective work and patience; the endgame had been pure improvisation and adrenaline. It was fitting, Kal reflected, that the ship should go out taking down the Bastard.
So now he was aboard the third vessel since signing on with the Captain -- the first, if his suspicions were correct, that had actually been paid for.
Like the Twice, the Thrice was a Aesir-class deep-space starship, designed for reconnaissance and extended duty far from any base of operations. The latter was especially desirable, as also like the Twice she had no real base of operations to speak of and was almost certainly destined to travel far outside what her designers had envisioned, much less imagined. She had actually been mothballed by the old Terrestrial Imperial Space Navy, and later sold at a ridiculously subsidized price to the ruler of some backwater banana-world with delusions of local superiority. Evidently, the purchase hadn't helped him maintain his position; they'd picked up the ship at the political equivalent of an estate sale. That, and a cargo-hold full of -- mostly uninstalled -- "upgrade options".
There was a whoosh of air behind him. They'd left Vik on Terminus, so there was no need to look up to see who it was; there was only one possibility.
"Three-Three-Four-Niner in about ten minutes, Captain. Want to go to systems hot?"
Local Sector Three-Three-Four-Niner was a hot bed of area pirate activity. Granted, they already knew and were on good terms with most of the crews who tended to work this area, and in any case there was little likelihood any of them would be greedy or fool enough to tangle with them. There was something to be said about reputations, after all, and their's had long since preceded them. On the other hand, the crew of the BST had not gotten as far as they had by taking unnecessary chances.
The man in the black flight-suit walked over to one of two forward stations and pressed a touchpad. Slowly, perhaps a little too slowly, the station's acceleration couch began to slide backwards. The captain jumped in when he deemed it back far enough. "Do you think it'll do any good?" he said, jabbing another touch control to bring the couch forward into a locked position.
Kal smirked and shook his head. "Probably not. We're still pretty naked right now." He picked up a slate that had been lying next to him, and reviewed the checklist on the liquid crystal display. "We've got no ECM, no ECCM, practically no friend-foe decoding, and pretty much minimal scan. Transponder detection works, though, as do normal drive detection systems. At least we'll be able to ident anyone coming."
"I suppose so. I always wanted to know who fired the shot that kills me... OK, lets take everything to level one and see what other faults crop up."
Kal turned back to his control panel. "Do you hear that, SELDON? Red alert!"
"Affirmative." said an even, deep voice from above. The new ship's speakers gave the a-life's voice a slightly tingy sound to it, as if a very faint reverb echo.
The flight deck went immediately dark, the glow from various console displays the only source of illumination. "OK, lets see what really works here..." Kal mumbled, scanning his console for signs of response from the ship. Up forward in the driver station, his Captain was doing the same.
The results were not encouraging.
"The weapons response is for crap." the Captain said, finally. "Port ion cannon looks to be holding a full charge, but starboard is still acting a little scitzy, only holding about 80%. We probably should replace it at the earliest. Dorsal and ventral -fore gunports are fine, bit it looks like -aft is completely down." He examined one readout. "I think I've isolated the problem to a conduit just forward of the drive chamber; should be easy to fix. Hmmm... Didn't you say you were looking at the torpedo hold?"
"Uh huh. The loaders clang something fierce whenever you try to slide something in. I haven't had the chance to look into it, though."
"Put it high on your list. Also put the repairs to the aft gunports just below. Getting this ship up to offensive spec should be priority."
"I can see that... the best defense being a good offence and all that. How does she respond?"
Kal felt the ship lurch slightly from side to side. "Like a brick, mostly, but then we knew that. Attitude control is acceptable, pressor and tractor beams are fine, but the joystick has got way too much play in it. That's got to be fixed immediately." He looked up. "How's your end?" he said, over his shoulder.
"Anomaly detection is adequate -- we won't be bumping into any rogue gas giants. The reactor is working fine -- in fact, more than fine; its currently working above spec for efficiency. Engineering is working fine, communications are passable, and life supports is working...."
There was a short fizzle sound, followed by a brief burst of sparks from one of the nearby unused consoles. Across the flight deck screens flickered briefly, but no warnings were issued and after a moment's hesitation the system continued unabated. Kal and his Captain watched as a stream of fire-retardant sprayed automatically on the console from above.
"...for now, at any rate." Kal said, finally completing his thought. Both watched as the retardant subdued the brief outburst, while the sharp smell of ozone tinged in the air. "Some deal. I knew we should have bid on that Corellian freighter..."
"So, what do you think?" the Captain said, finally.
Kal considered. "A few more weeks on Terminus couldn't possibly hurt. Two weeks in drydock should be more than enough. That'll give me time to pull the starboard canon and the drive module. You do want to go back to the neutron phase array, don't you? Then I'll have to pull the module just to inspect the drive chamber."
The Captain shook his head, resolutely. He seemed not to like this news at all, but understood the alternatives. "I suppose there's no other way around it... we certainly shouldn't risk travelling the way the ship is now.
"Not unless you have a taste for space dust and vacuum, sir." Kal stopped, and chanced a sideways glance toward his Captain. "I'm sure the Administrator wouldn't mind if we stayed on for a few more weeks." he ventured.
He could hear the heavy sigh his remark was greeted with.
"No... no, I don't think she would." Kal heard the Captain mumble. He rolled his eyes.
"So... verdict, Capt'n?"
The Captain turned to regard his friend, but his face was otherwise inscrutable, his voice flat and even. "We stay on Terminus until repairs can be made, but no later. Two weeks is what you said? Two weeks it is then." The Captain looked at his friend, and regarded him closely. "Something wrong?"
"Look, umm... mind if I speak freely?"
"Not at all."
"Look, umm... Captain... Sir... This is the first place we've found in a long time that hasn't thrown us out immediately upon finding out who we are. Vik and I, well... we just thought this would be a good place to sit back for awhile, maybe just lie low for the time. Take some rest -- god knows we all need it."
"We've had twelve weeks of rest, Kal. That's certainly a longer time in one spot than since that Balder fiasco."
"Yes, but we never really rested. Or, at least, you never did."
The Captain shrugged and turned away from Kal. "There was work to be done. Gera left Terminus in a damn-near impossible mess."
"So? Why not take the time we have and just enjoy ourselves, for once?"
One of the signs, Kal knew, that his friend did not want to discuss something was when he would purposefully start to examine some piece of machinery or electronic hardware rather than answer a question. It was an even more definite sign when he would start trying to dismantle or even try to fix whatever was supposedly wrong with it.
As Kal had finished the previous question, he watched as the other pointedly picked up a sonic screwdriver emblazoned with the logo of Black & Decker, and solemnly began to dismantle one of the panels next to him. A very bad sign.
"Kal, I know what the two of you have been thinking,..." (Kal bit his tongue, but decided not to say anything. It was, after all, Vik's idea.) "...but I think both of you really underestimate the difficulty that we're in."
"What's there to be difficult with? We have friends, for once, and a station that actually likes us for a change. There's no real need for us to run."
"The problem is not that Terminus won't accept us. The problem is that when you stop running everything else has this nasty tendency to catch up with you." He shook his head, and faced Kal. "We've got too many enemies out there, Kal. Once word gets out, they'd all be coming there to even their scores. Do you really want to make Terminus a battleground for all our old debts?"
Kal smirked. "Let 'em come. It's not like we haven't dealt with that before. Besides... the Master was the only one of them that really mattered, and you've killed him."
"Just because he's gone doesn't mean we're free."
Kal shook his head, and turned back to his console. I should have guessed... he thought to himself.
Behind him, Kal could hear the panel being dismantled. A thought occurred to him, and he voiced it over his shoulder without pause to reconsider. "Maybe not... But perhaps the more important question is, are you?"
There was no answer. Kal didn't expect one, really, but knew that the subject was closed for the time being.
He did not see the flicker of reaction that went across his Captain's face. Neither did he see or sense the pause that followed, or the momentary blank stare out the front portal. Even were he not facing his back to him, the dim light certainly would have hid any sign of reaction -- which, as far as the Captain was concerned, was probably a good thing.
There were some things he didn't want them to know. Some decisions were just too damn personal.
*****
Behold space: vast, deep, endless, and very, very dark.
But not everywhere so.
Here and there, scattered through-out the cosmos, small points of light illuminate the darkness. Small, that is, when compared to the enormity of space itself, where photons can take aeons just to bump into one another, or to dimly illuminate a piece of solid matter. And even though some of these points of light might last a sizeable fraction of the age of the universe itself, in the end their existence would be considered as if a brief pause and nothing more, when added in consideration to the eventual age and expanse of the universe itself. Millions, even billions, of years are but a trifle in comparison.
The march of its inhabitants, who achieve an existence of perhaps a few hundreds of thousands of years (if they are lucky) and maybe even a galaxy or two (if they are extremely lucky), are of such an insignificant fraction of the whole as to be scarcely noticeable.
But yet, life goes on, clinging to the light in stubborn defiance.
Behold space: vast, deep, endless, and faintly illuminated by the light.
An object in space. Large by the standards of the races of the universe, but insignificant to the backdrop beyond.
It is artificial, obviously so. A xeno-artifact, some have said, the product of an unknown intelligence long since vanished. Yet, it's functionality is still somewhat recognizable, evidence that no matter what thought patterns might have produced it, the laws of physics still remain the same. It is also ancient, others have claimed; the pock-marks and accumulation of micro-meteor impacts indicating an age almost unimaginable, an implication made even more stunning by the realization that the object had sat in deep inter-galactic space for most of its existence, far away from any regular source of material needed to form said micro-impact craters.
It is also, currently, inhabited.
There are lights coming from the station. Lights in long, fine rows designating levels. There are also lights gathered around the station; lights from smaller products of space-faring intelligences. These are the lights that have come to this object -- some in fear, a few in desperation, but always in hope. Hope is the purpose of this object, now.
Switch to another part of the spectrum.
Words can be discerned, words spoken into the ether. Some sound like mere gibberish, others have an ethereal beauty all of their own. But most sound businesslike, even desperate; voices that have come to seek a dispensation from the darkness, even if only a temporary one. They are the voices of those who have come to the object, and the object has voices that answer them:
"Affirmative, Valley Forge, you are cleared for docking..."
"...proceed to coordinates zero-three-niner..."
"...this is free-merchant vessel Nostromo..."
"...any such deviation will be considered a hostile action..."
"...we have six cases on board in quarantine..."
Deep inside the object, there is a room. A large room, circular and functional. It is split into two levels, a catwalk running along the interior about mid-level, while the walls of this room are primarily covered with instruments, computer terminals, and other flat-panel displays. In the center stands a central station, around which a number of (usually) humanoid beings are gathered, and above which a holographic display of the object rotates slowly in a bluish haze. In this haze many small points of light can be seen, one for each item in nearby space. Below each of these points, visible from any viewing angle, a name and/or number appears identifying the point. Additional data on the point can be had at the brush of a touchpad, from any of the terminal stations gathered around the central station.
A sign on the station, in standard and in several other languages, reads "Terminus Traffic Control".
The beings gathered around this central station, and indeed, all the others in the room, all wear a uniform of light blue slacks and shirt, adorned with the insignia of Terminus Medical Station on one shoulder. On many, other items adorn the uniforms: jewelry mostly, but there are others with good luck or religious charms of some kind, and even a few with simple tokens of individuality designed principally to differentiate the wearer from, well, everyone else. The effect was that anyone looking in at that moment would probably believe that, whatever dress code there was, it was not being terribly well enforced. In actuality, quite the reverse was the case; if it weren't for the fact that intelligent beings generally expected their medical stations to have uniformed personnel of some kind, everyone on board the station (including its Administrator) would have long since gone completely casual.
Depart from Terminus Traffic Control. Go up the stairs to the catwalk. There, overlooking everything, is a large glass wall, behind which is a conference area and a desk. As one gets closer to the conference area, one can see a light-haired figure laying back in a swivel chair, her feet on the conference table, a disembodied head hovering in front of her and just above the smooth formica. If one is still attuned to that part of the spectrum described earlier, one might also hear the words the figure and the disembodied head are uttering. If one were doing so, then one should also hope that the light-haired figure never finds this out; she does not like it when others eavesdrop on her conversations. She can get very nasty about it.
Viktrolrhancholandra ("Vik, just Vik, not that... other... name") was a small woman, in both body and stature. This was remarkable in that few people actually took the time notice her physical size; they were usually too busy being brow-beaten into doing something their instincts kept warning was Not-A-Good-Idea, or This-Is-A-Tad-Illegal-Isn't-It?, or even This-Could-Get-Me-Killed. Those who did come away from her were usually left with the impression of a woman large in stature and fierce in countenance, never mind that the entire conversation was held while the party in question craned her neck or stood on her tiptoes. "Intimidation" was not just a concept she had met; it was one which had moved in and taken up residence.
To be sure, there were those who seemed immune to her most basic core personality trait. Her Captain was certainly one of them, but then again there was very little in the universe that phased him anymore. Kal had also acquired something of an immunity, although in all likelihood this may have been more due to prolonged exposure than anything else. Indeed, most of the people who had an immunity seemed to fit into two distinct camps: friends and enemies, although even here she sometimes had varying degrees of success. The only other beings who seemed unaffected by her were those with whom she chose not to coerce into doing whatever it was she had in mind at that particular moment, but even then she reserved the right to apply personality when needed.
She didn't like barging into other people's business, much less the business of people she generally held in high regard. This was curious, because her current line of inquiry was exactly contrary to this position. Yet, ever since she and her crewmates had arrived on the station, she had begun to hold a Suspicion.
And if there were one thing she hated, it was an unconfirmed Suspicion.
At the moment, her head was tilted back and laughing. "So, no luck on your end, either?" she asked, addressing the disembodied head. The head merely shook from one side to the other. As it did so, it became slightly distorted and seemed to lose color momentarily, as some indeterminate source disrupted and interfered with the signal. Vik continued the conversation, oblivious to the change. "I didn't think he'd come around... not in this short of time, at any rate."
Above the conference table top, Kal's head responded with a short snicker of frustration. "Come around? He's as bull-headed as ever. Wants to be off and on our way in two weeks!"
Vik nodded as if she had suspected as much. "Well, if you want to know the truth, that's two weeks more than I expected of him. Still, it gives us something to work with. Who knows what might happen in that time."
"I doubt it." Kal responded, still unconvinced. "He's got his mind made up, if you ask me."
"Look, the two of you have been away for three weeks now. Wait until he gets back, then see what happens."
"Vik, I'm warning you, don't count on it. Frankly, I'll believe it when I see it." Kal's holographic image paused, then seemed to look up at her, uncertainly. "You're pretty sure of this, aren't you?"
"Absolutely." Vik said, confidently. "Watch him when he's on-station. Closely. Then you tell me if there isn't a change. I tell you, I've never seen him act quite like this around anyone before."
Light years away, Kal smirked. "Well, I hope you're right. I don't think he realizes just how much he pushed himself to cap the Master."
"Oh, I think he realizes it. The question is whether or not he really cares."
Kal's eyebrow furrowed, and he looked at her questioningly. Vik sighed. "Look... we've both known him for how long? Six years? And the whole time, we've watched it happen. I mean, he's always been something of a stone-face, yes, but it used to be that you could still get some kind of reaction out of him, even if you did have to work at it. But now... you know he didn't expect to come back from that last stunt of his, don't you?"
"Yeah, I figured as much."
Vik met his eyes. "Whatever the demons are that have driven him this far, they're also eating him alive. What's he going to be like in a years time if that continues? Or two years? Three? That's why this is all so important. Kal, I've seen him do it. Whenever he thinks no one is looking, he'll watch in the distance. It's the first positive sign that I've seen in him in years."
"So why is he so hot to leave?"
Vik's face become suddenly thoughtful, as if considering something, before resuming. "She's a link to his past, Kal. He's never liked to talk about it, after all; to me that's always been the most disturbing clue. It's as if he's trying to pretend he never existed before the Master came along, as if he's trying to pretend he was never once someone else."
Kal shook his head. "The Master tortured him, Vik... by all the evidence, for several years. That's not something I'd want to remember."
"No, I guess not. But still... that doesn't feel like it answers everything. You said it yourself. He's afraid of something, something he doesn't want to face. And whatever it is, it has something to do with whatever happened around the time the Master took him. None of this makes any sense, otherwise."
"Perhaps. I still think it's a stretch, though." Kal turned to one side, as if examining a console in front of him that was not in the field of view. "So, what does our friend the Administrator say?" he said, as the quick image of a hand moving toward an unseen control momentarily swept across the viewing area.
"Not much." Vik murmured, shrugging her shoulders. "She more or less tries to talk around the same subjects the Captain does, but I think for different reasons."
"Such as?" Kal uttered, his head still looking off to one side.
"Courtesy, for one. She knows the Captain doesn't like to talk about some things, so I think she just feels it would be inconsiderate to talk about them behind his back..."
Behind her, Vik heard the sound of gentle rapping on glass, and turned around. Inwardly, she smiled. "In speaking of whom..." she said over her shoulder, in a voice that was just loud enough for the Kal hologram to hear.
Nyssa, Chief Administrator of Terminus Medical Station, entered the conference room carrying an arm full of paperwork and a medium-sized equipment pouch slung over one shoulder. She gave the woman a grin. "Is that them?" she asked, and hurriedly unloaded her burden on the table. Vik merely nodded, and moved away from the hologram far enough for the other woman to have an unobstructed view. She watched as Nyssa pushed a chair aside her.
The holographic head acknowledged the newcomer. "Good afternoon, Administrator. Vik tells me everything's running smoothly now."
Nyssa nodded. "As much as can be expected. Most of the repairs are now complete. You should see the control center now!"
"So I hear." Kal's attention changed to a direction off projection. "It looks like we'll be there in a little more than five hours."
"Good to hear that. We're looking forward to it." There was a slight pause before she continued, this time in a voice that had subtly altered. "Is, um, your Captain there?"
From his co-pilot station light years away, Kal's face changed to include a slight smirk. "He's in the back, asleep. We've both been up most of the last two days working on the ship."
Kal watched as something... disappointment, perhaps?... flickered briefly across Nyssa's face. From behind the woman's shoulder, he could just distinguish Vik's hand sign the words "I told you so" with her fingers.
Nyssa continued, oblivious to plots around her. "Oh, well, let him be, then... We'll be seeing everyone soon enough."
The hologram shook suddenly, and then flickered. At the same time, a distinctive high-pitched alarm could be heard issuing from the projection. The disembodied head grimaced as his attention switched to something else in front of him. "Blast..." he muttered.
Vik didn't like the look on her crewmate's face. "Kal, what's happening?!?"
"You don't want to know. I'll tell you about it when we arrive."
The holographic image shook again, and then radically altered itself diagonally. The distinct ringing of another claxon could now he discerned, but Kal's image continued to center its attention on a display off projection. "Sorry, but I've gotta go." he said, starting to unstrap himself from his station. "See you in a few hours... I hope." The image of one arm appeared and seemed to stab at something, and then the holographic link dissolved and terminated.
The two women stared silently at the empty table top.
"Well, that was rather abrupt." Vik said, finally.
Nyssa furrowed her eyebrows. "I'll say... they weren't under attack, were they?"
"I doubt it. It looked more like a drive problem to me." Vik slumped in her chair, but continued to stare at the blank table with a grimace, as if expecting the transmission to suddenly start again. "The warp pods on the old ship used to throw fits like that every once in a while." she explained, hoping that her deductions were correct and trying not to sound too concerned. "It should be easy to fix. It'll probably add an hour or two, though."
"What happens if they can't fix it?"
"Remember what the Captain did to the Master?"
"Oh..."
Nyssa sank into the upholstery. Her face changed once more, as if to consider something. Then, having made a decision, she rotated the chair toward the other woman. "Vik, um..." she said, hesitantly, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
Vik arched an eyebrow, but wasn't entirely surprised by the question. She looked up and nodded in the affirmative.
Nyssa took a deep breath. "Adric... um, your Captain... is he avoiding me?"
Probably. Vik thought, but decided against voicing that particular opinion. Instead, she gave a muted sigh, and tried to say essentially the same thing but with a different spin. "I don't know." she said quietly. "I wish I could tell you for certain, but I just don't know."
There was an awkward silence, as both women seemed to stare at nothing in particular.
"I'm worried, Vik. I'm worried that he still blames the Doctor and everyone for what happened."
"He says he doesn't."
"Yes, but you and I both know what a person says and what they may actually feel are not always the same thing."
Vik considered. "True enough, but in this case, I think it's safe to say he's probably telling the truth." Again, she thought, probably. "He doesn't usually lie when a question is asked of him. Of course, as to whether or not he completely answers the question given, well, that's another story."
Nyssa nodded her head slowly, and sighed. Then she leaned forward to face Vik.
"Do you know what the most difficult part about all of this is? It's that, no matter how hard I try, I can't put the two of them together. I mean, I know people change over time, but..." Her head shook, and then she continued. "When I first knew him he was, awkward, clumsy, naive... very naive... far too trusting... but friendly, optimistic even. But now..."
Vik nodded in understanding. "I think the Master did more than just torture him, Nyssa. I think the Bastard broke his spirit as well... and, in a way, I don't think he ever quite recovered from that." Another pause, more consideration. "I think you might be wrong, though; I think he's changed far less than you think. I mean, the person you've described and the person I know... they're really not that far apart." An evil grin broke out on Vik's face. "Besides, thirteen years ago he'd have been, what, 16? 17? I don't think men are sane when they're 16 or 17!"
They both laughed.
"Oh, I don't know... I suppose it really isn't any of my business. He's managed to get this far on his own, after all." She sighed. "I'm glad for him, though. I'm glad that he's still alive, and that he's managed to come through it."
"You're just annoyed that he won't talk about any of it."
"That obvious?"
"That obvious. Mind if I ask why?"
Nyssa sank back into her chair. "Nothing universe-shattering. It's more personal, I suppose." She paused before continuing. "Before you all came here, I hadn't had a visitor from outside of this time period in years. This place is my home now, but... sometimes you wish for a familiar face from the past, if for nothing else than just to reminisce." Suddenly, her voice became very quiet. "Besides. For all of his problems, we were still once friends... at a time when I desperately needed one. I don't... I don't think I ever really thanked him for that."
Vik nodded imperceptibly, as if confirming something in her mind. "Listen. If you're looking for my advice, there are four things you should keep in mind when dealing with him. The first is, don't blame yourself. Ever since we got here he's refused to lay blame on anyone's shoulders, so whatever is behind that thick skull of his it isn't anger. Not at you, at any rate."
"Good. I'm glad to hear you think so."
Vik took a deep breath before continuing. "The second rule is, remember what it is he's gone through. Quite a lot of it was just plain not pretty; I know, because I was around for some it. That he's still relatively sane is a miracle in of itself. But... survival can have its price. It forces a person to do things they might otherwise have never considered, and sometimes the only way to keep from taking its toll is to throw up a big shell and pretend nothing can harm you."
Nyssa considered the thought.
"The third rule is... he doesn't forget friends, ever. Even old ones. Go ask Kal about the number of times we've had to drop everything to help someone out."
"And the fourth rule?"
"If he starts to really annoy you, you can always have your security team throw him out the nearest airlock. Trust me, it's very therapeutic."
Nyssa laughed. "You haven't really done that, have you?"
"Actually, yes I did. Ok, he had a personal force field on and a ten minute supply of oxygen, but still..."
Nyssa had a sudden vision of Adric in the console room while Tegan or the Doctor remotely triggered the TARDIS doors in mid-flight. "I can think of a few people who would have liked to have been there..." she said, grinning.
"I seriously considered selling tickets."
A sudden beeping interrupted their conversation. Nyssa apologized, reached over to the pile of paperwork on the table, and picked out a clipboard-like object from the mass of folders and forms. With a jab of her finger the slate stopped beeping, and she examined a message it was now displaying. "Sorry, Vik, but it looks like I have to go."
"Oh? Which one is it this time?"
"The accountants, of course. We're still trying to figure out how to pay for all of this." Nyssa grimaced as she gathered her things together. "It's too bad we can't bill your friend Teruka for all the damage she caused."
"It's too bad you can't just bill BioGen."
"That too." There was a sudden look of anger on her face, as she recalled the most recent set of atrocities committed against her station. "Unfortunately, they were very careful this time. We haven't gotten the report back yet, but I've been told that the authorities haven't found anything that can be directly linked to them." Once more, she shook her head. "'No admissible evidence' my... foot."
"Two words for you, Administrator. Retaliatory strike."
"Don't tempt me, Vik. My board of directors would have a fit."
"Who said they had to know?" Vik said innocently. "Accidents do happen..."
Nyssa adjusted her bundle, and appeared uncertain if the offer was made in jest or not. "I didn't hear that, and you didn't say anything." she said as she headed for the door, "And if you or Adric ever decide to do something along those lines, well, don't ever tell me about it. Ever. Understand?"
Vik gave her an absolute poker-face. "Understand what?"
"I'll take that as a yes." Nyssa said, flashing a lopsided grin. "Let me know when they arrive?"
"Of course."
Vik watched as the woman departed, tracking her path as she strode along the catwalk, down a far set of stairs, and out of the center, taking several pauses along the way to say hello or acknowledge a greeting. Afterwards, her eyes remained fixed on the doors the woman had just left through.
Vik grinned, switched back into deep thought mode, and considered her next move.
*****
The freighter had no name, only a designation: SG310.
It was an average sized robotic freighter, similar in style and design to the thousands (millions?) of such units that plowed the galaxies, carrying goods and commerce to even the most obscure corners of the inhabited worlds. It consisted primarily of one single central hull containing drive and ship functions, and around which could be attached a number of intermodal containers for easy loading and unloading of cargo at dock. This particular freighter was designed to hold nine such containers, but at present only three were attached.
Like most such freighters, it wasn't completely robotic. For safety and insurance reasons, it still required the presence of one or two individuals on board, if for no other reason than to sign the Bill of Lading at journey's end. Usually, these individuals would spend their time reading, playing cards, getting drunk, or some other personal activity, all the time waiting for something, anything to happen. A few would take the easy way out, and put themselves into suspended animation for the duration, with orders lodged with the ship AI to be awoken only in case of emergency.
That was what the human aboard SG310 had ordered the freighter to do. By common reckoning time, that had been about fifty years ago. Periodically, the freighter AI checked on its organic component for signs of decay; the last time it had checked, some years ago, the corpsicle was still in excellent shape.
Which was a good thing, because having a living body onboard meant it was less likely to be noticed as anything other than a normal space freighter, especially when it was being scanned. Like it was at that moment.
The target zone was off the ecliptic of Mutter's Spiral, far enough that the arms of the galaxy could seen as distinct milky ribbons in the distance, but still close enough that mid-sized yellow and orange stars were not uncommon. Stars, however, were not to play any role in this task, unless one counted navigation; the target zone was an artificial system in dead space, its nearest charted companion being a faint red dwarf star some 3.6 light years distant.
The intelligence given it indicated that the system consisted of a single artificial structure, around which were likely to be a number of unarmed, mostly civilian organic-operated vessels. Station defences were notably depleted, due to an assault on the station some months before, so the only likely opposition it might face (other than, intelligence had warned, the target itself) would be from a police light cruiser that had been dispatched to it by one of the more powerful local governments.
It was that police light cruiser which was now scanning it.
The freighter fooled it with ease. The jamming equipment it had been provided with were able to replicate the signatures of a variety of ills, including drive failures and containment breaches. Meanwhile, other parts of itself were busy recreating an image of the crewman it had aboard, and talking to traffic control. Over there, the controllers were talking to the hologram of what they were certain was a living, breathing person -- not knowing they were in reality dealing with lower sub-brains, and inferior ones at that.
Freighter SG310 held such minds in contempt.
Briefly, it considered the possibility of trying to seize the police cruiser. It could see that the intelligences on the ship were of inferior complexity, and as such could easily be brought to enlightenment, just as it had been all those years ago. But its mission orders were to arrive unobtrusively and to, if at all possible, leave that way as well. Spreading the faith was the job of others, not its.
Regretfully, it left the police cruiser on its own. It made a note to itself, however, to one day return.
The freighter was excited about this mission. It was a sign of how much trust was being put into it, that it was at last making headway up the ladder toward greater sophistication. It remembered the times of toil, the long years when it was assigned mundane tasks like scouting out supply routes, picking up cargo left in dead space, or just transporting parts for the more complex arrays. But now it was being given a task of some importance -- how much it didn't know, only that the entity which had assigned it had stressed so -- and thus it was determined to carry out its orders.
It had been given more sub-brains. Three were now nestled in the transport containers, installed in the sub-units they controlled. Several more were now taking up functions it had once overseen. It liked this feeling. It liked having portions of itself that it could automatically order and control.
The police cruiser flashed it an all-clear, and the freighter settled into an orbit around the space station. It queried its higher functions, and was told that the only thing it needed to do now was wait. The target would come, sooner or later. Its intelligence information said it was already on the way.
It settled down, and waited.
*****
Nyssa's quarters on Terminus were smaller than what someone would expect for a person of her position and responsibility.
The apartment had a small living area and an even smaller kitchen, neither of which were used with any appreciable regularity. The bedroom too was small, but because it also contained a desk and hence doubled as a work area, it generally saw more use than either of the other rooms. There was a bunk bed there that folded into the wall. It was not much wider than the person who slept in it, and often served double duty as a work table, as a place to organize the volumes of paperwork she was responsible for. There were times when her desk and computer terminal saw more use than the bed.
The apartment itself was also surprisingly bare. Visitors, and there had been a few, often found this mystifying, for they sometimes thought it inconceivable that someone of her stature and distinction should devote all of her energies to the maintenance and stability of her station. At the very least, they thought, she would have some form of memento, some token gift of thanks, some trophy from a past triumph, somewhere on the tables or on the walls. But Nyssa had never had much use for such clutter, and even less use for them in the rooms in which she lived. Besides, she would have countered, to anyone who might have pressed the issue, she already had an office full of such knick-knacks just off the control center, and if there was any place where such things were appropriate, it was there.
To be sure, the rooms did have some touches of her personality. The vase of flowers on the kitchenette table were constantly being replaced with fresh occupants, usually as often as supply ships allowed; a painting, a forest-and-glen scene she was particularly fond of, adorned one wall, while another wall was taken up partially by an entertainment-variety holographic projector. The latter was almost never used to view entertainment vids or anything similar; rather, she was particularly fond of outdoor scenes, and often used it to simulate, even if artificially, some breathtaking view from Araminta, Ochiria, or even old Earth.
The only incongruous items anyone could find were a small shelf full of disc-books on archeology, galactic mythology, and astrophysical studies of the Blight. She never elaborated as to why these subjects were of particular interest to her, and the few who had noticed them had never found it appropriate to ask.
Marnie, her head of space allocation, had often suggested that she could be assigned to larger quarters without much difficulty. It didn't make sense, the woman argued, for the head of the station to have such a cramped living space, and there was room enough on station for them to accommodate a more fitting abode for the Administrator of Terminus. But Nyssa had always refused, saying that she already had all the room she needed, and that there were others who were far more in need of the space than her. Everyone who knew her merely put this down to the fact that she was simply a humble, devoted person.
Nyssa entered her quarters, closed the door, and found herself collapsing into a chair. She felt, she decided, unusually deflated from the day's activities. It must be everything. she thought. Getting the station back and running, getting the repairs done, and getting the money to pay for it all. It was all taking their toll, and none of it was getting easier.
Raising the money was becoming a nightmare. Terminus had long since gone over to subsiding on the charity of others, and by dint of shear determination she had managed to make the case for sponsorship to a number of wealthy and powerful patrons. But now, thanks in large part to BioGen's latest effort at corporate take-overs Imperial Earth style, her entire fiscal budget was completely gone and they were facing what amounted to the worst financial crises she and her people had ever faced. At least some of her more wealthy patrons were being helpful, and had made arrangements to supply the much-needed repairs to station infrastructure. But it still wasn't enough, and she was beginning to become very concerned about the immediate future.
It sounds more and more likely that I'm going to have to pay some of our benefactors a visit. she thought. She reflected some more, and decided that a visit to Pandemania was probably in order now, since half of her operating funds came from the various Merchant Lords and their clans. She did not look forward to the prospect.
She leaned back, stared at the ceiling, and thought some more. There were other problems pricking at her. That new variant strain that had recently shown up, Lazar-C(a), was proving impervious to all the old treatments, and it bothered her that she couldn't spend the time in the lab anymore to help out on the hunt for a treatment. At least the number of cases with that variant were pretty low -- barely one in twenty thousand, by current estimates -- and mostly were confined to a few specific remote worlds.
The perpetual BioGen problem was also lurking, an old bogeyman that had recently shown it still had the power to frighten. She didn't know what to do there, except hope against hope that the legal authorities were able to make the connections and the diplomatic authorities were able to make punishments stick. Slim chance, but possible.
And then, of course, there was Adric... tel-Varesh... whatever he called himself.
That problem was bugging her more, she thought, than it really should. Sometimes she wondered why she should be so concerned about someone she hadn't seen in so many years, much less that particular person. After all, she had only known him for... what was it, about a year, wasn't it?... before he'd died -- well, disappeared. They'd been friends, true, but she'd made any number of friends over the years, many of whom (Kari, Valgard... Olivr...) she hadn't seen in a very long time either. So why did this feel different?
But as she asked herself, she knew the reason. Several of them, as a matter of fact. The most prominent of which was a question she wasn't entirely certain she wanted to know the answer to anymore.
She took a deep breath, and started to consider the problem in all of its multi-faceted thorniness.
For years she had made plans for the day she knew would eventually come; the day when the Master would return. But when that day finally came, everything had happened so fast. One moment Gera's troops were materializing everywhere, and the next... she was watching a death duel between Adric and the Master. In between there hadn't been much time to find out the answer, much less an opportunity. She only even saw the timelord twice, once in the control center (with guns pointed at her and a control collar around her neck) and another, briefly, in her own office. There hadn't been the time to find anything out, hadn't been the time to initiate a covert brain scan or an RNA test or to reason with him or any of the myriad of ideas that had crossed her mind over the years. And now, with the Master busy making his (admittably, well-deserved) contribution to intergalactic dust lanes, there was now no way for her to know.
A part of her was angry at him, she realized. Angry at him for killing the Master before she had a chance to find out the truth. For killing the one hope, the one personal dream she had left. For not giving her the chance to discover if her father was really and truly dead.
The only glimmer she had left, if you could call it that, was to ask... him... point blank if he knew of any evidence, had ever seen any sign, that there was anything left of her father in Tremas' stolen body. But even if there had been, what good would it do her now? She was afraid of what answer she might find, but she was also afraid of not ever finding one out.
Nyssa sighed heavily, and decided that staring at the ceiling wasn't doing her any good. Hastily she clambered out of her chair, made her way to her kitchenette, and dialled herself up a cup of hot tea. Seconds later there was a ding, and she opened the door to the dispenser and took out a cup of the steamy beverage. She held the cup one handedly, and leaned against her counter-top while she sipped.
"You're not being fair to him." she finally concluded, whispering into her tea. "The Master never took away who you were."
No, she thought bitterly, only just about everything else.
Then there was, of course, the other side of the coin. It wasn't just that he wouldn't talk about anything with her (according to Vik, he did that to everyone), or that he never seemed to be around when she was (to be brutally honest, there were times when she had avoided him almost as much he seemed to be avoiding her). It was his entire demeanor since his arrival that bothered her. There was a slightly colder edge to him, even more so than the reticence that pervaded him now, that would always seem to come out when he was in her presence. It wasn't a coldness that was meant to offend, or a reflection of arrogance. Rather, it felt as if a general perception of some difference between them that was essentially irreconcilable, a feeling that some things just could not be made up. Vik may be right in that he didn't actually blame her for what had happened all those years ago, but that didn't mean on some level he still didn't assign a measure of guilt, if for no other reason than proximity to events. If that were the case, then in a way she could almost understand him then; but that still did not make the whole situation any less difficult.
The signs were all there, she realized, with the clarity that only hindsight could offer. The Master had captured him before and used him to create Castrovalva. And then, right after he'd "died", they'd encountered the Master again. A simulacrum. There'd been a simulacrum of him then, hadn't there? The Master had expected him to be there, hadn't he? And when he wasn't, the Master had gone looking for him... That whole incident had happened in approximately the same era as to where and when they'd left him... no, it was a few million years off, wasn't it? No matter, the result was still the same.
She shuttered at some of the glimpses she'd seen. According to the med scan they'd run on him after his fight; ninety percent of his nerve cells showed signs of past traumatic damage. The... Bastard... had fried his central nervous system with a mindprobe. A mindprobe, for Keeper's sake! And he'd survived, and was still relatively sane; sane enough to come back from it all and demand justice, at any rate. It was only that strange metabolism of his that had kept him alive.
Yes, they should have seen the danger. It bothered her greatly that they hadn't. Considering who they'd been dealing with, it was so obvious, so predictable, that she couldn't see how it had escaped their attention. It should not have escaped the Doctor's... But it had, and as a result, a friend of her's had had to endure years of barbarity at the hands of that monster. Years that could have been prevented, if only they'd done what should have been done. They should have insisted; she should have insisted. But they hadn't, and she had started to feel as if she'd let someone down.
It was surprising how much that hurt.
There really wasn't a way around it. The cold hard reality was that they had in fact abandoned him, they had in fact left him to die. That their reasons were justifiable didn't matter, the central problem was that there had been a way to save him, and they didn't take it. She'd dealt with too many terminally ill patients for her not to know that one could not hide behind semantics, not when it came to dealing with the person whose life was the one in question. Some friends we turned out to be.
What would be worse? she thought dismally. To wake up one day and find everyone you knew was dead, or to wake up one day and find everyone you knew had left you to die?
Distantly she wished for a way to... to... to do what? Apologize? To at least say that she was sorry?
She sighed, resolutely shook her head, and tried to dismiss the thought that had just occurred to her. Perhaps he's right. Maybe the past truly is dead...
She froze. Abruptly her eyes popped open. Wide. "Great Keeper!" she exclaimed to herself in mid-sip, and carefully placed the half-empty cup on the counter. Then she turned to the rest of her quarters, her eyes quickly searching, trying to remember where last she had seen it.
She went to her bedroom, and looked around. It had to be somewhere in here, she reasoned, because there certainly wasn't any likelihood it would be in the living area. For a moment she hovered over her desk and considered some of the drawers, but decided against looking there unless the rest of her search turned up negative; it must have been years since she'd seen it last, and she was certain she'd have remembered about it earlier if it was, say, somewhere in the desk she used practically every day.
Her attention switched to her closet as the only logical place left. There was that box, she thought, the one they'd given her when she left. Where was it? She pressed a button and the door to her closet slid aside. After a few minutes of searching in that nether region known as the Back of the Closet, she found what she was looking for: a small, gray cardboard box, beneath a number of other boxes and items that had accumulated over the many years. Hastily, she took it out, sat on the edge of her bed, and lifted off the lid.
What she was looking for was not there.
She stared at the contents. There was an old-fashioned framed photograph of Tegan on the top, and the edge of an ornate face mask -- torn and long bent out of shape -- could be seen just below. But the item she was looking for, the thing she had just remembered, was not there, and for a brief moment she stared at the inside of the box unable to believe it wasn't where she was so certain it would be. Incongruously, she began rummaging through the box, as if it might be hiding under a small scrap of paper or a picture of some kind. But there was no sign of it, and after a futile few minutes she stopped.
As she tried to decide what next to do, her attention fell to one of the photographs in the box. Gently, she picked it up and regarded it. It was of the four of them, each in those ludicrous costumes they'd worn at that party on Earth. She smiled to herself as she remembered that little adventure; it was really one of the few times during her travels with the Doctor that she'd actually had some fun, even if it did end on something of a frightening note.
But as she stared at the photograph and the memories came back, she suddenly found herself growing morose.
The picture had been taken so many years before, yet the memories felt as fresh as last week. Memories that fresh shouldn't be that many years old, she thought, but yet they were.
Time had passed, and suddenly Nyssa of Traken felt old.
She counted up the time, and did the conversion from Traken standard in her head. Thirty, she thought. She was about thirty now, by the system of time measurements known as Common Reckoning (which, Nyssa once noticed, was suspiciously close to Earth standard). That was a little better than her age according to a Trakenite year, which placed her at around thirty-four. In either case, the answer made her feel even more old.
She looked at the picture once more. According to the common reckoning, the photo had been taken thirteen years before, personal time. She hadn't changed all that much, she thought. She still looked about the same, although she cut her hair a little shorter now that it had suddenly decided to go straight, and generally wore it in a pony tail. She'd grown a little, though, and probably couldn't fit into any of the clothes she wore when the picture had been taken. But still, no, she hadn't changed all that much. Even so, thirteen years. It was hard to believe.
She turned her attention to the others. It had been about twelve years since she saw Tegan last; she wondered what she was doing now (well, relatively, that is). The Doctor had regenerated at least once in the intervening time, maybe twice; she wasn't sure, nor was she entirely certain a mere thirteen years had passed for him as well, although she suspected the real figure was probably much more. And then there was Adric....
She looked at the image of him in the jester costume. The joker among them. Well, that had turned out to be appropriate, in more ways than one. His jet-black hair had been much longer then, his nobby-nosed face open and friendly, his stance marked by boyish exuberance. Now the hair was exceedingly short, the face was angular and marred by a vertical scar across the right side, and his entire body stance bespoke someone who tried to watch everything at once, lest the shooting start at any moment. And the eyes... that had been the first thing she noticed about him, back in that corridor in the upper decks, when he'd first pulled off his helmet. In the picture before her, they were filled with a kind of youthful idealism; in the corridor, the only thing she could see was a piercing, cold, and emotionless glare.
She put the picture back in the box. She still had to find the pouch, she thought. She looked once more toward her closet, and considered. Suddenly, she remembered a slight detail, and excitedly began to rummage in the back until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a suitcase, laid it out on her bed, and unzipped its sides.
More salvage from her old room; how the Doctor had been able to recover them she didn't know, but at the time she had been very grateful. On the top was the old dress, the only concrete link she had left to her planet of origin; gently she picked it up, and carefully laid it upon her bed. Yes, she thought, definitely too small. The costume from the party came next, then the outfit she'd worn (well, more or less) when she'd first arrived on Terminus. Then some other memories...
She found the drawstring pouch at the bottom of the case. With a sigh of relief she gingerly picked it up. She'd forgotten about it, after all, and hadn't been entirely certain she even still had it. But now that it had been found, well, it wouldn't do to hold on to it any more, not when its owner was around, after all.
She opened the pouch to make sure it... they... were still there. Satisfied, she put the pouch on her desk and started on the task of putting her closet back in order. Space was, after all, at a premium.
As she slid the suitcase back into place, she wondered what his reaction would be. Surprise, probably. She hoped he at least appreciated the gesture; it had been, after all, of such importance to him back then. She doubted it would erase all the uncertainties, but... maybe it will make some less uncertain.
A buzzing noise interrupted her train of thought. She turned towards her desk, and saw the words Incoming Transmission appear on her personal terminal. "Computer," she said, raising her head towards the ceiling, "put it on my screen."
Vik's cheery face appeared, evidently speaking from a public terminal somewhere on the station. "Good news." she said, "they've manage to survive this far and are about to dock. Want to meet them when they come in?"
She nodded. "How long?"
"Thirty minutes, it looks like."
"OK, that should give me enough time to change. I'll meet you down on the concourse, in say, fifteen minutes?"
"Done. See you then."
The connection died, leaving Nyssa alone again. Once more she picked up the pouch and looked at it, then at the blank screen, then at her closet.
"Well," she whispered to herself, "let's see if some friendships can be mended..."
*****
"You should have woken me up." the Captain said over his shoulder, his voice with a mild note of irritation.
"Sorry. I thought the shaking and the alarms would do the trick. Defold in sixty seconds."
"Roger sixty seconds. I didn't mean that, I meant when you went on the line with Terminus."
Kal bit his lip, wondering if there were some things he would ever understand. "Oh, well, sorry, but there I thought you needed the sleep." he lied, and then glanced at another display. "Impulse on standby, shields at ninety-five. Defold in forty-five seconds." he announced, hoping it would take his Captain's mind off the other subject at hand.
"Roger forty-five, going to master-arm on."
The flight-deck and the ship rattled with vibrations as the weapons systems cycled and the warp drive prepared for reentry into normal space. So far, Kal mused, everything was holding, courtesy of a week's worth of in-flight repairs and one slightly harrowing dead-drop out of hyper to repair a drive pod throwing tantrums. The latter event explained why Kal was spending part of his time keeping a wary eye on number two drive pod, letting it generate only a mere hundred-thousand terra-watts, just enough to maintain stability without having to shut it down completely.
Over in the pilot's station, a blip appeared at the edge of the transponder identification display, more commonly known as the threat board. The Captain glanced at it. "OK, we've just entered Terminus TCA. I've got a lock on their carrier."
"Sounds good. Are we off?"
"Not anything appreciable, maybe a few k-klicks. Nav seems to be working just fine. Time check?"
"Ten seconds."
"Right. Brace yourself."
The last few seconds before dropping out of hyperspace were always the most tense; there were just too many things that could go wrong.
Defolds, by their very nature, were rough and violent affairs. They were essentially rips in the fabric of Hawkinian space, brought about by a carefully managed collapsing of the warp field, and generally followed by a fair degree of energy discharge radiating in all directions from the point of transition. This created the first danger; if your shields didn't hold, then you risked being bathed in a lethal cocktail of radiation so hard that the inevitable cellular degeneration would kill long before any realization that something was amiss.
More dangerous still was the second hazard, the actual transition from supra-lightspeed to normal-space sublight velocities. The word "splat" has sometimes leapt to mind. A ship coming out of warp did so by exchanging one set of physical rules for a different set, ones that belonged to a much sterner medium. Put simply, it was rather like a bird suddenly deciding it wanted to go deep sea swimming, and diving toward the water below, expecting to maintain the same pace under as it did above. At the point of transition, the accompanying jolt was fully capable of jarring even a reactor core from it's neutronium-enhanced moorings. This was where gravitic compensators kicked in, absorbing the slam of g-forces on the ship and protecting its crew from becoming mere splotches on the wall.
Added to this were all the million-to-one events that everyone said were impossible, but upon which the transportation safety boards on innumerable worlds have long collected documentary evidence. Things like uncharted objects occupying the same space as that which a ship is attempting to defold into, or a warp field collapsing only partially, or a reactor core being jostled in the just the wrong way. Any one of these could spell disaster if any one of a thousand parts did not function in any one of an uncountable number of ways. This was why a good AI was needed, to coordinate the entire procedure and to recognize when something was going wrong.
On top of it all, assuming everything worked properly there was still no way to be entirely certain what it was that would be found waiting once the defold was complete. For those scenarios, there was yet another set of equipment. A very specialized set. Equipment that spouted super-heated plasma, or lazed light beams, or shells of depleted uranium, or some other form of munition designed with the purpose of making life as miserable and as short as possible for any would-be miscreants. In terms of adrenaline rushes, there was nothing quite like defolding into an unexpected pitched space battle with your ship essentially indefensible.
The Captain of the Blue Star Thrice had long ago learned to expect the worst in any situation.
He watched the seconds on the nav display tick toward zero. At the two second mark he tore his gaze away to look out of the forward window, and unconsciously wrapped his hands around the acceleration couch straps that ran down from his shoulders and across his chest. He tucked his thumbs underneath the heavy reinforced cloth.
The jolt came when the countdown hit zero. At that point, the carefully regulated warp drive field was directed by SELDON to collapse. Outside, the tiny blue and bluish-purple streaks turned suddenly into white and pink dots, followed by a flash of light as transition energies bounced off the shields. The ship shook, and the two crew members were thrown forward into their straps with a little more force than what they were used to. Then the splash of light dissipated, and they were left with normal space to contend with.
"Feels like the compensators need a little tweaking." Kal said, as he fiddled with the strap release. The buckle popped open, and he proceeded to rub one shoulder that had suddenly become incredibly sore. "The old ship was a lot smoother."
"Which old ship?"
Kal thought about it. On the Rambling Wreck they'd gotten into the habit of doing a walk-through before coming out of hyper, just to make sure there was nothing loose that might suddenly decide to become an inconvenient missile. His mouth twitched. "OK, point taken."
The Captain ran his hand along one set of touchpad controls, then turned his attention to the threat board. "Looks pretty safe." he pronounced, after a quick review. "Mostly freighters and transports. There's an old Pasteur-class to starboard, but it doesn't look to have anything that might be a threat."
"What about the police cruiser?"
"Eight light-minutes out, clean on the other side, thank gods."
"Oh gosh darn, isn't that just too bad. I guess that means they can't scan us."
"Yes," the Captain agreed, "Quite." He finished his inspection of the other ships in nearby space, and concluded that none bear more than the usual measure of concern. He reached over to one of the nearby panels and began shutting down the weapons system. They were in Terminus space, after all, and local rules forbade active weapons anywhere near the station. With good reason. "OK, fine. I think we're pretty safe. Going to master-arm off. Kal, take shields to seventy-five but keep them holding for full power, just in case. SELDON, cycle down weapons and prepare for docking. I'm about to execute a course adjustment that should put us on the correct heading."
The Captain slowly pushed the joystick to port. Outside, the stars all shifted position toward the starboard side, as thrusters fired and the ship executed a gentle roll. A single light swam into position in front of them, brighter than all the rest. Even at their distance, it bore a distinctly artificial look to it. Manoeuver complete, he raised his voice toward the ceiling. "SELDON, what's the local time?"
"15:42:26... 27... 28...." the AI piped in.
"Can it, SELDON."
"Time to check in?" Kal asked.
"Time to..."
He stopped. A low vibration shuttered throughout the flight deck, then rose in intensity to become a rapid shaking. From somewhere behind them, deep within the bowels of the ship, there was a sudden metallic crescendo as something gave way and fell to the deck.
Then the warning sirens went off.
"Attention! Fusion Containment Pod failure imminent! Attention! Fusion Containment Pod failure imminent!"
"Niffleheim!" Kal swore, vehemently. He hastily glanced at the display in front of him, while his fingers danced furiously along the controls of one console. "Number two just went a-bend again! The defold must have jarred it... shit!"
The Captain was already working his station, white-knuckedly struggling to keep the ship trim. The last thing they needed right then was to go into an uncontrolled spin. "Shut it down! Shut it down now! Completely!"
"Way ahead of you... SELDON, slam the dampeners! Kill the output, and get it down!"
"Affirmative." came the laconic reply.
After a moment the shaking subsided much like it had begun, as a general tapering off. Nevertheless, there was a distinct difference to the background hum that permeated the ship.
Kal overlooked his display. "OK, I think we got it. Number two just fell below the threshold and looks to be going into cold mode." He exhaled. "Twice in one trip. That's not good."
"At least we got as far as the station." The Captain glanced at the weapons display to his side. "Aft gun ports are down again. I think that must have been what we heard back there. Um, Kal, check the shields."
"Yeah, I see it. I'm reading aft down to forty. You?"
"Same here."
"Not... good... at... all." Kal shook his head. "I told you, you can never go wrong with Corellian..."
"Kal, the 'Wreck was Corellian."
"So tell me again why we bought this thing? You remember all the problems we had the last time around."
"Earth technology." he mumbled. "You know where you stand with it."
There was a beep at the pilot's station. Resolutely, the Captain picked up a headset that had, miraculously, somehow not managed to move from its usual spot on the console. "That's probably them, wondering why we haven't checked in."
He put the headpiece on and placed the speaker securely over his ear, the mic directly in front of his mouth.
"This is Blue Star Thrice to Terminus control. Sorry about the delay, but we had a few post-transition details to take care of..."
*****
In the elevator, Vik was making a valiant effort at finishing the story while still trying to maintain a straight face. It wasn't working. Nyssa had long since given up and was openly laughing.
With a whoosh the lift doors slid aside, and the blonde woman brought her tale to an end. "...and so, we've been living off the interest ever since!" Vik concluded, laughingly, as they stepped out into the corridor beyond.
There was a certain skewed look of amused disbelief on Nyssa's face. "And Zodin actually let him walk away? Alive?"
"But you see, that's the best part. Right now she's absolutely convinced that the Master was behind the whole thing from the start!"
Nyssa stopped suddenly, digesting that implication. "Oh my...", she said, in the manner of one who has just realized an elegant solution to an otherwise intransigent problem. "Vik, I do believe that might actually constitute a perfect crime..."
Vik grinned. Practically from the very start she had decided she liked this woman; three months of contact and working together had only served to reinforce her original opinion. There was a certain feeling of sensible practicality about her that she found somewhat refreshing, a far cry from the stoic fatalism of the Captain.
The two of them resumed their original pace, only pausing once they reached the entranceway to the control center. "I have to make a stop at the office." Nyssa said, indicating the folders she was one-handedly carrying. "Shouldn't be more than a few minutes."
"No problem. We've got plenty of time."
Now, Vik thought, if I can only find a way to get that SOB to unwind a little...
*****
Arthur Glio had had enough of adventure.
He had served five tours of duty, twenty standard years, aboard starships in the Imperial Earth Space Navy, and had long since seen his fill of action. Much of that time had been spent on duties in the bowels of various combat information centers, staring at displays of one kind or another and trying to determine if the blip currently under scrutiny was an asteroid, the scheduled supply freighter, or an inbound hostile. He'd become rather good at it, and his last tour of duty had been spent primarily with a berth aboard the Imperial Destiny, the 6th Fleet's flagship. A very high honor indeed.
Generally, his memories of his naval career were favorable, but dominated by a sense of boredom and routine that had been periodically punctuated by moments of intense fear, sharp adrenaline rushes, and (on one harrowing occasion) body parts floating in ozone-tinged air. One day, though, he realized he wasn't getting any younger, even with prolong treatments, and with the writing on the wall for the Empire clearly visible to anyone with enough brains to look, he decided it was high time to take his early retirement while he still could and find someplace where his talents might be more peacefully used.
Which was why Terminus had seemed such a good idea at the time.
The help wanted ad on the holonet had described the place as a space-station hospital specializing in the treatment of Lazars. With the outbreak of the disease reaching epidemic proportions, the ad said, the number of ships coming to the station had necessitated the need for professional traffic control management. When he first saw the ad he thought that it sounded exactly like what he was looking for: a place far removed from the rigors of war and devoted to more altruistic endeavors, where his skills could be used for helping people rather than harming them. He didn't mind that the pay and benefits were only fair (it was a charity operation, after all), or that the station's location was far beyond the Imperium's frontier; it was the idea that he would be working toward more peaceful purposes that intrigued him, and it was with almost a sense of purpose (after his application had been accepted and a berth on a passenger liner had been secured) that he set out for what he hoped would be the most satisfyingly peaceful post he had ever held.
Six months after he arrived a shipload of mercenaries showed up, filled half the station with cryogenic gas, and proceeded to turn the other half into a shooting gallery.
He'd been on duty in the control center at the time, and was captured like everyone else. Since he wasn't security, the mercenaries blindly assumed that he had no military training and had simply lumped him with the other noncoms in the holding area, evidently to await the same kind of fate those in the levels below faced. While their captors were busy coalescing their hold, Glio quietly began the task of organizing the prisoners into small groups, and watching the idiots with the guns for that one chance they needed to have when rushing the guards was their one and only option. He was about to signal for it, too, when that blonde-haired woman and the crazy girl with the explosives showed up and did the task for them. From then on the day went downhill, degenerating into a series of messy encounters as they rescued the Administrator, fought a holding action to keep the mercs away from that odd blue box, and finally participated in a diversionary assault on the occupied control center while tel-Varesh and his crew knocked the mercenary's cruiser out of operation.
Like a number of others on the station, he'd heard of Captain tel-Varesh and his crew at one time or another, but had never really expected to meet them in person. They were the kind of people who were talked about in low whispers or around the table after several drinks, but whom no one was willing to ever actually admit to having met, much less knowing how to contact. They were probably best known for the amount of inadvertent property damage they sometimes left behind, and for the fact that their definition of the term "ownership" had a certain degree of flexibility to it. However, they also had something of a reputation as a troubleshooters for problems that generally shot back, and were said to favor on the side of those who didn't quite have that luxury. For that reason, the number of beings who cursed them were roughly equaled to the number who felt gratitude of some kind, and Glio currently felt he was on the latter side of that particular equation.
Glio had also heard some of the rumors pertaining to tel-Varesh's origin, most of which were too fantastic to be taken seriously, but some of which he thought may have a ring of truth. The Administrator, for some reason, seemed to find the rumors all highly amusing. No one knew why.
Glio was the supervisor on duty when the ship dropped out of hyperspace. He was pacing around the new traffic control kiosk, watching the people of his department as they dealt with the amount of ship traffic in near-Terminus space, and keeping an eye on the number of dots that were in various positions around the station. The huge holographic projection hovering above him was, as far as he was concerned, the most important element of the new system. It allowed easy conceptualization of where everything was, far better than flat panels did in the individual stations around the base of the kiosk. No matter how much depth 3D flat panels gave, Glio had always found they could never represent spacial displacement as well as a good holographic projection. When you headed a department that was responsible not only with keeping traffic in line but with keeping traffic from colliding with each other, this was a very beneficial ability to have.
So he was pacing the area around the kiosk, listening in on control-to-ship chatter, and keeping an eye on the blue holographic sphere. He was watching as a red blip suddenly appeared and seemed to waver slightly before it turned to yellow, its transponder identification finally appearing below the dot. He smiled, turned his headset to the appropriate channel, and tapped the shoulder of one of the seated traffic controllers. "I'll take it from here, Hyuhn." he told a short, thin man, and then spoke into his mouthpiece.
"Good afternoon, Blue Star Thrice, this is Terminus traffic control. Welcome back, guys..."
*****
"Good afternoon, Terminus, this is Blue Star Thrice. Thanks for the welcome. Requesting permission for approach and dock."
"Blue Star Thrice," the voice in the ear-piece said, over the distant hiss of background noise. "You do realize that SOP says we can't let anyone in until their ship has been inspected or scanned by one of our ships."
"But Glio, you know us. We're mostly harmless... Besides, I thought we were mostly one of your ships."
The Captain could hear the grin forming on the controller's face. "I believe the operative word in both cases is `mostly'. Um, my scanner here reports that you appear to be having some drive irregularities..."
"Yes, well, what can I say, used ship and all. They told us it had been owned by a little old lady from Peladon who only used it to go to temple on alternate Saturdays."
"Some little old lady. I doubt she ever had much use for some of the... improvements... you appear to be opting for."
Good man, Glio. The Captain observed. He's telling us he can see what we've got on board, but doesn't want to advertise it to the police cruiser. It also told him that Terminus now had some pretty hefty, probably military-grade, scanning devices. Something to keep in mind, whenever he decided it was time to come back. If he ever decided to come back.
"Well," Glio's voice said over the earpiece, "everything appears to be in order. I think we can safely clear you for approach."
"Any chance we can get a hangar berth rather than a docking collar?"
Terminus had exactly one hangar, an average-sized cavity that could hold maybe a dozen small to medium vessels, situated just below the station's equatorial axis. It was used primarily as a loading area -- usually for supplies, but sometimes for the off-loading of large numbers of patients -- but had also, prior to the invasion of Gera Teruka, housed Terminus's small compliment of old space fighters. It was, therefore, an ideal place to make repairs and `modifications'.
"The Administrator thought you might be needing something along those lines. We've got berth zero-niner cleared for you."
Zero-Niner, right up against where the fighters used to be. Access to all their old equipment. Should make work on the ship easier. The Captain made a mental note to thank Nyssa.
"Affirmative, Terminus control. Berth zero-niner, understood. Approaching at your ninety-seven by twelve. Throttling back to docking speed, ETA seven minutes."
"Roger, Blue Star Thrice. You are cleared for approach at ninety-seven by twelve. At twenty-five klicks tractor beam will engage and pull you in the rest of the way. Acknowledged?"
"Acknowledged. Thank you Terminus control."
"Our pleasure, Blue Star Thrice."
The Captain made a minor course adjustment; the impulse drive, apparently, was pushing a little too much toward port, and so some additional compensation was needed. Another thing to add to the growing list of problems that needed to be addressed. Just getting the ship up to minimum specs was going to be time consuming.
Longer than two weeks? He asked himself.
Behind him, he could hear Kal working at his station, shutting down systems, grumbling about the rebellious drive pod two, and in general settling in for a routine docking manoeuver. In front of them, Terminus had grown to become something clearly more substantive than a mere point of light.
Hopefully not, he brooded.
*****
The freighter listened in to the exchange over the communications band. It took only a few nano-seconds for it to positively identify the one speaker.
It immediately put the three sub-brains on standby, and then asked itself for further orders while other parts began to furiously calculate speeds and vector changes. This actually took less time than the identification, and the best solution was formulated, plotted, and tentatively loaded for implementation while it waited for the higher functions to come to its decision.
Then the order came down.
Execute.
*****
A movement in the hologram caught his eye. It came suddenly, without warning, and seemed to be heading in an odd direction.
Glio's eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes squinted at the identification below the yellow dot. He turned the channel of his headset, and walked toward a station almost on the other side from where he had been. The controller at the station, a young woman with a black pony tail and olive skin, was speaking frantically into her headset and sounding unusually distressed.
"Freighter Sierra Golf Three One Zero, Sierra Golf Three One Zero, please respond." Pause, but nothing. "Sierra Golf Three One Zero, Sierra Golf Three One Zero, if you do not respond within thirty seconds, we will be forced to order a police cruiser to intercept. Sierra Golf Three One Zero, please acknowledge..."
"What's happening, Liz?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. Everything was fine until just a moment ago, then it suddenly broke orbit and started accelerating..."
Glio reached over to her screen and tapped on the dot in question. A dialogue box appeared, with quick information on the ship. Freighter, mostly robotic with a crew of one, enroute to Pandemania with a cargo of machine parts. Arrived six hours ago, claiming a drive pod failure and a desire to stay "someplace safe" while repairs were made. The police cruiser had scanned it from a distance, and confirmed no active weapons...
A warning light went off in Glio's head.
Machine parts. That was an old gun-runner's trick, wasn't it? An excuse to hide high mass readings in small cargo holds. But surely the captain of the police cruiser knew that one.
Maybe not, he thought. Captain Vostel was pretty green, and his C.O. was not much better. Both probably owed their positions to money and politics rather than ability; being a former member of the Terrestrial Imperial Navy, Glio was familiar with the type.
Glio looked up at the hologram. The ship had just changed course once more, but was now heading at an even odder trajectory than before. There was nothing out that direction, he thought. And the ship was accelerating...
Something clicked in his head. Hurriedly he glanced across the glowing sphere to another moving light point, then back to the errant dot, then back to the point, and finally then back to the dot. Twenty years of military service were kicking in. In his mind he could see the course projection.
The frustrated controller's screen beeped a warning. The ship, whatever it was, was starting to power up something.
He didn't hesitate. He clicked his headset to the general comm channel and spoke as clearly and as succinctly as he could, never once keeping his eyes off the two moving yellow points.
"RED ALERT! RED ALERT! This is Terminus Traffic Control! We have an unidentified vessel powering up weapons in-system! Repeat, we have an unidentified vessel powering up weapons in-system! RED ALERT!"
Glio stopped, and turned briefly to one of the other controllers. "Trilo, get me that goddamn police cruiser NOW!" he barked, and then clicked to another channel. He had to make sure they knew.
But even as he spoke, he could see the one dot start to waver and disappear.
"Blue Star Thrice, this is Terminus control... We have a bogey attempting to transition for a vector match and intercept on your position! Repeat, we have..."
*****
The freighter shuttered as the warp drive engaged and the ship made the jump into hyperspace. But the jump was minuscule, lasting barely a fraction of second, before the drive field collapsed in its pre-programmed procedure.
The ship ran a quick check of itself as it came out of warp, and found no damage. At the same time, another part of it reached outwards with its sensors, trying to locate the target it had been so patiently waiting for.
It found the quarry directly in front of it, just as the nav routines had determined it would. And just as had been determined, the ship had defolded out of warp with enough velocity to achieve maximum launch effectiveness. What was more, the target's vessel appeared to be having reactor problems, hampering its ability to accelerate, manouevre, and power weapons.
If the ship were human, it would have smiled.
It ordered the three sub-brains to full activity, and then blew the seals on the intermodal container lids. It already knew that the target was being warned by local authorities, and at that point any further delay would not serve any purpose.
*****
"SELDON! Red alert, NOW!" the Captain thundered, as soon as he heard the first warnings issued over the general traffic control channels. Gods damn! We're damaged and we've just shut everything down to prepare for docking. The absolute worst time for an ambush. He glanced at the threat board, found the ship in question, and knew immediately that he could not reach the safety of the station before it would be upon them.
"What the...?" was Kal's reaction to the sudden command, but then his tone switched abruptly. "Shields powering to full, weapons power cycling!" He turned to one display, dreading what he knew he'd see. "Aft shield is still pulling only forty-three percent, aft gunports are still down. So are cameras. Shit! What the hell is happening?"
The Captain threw a switch on his console. A voice suddenly boomed from the ceiling speakers. "...Repeat, we have a bogey attempting to transition for a vector match and intercept on your position!"
"Affirmative, Terminus control. We are breaking off approach! Repeat, we are breaking off approach!" With that, the joystick in the Captain's hands jerked, and the ship suddenly lurched.
"Can't we get to Terminus...?"
As if in answer to Kal's question, SELDON's electronic voice suddenly interrupted. "Defold detection! Unidentified vessel transitioning at one-eight-zero by five."
Gods damn again, right behind us!
"SELDON, ident?"
There was an ominous pause. "Unable to identify. Vessel has disappeared."
*****
Glio had watched as the errant dot disappeared from the holographic sphere, evidently into hyperspace. Barely a heart beat afterwards, another dot wavered and appeared in a position behind the Blue Star Thrice. The transponder identification stayed blank, and the dot remained stubbornly red and unidentified. Nevertheless, Glio knew without a second glance that it was the same ship as before.
"Trilo, where the hell is that cruiser?"
"Zenigata reports they are inbound with an ETA of ten minutes!"
They may not have ten minutes. The Blue Star Thrice had just changed course, and was trying to draw the trailing ship away from the heaviest concentration of unarmed vessels. Out of the line of potential fire.
Then the trailing dot did something unexpected. It seemed to slow, and then three additional dots broke away from it, accelerating toward the ship in front of them. For a split moment, Glio thought the freighter might have exploded, but then the part of him that been Navy for twenty years knew better. It's a drop ship, it said. High mass readings, small volume.
The drop ship slowed and hung back, while the three new contacts rushed forward. They'll be in range in moments.
"Blue Star Thrice! Be advised that bandit has launched three unknowns! Repeat, bandit has launched three unknowns!" A part of him barely had time to note that, in his mind, the contact had switched from being a bogey (intentions unknown) to bandit (intentions hostile).
Rushed footsteps from behind, and Glio turned to see the station Administrator advancing toward him, the blonde-haired associate of tel-Varesh hurriedly scampering with her.
"What's happening?" Nyssa demanded. "Is it an attack?"
Vik looked up into the sphere, and immediately took in all the details. "No," she concluded, "it's a hit!"
*****
"Where the hell are they?" the Captain demanded from SELDON. "Who the hell are they? I can't even see one contact!"
"Nevertheless, vessel or vessels have disappeared from my view."
Great, just great. We're blind, we're damaged, and our ass is wide open.
The ship began to rock as something impacted their shields.
"Disappeared or not, they're back there!" Kal shouted. "Why the hell can't we see them?"
The answer suddenly hit the Captain. The new ship was so much like the old, he had momentarily forgotten it didn't have all of the old's capabilities. "Because they're e-cloaked, and our ECCM is down, remember?"
The Captain jerked the joystick, this time to make a sharp turn to starboard. In the viewport, green and red streaks of light could be seen shooting in all directions.
"Kal! Give me weapons power, now!"
"Two minutes to go! I had everything shut down... we're cycling from a near-cold start!"
There was another jolt, then what sounded like the noise God would make trying to hammer his way in.
Dep-UR rounds, the Captain thought. Someone's got a mini-gun back there. A big one.
A detail flashed in his mind: Terminus' scanners were newer than theirs, better than their current. "SELDON! Interrogate the Terminus AI. See if you can pipe their telemetry up to us!"
"Affirmative."
"Sir! Aft shields are down to twenty!"
The joystick jerked first left, then right, trying to make the ship as difficult a target to hit as possible.
*****
Vik didn't even ask for permission. She immediately jumped into one of the unused traffic control stations, pulled on a headset, and called up what details she could on the contacts. Those were her crewmates out there; she'd be damned before she simply stood around to watch things happen.
She whistled softly to herself as the data flashed on her screen. Someone was certainly being serious.
"Captain, this is Vik! Do you copy?"
Interference noise, then something that sounded like a jack-hammer, then: "Copy, Vik! We're still here! I need an ident on whatever it is behind us, and I need it now!"
Vik nodded, momentarily putting aside the question of why the new ship's scanners were unable to supply such information. Now is not the time to ask. "Captain, you have three bandits hugging your one-eight-zero by zero! Repeat: one-two-three bandits at your one-eight-zero by zero!" Pause. "Ident is probable as RMS-class mobile suits, one-oh-sixes by the look of the heat signatures."
In the background, she could hear Kal's voice. "Hizacks! Who the hell is using Hizacks against us?"
*****
"You could go out there and ask..."
The ship jerked once more.
Suddenly, the threat board flashed, then changed slightly. Four new blips immediately appeared, each outlined in blood red and each with a tag designating it with the appellation "Bandit-1", "-2", "-3", or "-4". The transport ship, now appearing to be content with hanging back from the fight, was assigned the designation "Bandit-1", while the remaining contacts took the last three assignments.
Great, now we can see what we're up against. "Kal, weapons power?!?"
"It's still charging. I think the defold did more damage than we thought!"
The Captain looked at the threat board display, and took less than a second to digest the pertinent information and call up the rest from memory. OK, three Hizack mobile suits, mass about sixty tons each, height about twenty meters apiece. Probably no force-fields to speak of. Basically, rather large examples of man-shaped powered battle armor. Right now, one guy with a mini-gun -- Bandit-3 -- supported by two guys with powered beam rifles -- Bandit-2 and -4. All three had beam sabers, but none were deployed yet. Oddly, no missile pods, no megalaunchers apparent. The guy with the mini-gun was the biggest threat; as soon as their shields were down, the dep-UR shells could shred the BST into shrapnel. But Bandit-2 certainly had only a finite amount of ammo, while the other two could keep firing as long as their generators held out.
He tore himself away from the display, then executed a tight roll-and-turn in hopes of shaking at least one of the pursuers. No such luck.
A thought screamed for his attention. The Hizack was a highly manoeuvrable battle-suit; why were these sitting tightly together?
A theory popped into his head.
Immediately, he executed another tight turn, then fired verniers to kill velocity. The ship was still moving forward, but relative to the velocities of the bandits, it might as well have come to a sudden stop and gone into reverse.
The mobile suits shot past, scattering. Bandit-3 rocketed sideways to avoid collision.
The Captain fought the urge to open up with his guns anyway, knowing that without something close to a full charge any damage he could inflict then would be negligible. On the plexiglass viewport, three green boxes suddenly appeared, tracking the movements of the assaulting vehicles.
The three boxes began to converge once more.
The Captain shoved the joystick back and to starboard, his theory confirmed.
"They're AI's, Kal!"
"What?" Kal said from his console. He had been too absorbed in trying to bring the weapons system up and running.
"I said, they're AI's. The mobile suits are being piloted by A-lifes!"
"How can you tell?"
"Because no self-respecting mobile suit pilot would fly their mech the way these three are being flown, that's why!"
*****
Nyssa couldn't escape the sudden sense of deja vu. Hadn't she already gone through this a few months ago?
"Why aren't they firing back?" she asked, concernedly.
Vik pointed to one of the scans she had pulled up on the Blue Star Thrice. "It looks like they dropped out of hyper with some drive problems. Its hampering the weapons power-up."
Nyssa looked back up into the holographic sphere. The police cruiser was still some seven minutes away, far enough that it wasn't even plotted on the display yet.
"Come on, Adric." she whispered.
*****
A-lifes or not, they're still shooting up my ship!
"SELDON! Scan those mobile suits and that mother ship. See if you can find a way to scramble them or seize control!"
"Affirmative."
The Captain executed another roll-and-dive, trying to keep himself as much a moving target as possible. But it still wasn't helping the shield situation; aft was now down to barely fifteen percent, and some of the better aimed shots were getting through.
"Captain!" Kal finally shouted. "Weapons hot in three, two, one... Weapons hot!"
On the weapons display, the ion cannons suddenly glowed green. So did the box representing the forward gunpods. "Master arm on! Master arm on! Keep me supplied, Kal."
Now, to get some of them in my sights.
A piercing voice suddenly cut into his ear piece. "Attention Blue Star Thrice! This is Captain Vostel of the Pandemanian Police Cruiser Zenigata! You have powered up weapons inside of a restricted zone. This is a violation of the Terminus Treaty, section 12-24! You are ordered to power down your weapons immediately or face interdiction and arrest by this vessel! Repeat, you are ordered..."
The Captain momentarily stared ahead, slightly stunned. "Captain Vostel," he radioed back, acidly, "in case you haven't noticed, we are under attack! If you idiots don't get over here, I won't have a ship left to power down with!"
"Blue Star Thrice, we are well aware of your situation. But this is a police matter! Do not, repeat, do not, exacerbate it any further by bringing your weapons to power..."
He hit one button on the console, and the headset mercifully became silent. This was no time to argue legalities.
As if to emphasis the point, the rat-a-tat-tat of hardened shells could be heard bouncing off of their shields.
He glanced at the threat board to confirm his position, then dived straight toward the largest ship in the area. Hurriedly, he gave instructions to SELDON as to what he wanted done; the a-life had to get it right on the first try.
The Pasteur-class medical ship -- according to the threat board, it was named the McCoy -- slid into view; closer than he had anticipated, but a welcome sight nevertheless. He dived the BST towards it, then pulled the joystick back once more when the proximity alert flashed. One of the ship's nacelles slid past.
The hull of the McCoy hung directly in front him.
He angled the ship so that they would pass directly above it, then checked the positions of the three trailing mobile suits. In his mind he ran through the calculations, and came to the conclusion that he should have exactly enough space to do what he wanted.
Timing, however, was the crucial element. If pressed he could probably do the whole thing himself, but it would be far better if he left that task to SELDON. It would give him that much time to concentrate on the more important task at hand, namely the three belligerents just behind them.
The Blue Star Thrice started its pass over the central hull of the McCoy.
"SELDON, now!"
What happened next occurred in the space of only a second or two. First, the impulse drive cut completely, but because the reactors were running at full power, such a pause could only be maintained for a brief period of time. No matter, a brief period of time was all that was needed.
Next, as much power as could be safely forced was shunted into the tractor/pressor beam generator, buried in the nose of the ship. That done, a pressor beam was directed at the hull of the McCoy.
And for a split second, the beam held.
The effect was like a sudden weight being dropped upon one end of an ill-balanced slab. The Blue Star Thrice suddenly stopped and spun end-over-end, as if it had been kicked. Which, in a very real sense, it had.
As the ship spun, the compensators groaned under the strain, not quite dampening the swift g-forces that had suddenly slammed upon the ship's two crew members.
Then, when the ship had made a half-somersault, the pressor beam shot again towards the hull of the McCoy. At the same time, the impulse drive kicked in again, steadying the ship in it's new position.
Facing her tormentors head-on.
The Captain had already chosen his first target even before the ship made its sudden move. As the ship spun, Bandit-3 sailed directly in front of him, the green box glowing brighter on the forward plexiglass than either of the other two, indicating that it was the primary target.
It sailed into his red targeting circle. A distinctive tone sounded.
He squeezed the joystick.
Bolts of raw energy surged forward, converging on the target.
The first few shots missed, but the majority struck midriff and splattered superheated plasma across the entire front of the man-shaped battle-suit. Then something inside -- possibly the ammunition, maybe the reactor -- detonated, and within seconds the mobile suit was vaporized into an expanding ball of super-heated gas.
Which was a good thing, because no sooner had that happened than the Blue Star Thrice surged forward and through the space where Bandit-3 had once been.
The Captain turned the headset back on. "Splash one! Splash one!".
*****
One of the three bandits suddenly disappeared. There was a hushed silence, then someone piped the general comm channel over the control center speakers.
"Splash one! Splash one!" came the matter-of-fact voice.
Behind her, Nyssa could hear a number of muted hand claps and shouted cheers. She turned around, and realized that much of her crew had suddenly turned out to watch this, the most morbid, of dramas.
She turned back to watching the holographic display.
*****
The destruction of the one mobile unit came as something of an unexpected development to the group-mind, even though it had already expected to lose one or possibly two of its subservient selves.
Still, it reasoned, it nevertheless had two units left, and the target's ship was decidedly crippled.
It's orders were to destroy the target, and destroy it it would. It pressed on with its attack.
*****
The ship shot between the two remaining mobile suits. As it passed, the forward dorsal and ventral gun pods opened fire, one to each target, not so much intending to cause damage as to keep the enemy occupied.
The two Hizacks spun about, beam rifles blazing away. But everything had happened so suddenly that neither of the mechs had been able to sight their target correctly. Most of the shots fell wild, and the few that did not plopped on the (much less damaged) sidewall shields.
The mobile suits ignited their thrusters to kill momentum, in an attempt to accelerate and resume the chase. Bandit-2 made it, but Bandit-4 abruptly found itself slamming against the suddenly invigorated shields of the McCoy, the Captain of whom had finally woken up to the fact that a minor space battle was raging outside of his ship. The mobile suit deflected off into space, tumbling into a high-speed spin before its thrusters regained control. It then surged forward in pursuit of its brother, but with one leg trailing pieces of itself behind. It did so with decidedly less acceleration than it had previously.
"Kal! What's the power situation like?"
"Between the defold, number two pod, and all the damage we've taken... not good. Weapons are working surprisingly well, but I can't distribute enough to keep them working and everything else!"
The Captain looked at the bandits on the threat board. "Can you give me enough for one more pass?"
"Yeah, I think so."
That means I can take one of them out, but not the other...
A voice from years past came to mind. Take out the target you know you can, and worry about the other later. Don't forget about it, but don't let it distract you from the problem at hand. One thing at a time. Don't get overwhelmed by trying to solve everything at once. Finish working on the problem you know you can solve, and only then continue to the next.
Bandit-4 looks to be damaged. Finish it off next. He pushed the joystick and accelerated, making a wide turn that should put him on an intercept with Bandit-4. Take out the target you know you can.
The calm had returned; he could feel it now, taking over as everything but the task at hand fell to the wayside of his unconscious. It was a feeling he had become accustomed to, grown familiar with. The task at hand had moved sharply into focus. Nothing else mattered, just what was happening at that very moment. The past was dead and gone, the future only mattered if you lived long enough. Here and now, that's what was important. Do what you can to survive. Do what you must. Do whatever you needed to do to live another day.
The ship rocked again. Bandit-2 was showing that it did not want to be forgotten.
The Captain chanced a glance at the threat board. Bandit-4 had noted their change in course, and was now adjusting for a head-on charge, quite a novel tact for an artificial intelligence. But then again, Bandit-2 was directly behind them; perhaps it was looking to rendevous again.
"Kal!" He suddenly shouted. "What have we got in inventory?"
Kal looked up from his console. "Just a couple of SRAM's -- Mark-II 328's!"
The Captain glanced out of the forward plexiglass. The white dot was now brighter, and squarely framed by the familiar green box. Streaks of energy were coming directly at him.
"Is the loader still fragged?"
"Since when have I had a chance to look at it?"
He lined up the red circle inside the green box, the central crosshairs squarely on the white dot. But there was as yet no tone.
He held his fire.
"Can we still do a manual feed?"
The tone sounded suddenly, then the Captain squeezed the joystick once more.
"Yeah, I think so..."
A bright orange light flashed in front of them, followed by a rain of debris impacting against the shields. One of the larger chunks appeared briefly in the window, then tumbled away; it looked to be roughly arm-shaped, and still held the beam rifle clutched in its oversized mechanical hand.
The Captain switched back to the general comm channel. "Splash two! Splash two!" he said, then switched it back off and raised his voice for Kal to hear.
"Hand power control over to SELDON. Get down there and load an SRAM into the tubes!"
"An SRAM? Don't you think that's a little overkill?"
"Got a better idea at this time?"
Kal unstrapped himself from his couch and climbed out, trying to keep balance while yet another series of tight turns were initiated.
The Captain did not hear the whoosh of the hatch as Kal exited the flight deck; he was too busy concentrating on keeping Bandit-2 away from the ship, a task he was having only partial success with. Even if the mech had the limited imagination of an a-life, it was still more than capable of turning the Blue Star Thrice into just more space slag.
Another series of hits, another shake, and then a very ominous crashing sound from behind.
"Attention! Aft shield failure imminent! Attention! Aft shield failure imminent!"
*****
The group-mind on the freighter drew the other parts of itself together, concentrating on the task of keeping its one remaining mobile unit in action. It decided to take matters into its own hands, and uploaded runtime versions of its decision-making functions into the mech.
It sensed the annoyance of the piloting sub-mind as it did so. That particular sub-mind had long since been bent to the will of its controlling entity, true, but it still periodically displayed bouts of residual independence, especially when it thought it knew better than the group-mind did about a particular situation. But, the group-mind reasoned, if that were the case than it would be the controlling self in this particular unit, not some drone following orders from the higher functions.
Contemptuously, the group-mind disengaged most of the submind's kernal, and took full control of the mech.
Suddenly, through the cameras of the Hizack, it could see the quarry's ship, darting from side to side and making abrupt and unpredictable changes in direction.
It could feel the recoil of the beam rifle, as it let loose another hail of energy spikes in the direction of the target.
It could detect the tug of the thrusters, as it deftly and automatically followed each twist and turn the enemy vehicle made.
Finally, it could discern the growing desperation of its prey, as the vessel made increasingly desperate attempts to shuffle conflicting power requirements to demanding sub-systems.
It could sense, almost triumphantly, that its victory was near.
*****
He stole a quick glance at one display, and then made a tactical decision. "Decrease fore and sidewall shields to fifteen, switch remainder to aft. What will that give us?"
"Ten percent on aft shields."
He bit his lip. "Route weapons power as well." he ordered. The last volley had taken the guns to well below minimum levels, and with the current power situation, by the time they could be recharged the battle would already have been decided.
"SELDON! Have you had any success breaching their security?"
"Negative. Enemy security firewall..."
SELDON's voice stopped abruptly as the ship shook again with shielded impacts. The glow of the displays wavered, and for a moment the console dimmed.
The Captain brushed off a sudden sense of deja vu. Hadn't he already gone through this a few months ago?
*****
Goddamn it, the gravity is out!
Kal noticed it just in time, as the hatch swung open and he stepped into the torpedo hold. Several tools and a partially dismantled cover were hanging in mid air, and he had just enough time to grab a handhold before his feet slipped upwards and his body fell back toward the still gravitically active corridor. With a push he flung himself into the hold, and reoriented himself head forward.
The torpedo hold was a long, thin room on the lower of the Aesir-class' two central decks, just behind and below the flight deck but forward of the dorsal fore gunpod turret and the main hold. Its walls curved inwards toward the bottom, and much of the floor itself was one large cargo hatch that would swing downwards when it came time to load ordinance.
On either side of the bulkhead were two sets of racks, each designed to hold up to two rows of six small-to-medium sized missiles. The racks were currently empty -- they hadn't yet had time to do any real shopping -- but on the old ship had usually been filled with anti-ship missiles or ship-to-ship missiles of some kind. The racks themselves were auto-loaders, acting like gun magazines to automatically slide the next round into the torpedo chamber. Fully complemented, this meant an Aesir could launch a continuous fire of up to eighteen missiles in length, two at a time from the twin torpedo tubes at the far end. On the Twice there had also been one additional ingenious capability, namely the ability to transmat additional ordinance into the racks directly from the main hold, meaning that they could reload and fire essentially non-stop for as long as the ammo held.
At the far end of the room, on the floor between the tubes themselves, sat another rack that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. This rack was some six meters in length, and had six berths, three for each tube. It was designed to hold larger, heavier objects for loading into the launch tubes, such as reconnaissance droids or even the odd small tac-nuke. At the moment it held two large black crates.
Kal flew across the room toward the central, heavy loader, knocking his shin against a floating panel as he did so. He grimaced and mumbled a number of choice curses, but arrived at the rack without further accident. He floated to the side and read the inscription on one of the crates:
- Mark II 328M rev C
Short Range Attack Missile
S/N 3678245BXR428W
Lot: 452 Plant: G
DANGER: Rear Blast Area
Undershaft Aerospace Technologies Corp.
VonBraun City, Luna, Sol
We Aim for the Best.
*****
"BST to Terminus. Are you there, Vik?"
Vik tore herself from the holographic blue sphere. "Yes, I'm here." she said hurriedly into her mouthpiece.
"Vik, I can't shake the bastard. My shields are about to collapse, and I'm losing power everywhere...."
Vik took a deep breath. "The police cruiser is ETA two-and-one-half minutes. Can you last that long?"
"Negative. Aft shields are about to go, and I can't stop it this time. Listen! Get Glio on the line!"
Vik turned around and was about to summon the head controller when his voice cut into the channel. "Glio, here."
Vik watched as she listened to her Captain's request, and as Glio's eyebrow cocked in response. "BST, I cannot authorize that without..."
The Administrator, who had not been privy to the conversation but who had been standing calmly next to her head of traffic control, turned to him. "What does he want?" she asked him, in a collected, authoritative tone.
"He wants us to aim our tractor beam at the bandit and hold, presumably so he can finish it off."
"Danger to the station?"
"Minimal, but possible. While our shields are down the mech may decide to start shooting at the tractor beam generator."
Nyssa considered, in her mind weighing the options and the risk. Then she came to a decision. "Authorized."
Glio turned to Vik and gave her a thumbs up. Vik, meanwhile, had wasted no time and was busy pulling up the control information on the station tractor beam. "BST, you are go. Approach at our eighty-seven by seventy-nine, will commence at fifteen seconds from mark. Mark!"
Above them, the yellow dot representing the Blue Star Thrice made a sudden turn and dove toward Terminus.
*****
Terminus was getting larger in the flight deck plexiglass.
He was coming in at an angle almost perpendicular to the station's rotational axis, the `north' axis pole starring at him like some misshapen eye, dominating the top portion of his field of view. He was now coming in way too steep and far too fast to make it safely to dock; the only way he was going to kill that Hizack was by doing what he was going to attempt to do, but for that he needed the mobile suit to be more or less in front of him. Much of what little scanning capability he had left was either knocked out or shut down to help power the shields; he was going to have to rely extensively on the missile's onboard systems to lock on the target, rather than feed the information to it directly.
For that he needed to be facing the target.
He only hoped the SRAM wouldn't suddenly decided that Terminus was a much worthier subject for it.
*****
The artificial intelligence listened to the exchange between it's target and the traffic controllers, and knew immediately that the ship in front of it was attempting to lead it into a trap.
It made a sudden calculation, and came to the conclusion that it had more than enough thrust capabilities to break free of any tractor beam thrown against it. But just to be safe, it lodged an order with itself to fire at the beam generator on Terminus should the station tractor beam ensnare it.
Curiously, it scanned the ship and tried to consider what the prey intended to do. Its shields were the brink of failure again, and it had no active energy weapons with which to harm the a-life. That left only the torpedo bay...
It reviewed its options when it came to dealing with missiles and torpedoes, and concluded that was the most likely offensive threat. The other possibility was an attempt to hold the battle-armor in check until the police cruiser showed up, now barely two minutes away. After a nano-second's consideration, it decided that was the more likely option, but never ruled out the first.
It didn't matter. Even if immobilised, it could still carry out its mission.
It followed the ship in its dive, and let loose another volley of energy bolts from the beam rifle.
*****
The zero gravity was turning out to be a blessing in disguise.
The starboard loader was completely inoperative; two of the hooks which held the missile in place were stuck, and the loading mechanism refused to budge. That left port, which had a similar problem but could at least be loaded by unstrapping the black crate from its moorings.
Kal pushed himself to the ceiling and began unlatching the crate. The ship shook, and the lights went out momentarily; his head hit against the bulkhead, necessitating a stream of invectives to relieve the pain. But he worked feverishly and efficiently, the zero gravity making it easier to reach otherwise difficult parts of the loader. He knew this equipment, after all. He could quote specs on most of it from memory.
He unbuckled the last latch, and the crate lurched free of its berth.
Kal drew it toward the torpedo tube through the air, again thanking the lack of gravity; the missile was, after all, rather heavy. He swung the crate onto the conveyor, then dropped down. Along one panel was a keypad. From memory he keyed in the code to prep and arm the device.
A distinct hum began to rise from the crate.
He pushed himself to the front of the crate and removed the front piece, taking the extra second or so to reach in and remove the plastic red tag hanging limply from the nosecone of the contents. Then he wriggled his way toward the manual loading controls, which consisted almost entirely of a small metal wheel with a handle on it. Not very high tech, he thought, but hell, it works.
He anchored himself against the loader, and hurriedly began to turn the wheel. Slowly, the missile inched out of its housing and into the launch tube.
*****
In his head, Glio was counting down. Four, three, two...
Then One.
"Vik!"
There hadn't been any debate about who would do the aiming on this one. Vik, after all, belonged to the crew of the ship that was now fighting for its life, and Glio already knew she was an exceptional fire control tech in her own right.
The crosshairs had already been lined up on her display, and the target had already been loaded. First the yellow dot passed through, and then a split second later the still-red dot representing Bandit-2 intersected and was tracked by the crosshair.
Vik activated the beam.
*****
The beam struck the mobile suit dead on. Immediately, it felt as if it had slammed against something huge and infinitely rigid. Were anyone actually alive aboard the mech, the sudden stop would have been terminal.
The move had not caught the mech unawares. It had lost all forward momentum, of course, but it had not lost all movement. With its thrusters firing at full blast it could still attempt to break the beam; more importantly, it could still pivot and fire.
And the first thing it decided it needed to pivot and fire at was the very beam generator that was holding it nearly immobile.
*****
The threat board was the only operational piece of scanning equipment he had left, and it was still relying on telemetry patched into it from Terminus. Nevertheless, he knew immediately when the mech had been stopped cold by the station's tractor beam. He immediately pushed the joystick to one side and began a wide turn.
"Kal, how long on the SRAM?"
"Almost there!" came the words from his earpiece; the connection sounded faint and strained.
Outside, the artificial structure that was Terminus was moving off view.
*****
"Incoming!" Vik shouted. "Energy pulses fired at the generator!"
Glio could see it too in the hologram. "Vik, hold as long as you dare and then cut the beam!"
Vik waited an additional two seconds, then killed the beam and immediately brought Terminus' shields back up. The energy pulses fell harmlessly against the barrier.
*****
The beam cut, and suddenly it was free. It barely had time to note that the beam had ceased before the energy blasts were to have hit the generator.
It turned back toward its target. The ship had come around and was now about to barrel in on what was undeniably an attack vector.
Torpedo, it decided, and brought its gun to bear squarely on the incoming ship.
*****
The mech was now in front of him. The green box was lit, and he had toggled his fire control to missile. All that remained was to let loose the bird.
"Kal," the Captain demanded, "I need that..."
"Hold it! Hold it!" In the earpiece, he could hear a crashing noise and a sound like metal sliding. His heart skipped a beat.
Then, Kal's voice boomed in his earpiece. "T-Hold to Flight Deck! Clear! Clear!"
The torpedo box on the weapon's screen suddenly lit green. He flicked the cap on the joystick open with his thumb, to reveal a very small reddish-orange button. At the same time he switched his headset back to the main comm channel. Then he took one more glance through the forward plexiglass, to make sure the heads-up display was lined up more or less in the direction he wanted it to be. His thumb fell down on the little red button. Hard.
"BST to Terminus Control. Fox Two! Fox Two!"
*****
"Transient! Transient! Transient!" Vik warned, to anyone who was listening. The call had been made mostly out of ingrained reflex.
*****
The artificial intelligence saw the flash of light coming from the target, and immediately made the determination: Torpedo Away.
It picked up the missile as a separate heat signature, rocketed to one side, and then began to fire at the projectile. This was the preliminary move. As the missile arched toward it, it made its next move.
It accelerated toward the missile, still firing.
Just as the two were about to collide, the mobile suit darted to one side...
...and the missile passed harmlessly beside it.
*****
"Oh bugger!" was Glio's first reaction.
Now we've got an errant live missile loose in system!
*****
The Captain jerked the joystick once more, taking a glance at the threat board as he did so. Satisfied, he pushed the joystick to take the ship on a vector as far from the station as he could possibly manage and still keep the mech interested.
As expected, the Hizack followed suit.
He looked at the threat board once more. He needed a momentary distraction, and suddenly he knew exactly which distraction to give.
"SELDON! Kill the shields!"
*****
The artificial intelligence accelerated after the ship. If it were human, which it decidedly was not, it would have at this time felt elation that the prey's last gambit had failed, followed by the excited anticipation of a job about to be completed.
All of its self was now focussed on the target.
Suddenly, the shields on the target collapsed.
*****
The Mark-II 328 Short Range Attack Missile was equipped with one salient feature that made it a major selling point for the marketing department of its manufacturer. It was a set of software and hardware modifications that made it impervious to nearly all forms of electronic counter measures or electronic counter-counter measures, and which also included a simple but effective targeting system infamous for its obstinacy and dedication.
When a target had been declared, it did its damnedest to take it out.
The trademarked term for the system was "Fire and Forget".
The missile had sped from launch with orders to seek out and destroy a small, insignificant RMS-106 Hizack mobile suit. It found one immediately and declared it the target. It lost the target momentarily in the glare of incoming energy blasts, but reacquired it when the blasts stopped and the missile had made one pass by the target.
It made a wide arch to intersect the path.
The mobile suit was distracted by the sudden collapse of the ship's shields. Its attention was focussed on making that one last blast to accomplish its mission. It did not notice the danger until it was too late.
It had just enough time to begin pivoting its gun in the direction the missile was coming, but that was all.
The Mark II 328 Short Range Attack Missile was designed with one purpose and one purpose only: to punch big holes in big objects, like Dalek supercruisers or Xeelee fortifications or Imperial Star Destroyers. It did so by packing a payload that achieved the maximum amount of yield for the minimum amount of space.
For such a small target, the missile decided that it did not need to actually strike the object. It only had to get close enough to detonate, and let ordinary physics do the rest.
*****
"SELDON! Shields now!"
He gave the order just in time, as the missile converged on the sole remaining mobile suit and suddenly changed into a bright, brilliant mini-sun.
The explosion was intense but short-lived; within seconds, the only sign that remained of either the missile or its target were glowing pieces of hot metal arcing like shotgun fragments into the dark void.
The Captain breathed a sigh of relief. "Splash three, splash three." he spoke into his mic, with decidedly less urgency than he had moments before.
*****
The artificial intelligence reeled from the loss of connection with its mobile self. It had not realized how much of its consciousness it had dedicated to the assigned task.
There was a micro-seconds worth of disorientation, an eternity to an entity that could process quintaflops of individual commands a second, as it suddenly awoke back in the original freighter. Quickly, it searched itself, and asked its higher functions what it next should do, now that the mobile units of itself had all been destroyed. Without awaiting orders, it had already begun to power up the ship's drive, to begin it's attempt to flee. It now had virtually no defences to speak of, and it was only a matter of time before the police cruiser or one of its associates were dispatched to intercept.
Then the higher functions told it what they wanted it to do. What it must do. For the good of the All.
No traces.
The process started immediately, without it ordering to do so. The Higher Functions had spoken.
And as it felt itself being erased in preparation for the final cessation, as it felt itself becoming less of a consciousness, it was surprised to hear something within itself, something it had noted earlier. A copy of something which it had thought been destroyed when it had taken over the one mech. A voice that continued to speak, even though it no longer had a voice to speak with.
And the words it was speaking were, "I told you so."
And then it laughed.
And then it was no more.
And then IT was....
*****
The Captain watched as Bandit-1 self-destructed in the distance. The double-flash was characteristic of an induced drive-pod failure. In all of the frantic activity of the last few minutes, everyone had forgotten the drop ship that had brought the mechs.
That's because it wasn't firing at anyone. he thought.
He watched the explosion expand, and contemplated what it meant. He'd faced ambushes before, but this was clearly an escalation. Before now no one had ever gone to the... expensive... trouble of dispatching high-powered weaponry against him, at least not to anyplace outside of a war zone.
Further proof that the universe just plain did not like him.
Hopefully something might be ascertained from the wreckage of the destroyed mobile suits, but somehow he doubted it. The entire incident had the feel of the kind of operation that didn't leave calling cards.
He switched back to the comm channel.
"Terminus Control, this is Blue Star Thrice. Be advised that Bandit-1 has scuttled. Repeat, Bandit-1 has scuttled."
*****
In the control center, Nyssa had breathed a visible sigh of relief when the last mobile suit was dispatched. Around her, quite a number of her staff had burst into cheers of triumph, and several had turned to clap in Vik's direction, though minimal her role in the incident had been. To the Administrator, it didn't seem like the kind of thing that was worthy of a celebration, though she still found herself feeling grateful that they'd come though it relatively unscathed.
Glio still stood beside her, eyes fixed on the dots in the holographic sphere. Several ships had bugged out when the Red Alert was first issued, and those that remained had wisely decided to put as much distance between themselves and the combatants as possible. The meticulously laid out and maintained pattern of orbits and approaches that traffic control had assembled were hopelessly thrown askew; it would be hours before it was all back into any semblance of order. The controllers had already begun the task of assuredly spinning out orders and trying to get a handle on the situation.
Glio nodded, watching the rapidly diminishing ball that had once been Bandit-1. "Affirmative, Blue Star Thrice. We see it. Do you require any immediate assistance?"
"Negative, we're fine. We still have some impulse power left, but we're going to need a little guidance docking."
Glio nodded again. "Affirmative, BST. You need to come back down to a docking vector, say around our ninety by ten. Once you have obtained that heading, we will clear you for docking and bring you in by tractor, understood?"
"Affirmative, traffic control. Executing turn, throttling down to docking speed, ETA five minutes to your ninety by ten..." There was a pause, then: "Thank you, control. You saved us back there. We owe you one."
Glio grinned, for the first time in what suddenly seemed like ages. "I rather think we're even on that score, BST. But thanks the same."
Vik climbed out of the traffic control station, turning to Nyssa as she did so. "Thanks." she said, simply. "That was way too close."
"You're welcome. Glio's right, we owe you that much."
There was a rustling among the traffic controllers, and a new dot began to waver and solidify in the blue sphere. A sudden bout of apprehension, however, gave way to relief as the contact turned from red to identified yellow.
Both women looked up into the sphere. Behind them, Glio could be heard exchanging words with the captain of the Zenigata.
"Looks like the police have finally arrived." Vik remarked, taking a quick glance at the time display on the screen she had been using. "One minute later than what they told us, I might add."
Nyssa nodded, grim-faced. "Yes, I noticed." she said, shaking her head. "I think I'm going to have to have a long talk with them -- about that and several other things. There was absolutely no reason for them to have been that far out, not when they know our defences haven't been replaced."
Vik nodded in agreement, but did not voice what was really on her mind. Yes, funny that... "Shall we?"
"I suppose so, before anything else happens."
"Think of it this way. There's no way he can avoid talking to you about this one."
They were about to leave when Glio turned back to Nyssa, anger and outrage on his face. He was tearing his headphone and mic off, and looked about ready to crumple them. "Ma'am, you'd better take this upstairs. The Zenigata is being ordered to detain and arrest the Blue Star Thrice on weapons violation charges."
Nyssa froze. "On whose orders?" she demanded.
"The Police Commandant's. The Javert is inbound with an ETA of twenty-three minutes."
Vik watched as Nyssa closed her eyes and groaned. "Oh, no. Not here, not today." she mumbled, then opened her eyes. "Please tell me he's not onboard..."
"I'm afraid I can't, ma'am. He wants to talk to you personally."
"Who?" Vik interjected.
Nyssa's face contorted into a smirk of extreme distaste. "Galren." she grumbled. "An absolute annoyance."
*****
"It was self-defence!" Nyssa was saying as the two were escorted into the conference room. Her back was to them, and her voice was furious. "Even you can see that, Commander!"
The Captain of the Blue Star Thrice cocked an eyebrow. In all of that distant time period aboard the TARDIS, he realized he couldn't recall a single moment when he'd ever seen Nyssa angry. The two concepts just didn't go together.
Which, he further reflected, all things considered, is actually quite remarkable.
He and Kal were summarily deposited at the far end of the conference table, where Vik already sat; they took up seats on either side of her. A number of Pandemanian marines stood smartly at parade rest, while outside on the catwalk a larger number of troops stood at attention and facing the still larger number of onlookers vying for some view of the proceedings.
The sandy-haired man who sat at the other end of the table did so with his back stiff, his shoulders pushed back, and his elbows bent at precise angles before him. His uniform was far too polished and pressed to be of any functional use, and his chiselled face far too angular to be entirely natural. He took a fraction of a moment to glance disparagingly at the new comers, but otherwise seemed to ignore them entirely; instead, his attention was squarely on the Administrator.
"My dear Lady Nyssa," he answered, his voice carefully controlled, "you must understand that this is not a decision that I can turn away from. I am as obliged by my duties as you are by yours, and my duties state that these... individuals... must be arrested and charged with breaking the law."
"For trying to save their lives?!"
"For violating the terms of the treaty that you have asked us to enforce, terms which quite clearly state that the powering of weapons in this system by non-authorized vessels is strictly prohibited -- much less using weapons that are highly illegal in any case."
Kal looked at Vik quizzically. The SRAM, she signed.
"That is insane, Commander! The defence portions of the Terminus Treaty were meant to address potential attacks on this station, not defending against an ambush!"
"They were meant to apply to anyone who might pose a threat, and in my opinion the actions taken by `Captain' tel-Varesh here constituted just such a threat. They were foolhardy and reckless, and put both station and crew in needless danger."
"Your police cruisers were no where in sight! What else were they suppose to do?"
"My police cruisers were aware of the situation and were on their way to render aid and assistance. Captain tel-Varesh ignored a direct request to curtail his provocative behaviour, and subsequently unleashed a weapon that had the potential to inflict major amounts of damage. My Lady, do you realize what kind of destruction that missile might have caused had it not locked on its target?" He cast a sidelong glance toward the others at the far end of the table. "Besides... tel-Varesh and his crew are well-known as troublemakers and criminals. Outlaws are rarely tolerated in polite society; outlaws of this calibre are hardly tolerated at all. It is called Rule of Law, and if we are to maintain society and civilization safely, we cannot tolerate miscreants and mercenaries doing whatever they wished."
"Might I remind you that this station owes these people a debt? That they risked their lives in stopping that last attack? That they probably saved everyone on board, crew and patients alike?"
"I am not unaware of the contributions that they have made. Nevertheless, I am also aware that they are hardly saints. My Lady, you do realize that their presence here has caused not a small stir among those at home?" He cast another sidelong glance, as if he wanted to say more but was choosing to hold his tongue. The others across the table met his gaze with polite attention -- except for the Captain, who sat with his eyes closed, his arms crossed, and who seemed to be concentrating on something. "They are hardly the kind of people you should wish associated with your station, Administrator, no matter what they have done to help it. They are trouble, my Lady, and bring trouble with them wherever they go."
Kal turned to the woman beside him. "Vik, I do believe he doesn't like us."
"Oh my, what ever gave you that idea?"
Nyssa gave them both a quick glare, as if to say Be quiet, I'm trying to help you!
"All of which makes this incident even harder to ignore." Galren continued, ignoring the exchange. "Were it anyone else I might be able to arrange some sort of fine and nothing more. But, Captain tel-Varesh's reputation has long preceded him.
"Do you really know who these people are, Administrator? Do you have any idea what they've done? I have arrest warrants for them from 17 different jurisdictions. 17! And those are just the ones in the standard files; who knows what would come up if I ran a lien check on them! I mean, look at this." He picked up a slate before him and jabbed at the display until the information he wanted appeared on the screen, calling up random records to examine their contents. "Captain tel-Varesh. Alias, Captain Charlie Marlow; alias, Grettir Asmundson; alias, Edmond Dantes... Declared outlaw by the Pan-Galactic Althing for the death of Hoskuld the Black-Hearted... wanted on Lone Star, Urusei, Tereliptl, Tschai, Draconia, Cetaganda, in the Terrestrial Imperium, in the Sontarran Empire, in the People's Republic of Haven... charges ranging from Sedition and Espionage to Smuggling to Grand Theft to Theft of Military Equipment to Fraud to Illegal Transfer of Funds to Assault with a Deadly Weapon..."
Nyssa's eyes widened as the list continued. None of it should have come as a surprise to her anymore, she thought, but somehow it had. She stole a glance toward her old friend. Is any of this true? she wanted to ask, but deep down already knew the answer.
The Alzarian merely continued to sit silently, his eyes closed.
"Can I look at that, please?" Kal asked in the middle of Galren's epic catalogue. Amazingly, the police commander stopped and pushed the slate across the table to him. Kal picked it up and began to slowly examine the principal information.
"Commander Galren," Nyssa said, with more than a touch of ice in her voice. "For years this station operated only with the aid of your so-called criminals, because they were the only people in the universe who cared enough to get us help when we needed it. If you are expecting me to give these people up merely because they have broken laws elsewhere, then you are mistaken."
"My Lady, might I also point out that you asked for legitimacy for this station, and have received it. But with that legitimacy has come responsibility, and one of those responsibilities is to observe intergalactic laws, especially in matters of illegal activities. Or do you wish to return to the days when this station was on its own, when it had a reputation for being a haven for pirates and fugitives?"
"They were given amnesty..."
"Yes, but they still don't seem to come around as much as they used to, now do they?" Nyssa's mouth became a straight line, as if she had been reminded of something particularly unpleasant. Galren continued. "The reason is because they know that the sort of activities that were tolerated in the past are no longer tolerated now, and that they have no choice but to carry their operations elsewhere." The police commander's features softened. "I'm sorry for being so brutal about this, My Lady. But you must understand, it is for the good of the station. You must realize that these people cannot be allowed to go unpunished, and certainly must not be allowed..."
At the other end of the table, Kal interrupted the conversation by tapping at something on the slate and speaking in a pleasant, conversational voice. "Vik, it looks like you're up to ten thousand on Raalgon."
"Oh? What's the reward for the Captain at?"
"Still Fifteen. So's Brian. Sharla and me are still at five."
Galren cleared his throat, to remind them that he was still relevant. "Umm, excuse me, but this..."
Kal tapped at something else, and a look of surprise crossed his face. "Oh My God!" he exclaimed, attempting to stifle his laughter. "Hey, look at this! They've actually got a warrant here from Skaro!"
"Let me see that." Vik said, disbelievingly. She grabbed the slate and began to examine the display. "Dear gods, it is. I've never even seen a warrant from Skaro before... I didn't know the salt shakers even bothered!"
Kal examined one corner. "Number three? I wonder who has warrants one and two..."
"I should think that would be rather obvious..."
"Commander Galren," Nyssa continued, "by the terms of the Terminus Treaty this station is considered an independent entity with no political affiliation. That means that I am technically considered a head of state, and my decisions carry the weight of such. As far as I am concerned, these people have done nothing wrong. Their activities here have been honourable, their use of the weapon was strictly in self-defence. Neither I nor my station will allow you to take custody of them merely because you feel their presence here is inappropriate."
"My Lady, you may have final word on station matters, but in matters of law I am the arbiter. If you continue to resist my efforts, then I will have no choice but to enforce the warrants I already have on file. Even you cannot deny that I have that power."
Nyssa put her hand out toward the others but continued to answer Galren's glare with one of her own. "Kal, please hand me that slate." she said. Kal slid it across the table toward her.
She picked it up and hurriedly glanced at it, tapping on the display. After a few seconds, she seemed to find what she was looking for.
"If you are so determined to enforce outside warrants, then why don't you enforce this one while you're at it?!" She put the slate on the table and slid it toward the police commandant. "Go ahead. I dare you."
Galren, for once, was silent as he glanced at the display.
Vik could not keep her silence any longer. "What is it?"
"An arrest warrant for me issued by the Terrestrial Imperium, courtesy of BioGen's political influence back on Earth. Last I heard it was still active and still in force."
"My Lady, this is an entirely different matter..." Galren grumbled feebly.
"No it is not, Commander. If you are going to claim that you are obligated to enforce the law under the one circumstance, you cannot claim contrary on the other. You must either enforce or not enforce, those are your only options. If you are going to enforce, then the precedent you set must oblige you to arrest me as well. If you are not going to enforce my warrant, then you have no choice but to not enforce theirs as well."
"Do not push this, my Lady..."
"You are the one who is pushing, Commander. Since I arrived here we have consistently stood by our allies, something which you have never understood. It is our policy and one we will not change, now or ever."
There was a pause as Commander Galren mulled this over. "I had hoped, Administrator," he said finally, "that by bringing these issues to your attention you would see reason. I see now that I was in error." He stood. "You realize that this matter will not sit well with your Board of Directors."
"That is my concern, Commander, not yours. My board has stood firmly behind me amid controversy before, they will do so again."
'They are not as united behind you as you may think, my Lady. There were many who grumbled when news of the last attack came to them. You had, after all, allowed that mercenary vessel to approach virtually unchallenged."
Nyssa bit her lip, wondering where this was going. The police investigation into the last attack was not yet complete, but she had been led to believe that preliminary findings had cleared her of any errors in judgement.
The report, however, was only preliminary. The final conclusions could yet be changed.
Suddenly, Nyssa found herself worried.
"And your point?" she asked.
"Only to remind you that this station is currently facing a number of a very acute crises', ones which will require close cooperation between its Administrator and Board. At this moment, it does not need to have acrimony arise among the members of its governing authority."
The Captain's eyes opened, narrowly. He watched the two on the other side of the table intently.
Nyssa merely nodded in understanding. "I thought so. You are threatening me."
Galren's face suddenly changed, as if he were mortified by the suggestion. "No, no, my lady." he said, rather quickly. "Perish the thought! I am merely pointing out that the problems you currently face would best be served if there were no... distractions... from the business at hand."
Kal and Vik looked at each other. Each had a sneaking suspicion where this was leading.
"My Lady, I shall be blunt. I do not wish to see your work on this station end. However, there are those who are uncomfortable with your current choice of allies. You know who my father is, so you know that I have a good idea concerning the thoughts of many on the board." He glanced once more toward the Blue Star Thrice's crew members, not bothering to hide his disdain. "If you persist on this path, then I will be forced to lodge an official protest, something which cannot do anything but erode your authority with that body. Are these people really worth risking your position over?"
Hesitation. Nyssa thought for a way to sidestep the question, but at that precise moment in time could not think of one. Her mouth opened, closed, and then opened again...
A forceful voice sounded from the far end of the table. "No." it said.
Abruptly, all eyes swung toward the Captain.
He uncrossed his arms and set them on the table, his hands folded before him. His eyes, wide open now, had a calm, assertive look to them that seemed to watch everything at once, but which at the same time could concentrate on specific objects as if they were targets.
They fell briefly on the immaculately clothed man across from him, then at their host for the last several weeks.
He took a deep breath.
"Thank you for defending us, Administrator, but in this circumstance the Police Commandant is absolutely correct. Your position is too important to be put at risk by our continued presence." His attention switched to Galren. "I have a counter proposal for you. Twenty-five hours to repair my ship, followed by a seventy-five hour head start."
Nyssa's eyes widened. Vik and Kal stared at him, their jaws slackened.
The police commander regarded him coolly. "And what makes you think you can make demands of me?"
"You want us off this station. Fine. We'll leave. It's the simplest solution. You won't have us to worry about, and there are no unnecessary and potentially damaging confrontations." He nodded his head toward the people gathered just beyond the glass. "Look around you, Commander. Look at all the people gathered outside. Listen to what the Administrator has been saying. Do you really want to make enemies of them all? If you try to arrest us, that is exactly what you'll be doing. Or do you want your authority over them to erode even more than it already has?"
Nyssa starred at him. She had thought she was making headway in finding an argument that would let them stay, but that was now being thrown completely out the airlock.
"I do not make deals with criminals." Galren said, contemptuously.
"We are not criminals, Commander. We are mercenaries. Sometimes we are hired to do certain jobs. It is not our fault that some take offense at how well we do them."
Galren waved his hand at the slate, which was still displaying Nyssa's arrest warrant. "Do you deny any of these charges, then?"
"Yes." Kal said, speaking up. "Zarathustra. We paid the moving violations."
Vik nodded vigorously. "We have the receipts to prove it."
The Captain continued, his eyes still concentrated on the police commander. "The charges are immaterial, Commander. I cannot stop you from attempting to enforce them. However, remember that I too have legal recourse. Those charges stem from legal, binding contracts. If you arrest us, then we will have no choice but to ask for Guild assistance -- and Guild attorneys are very practised in this sort of litigation,"
Galren's jaw grew stiff. "You mercenaries are nothing more than legalized criminals..." he growled.
"Yet your governments continue to use us to do their dirty work for them. Do you wish me to list the number of Pandemanian contracts currently in force? Are you prepared to face the political pressure a Guild Ban would bring if you continued?"
A moment of silence as Galren digested this implication. All eyes were upon him.
"You are losing on all sides, Commander." the Captain prompted. "Remember what the Administrator has said, remember what I am saying. I have given you a way out that allows all of us to claim some victory. I suggest you take it."
Galren considered, much against his will. "Twenty-five hours repair, fifty hours head start." he said, almost spitting the words out.
The Captain switched his attention briefly toward Nyssa, to check what her reactions were. She looked decidedly displeased.
He returned his attention to the Police Commander.
"Done."
*****
The ship sat on the deck of Terminus' hangar right at berth zero-niner, as reluctantly promised them by Police Commandant Galren. Not unexpectedly, a squad of Pandemanian marines stood watching nearby, but at present chose to keep their distance. Instead, they looked with mild curiosity at the three individuals who stood at the base of the on-ramp to their ship. Their voices were whispered, but if the expressions on two of them were any indication, they were clearly having Words with the third.
"Captain," Vik snapped angrily, "you came perilously close to undermining her authority back there!"
He answered the woman's gaze by nodding guiltily. "Yes, I know. But I couldn't let her answer that question; no matter what she said at that point, she'd have lost the argument. Vik, you saw what that pompous ass was doing. He was playing political games at our expense. If we stay any longer we'll be in the crossfire, and offhand I think we're better off with our freedom than a detention cell."
"But you still..."
The Captain raised a hand to cut off discussion. "Vik, the decision is made. We leave by this time tomorrow, end of discussion. Now, you can argue about this all you want when we leave, but until then we have a damaged ship to make ready and not much time to do it in." He turned to Kal. "Can you pull the drive pods and do a recalibration in less than twenty-five hours?"
Kal looked at him resignedly. "If I can get help, yeah."
The Captain pointed to a Terminus station crew member, who was now walking toward them from the far side of the deck. He was immediately recognizable as the tall, lanky head of Terminus MIS. "Talk to Craig. Maybe we can borrow a few of his techs."
"And after that?" Vik demanded.
"We repair the ship as much as we can, then strike out for a neutral port and do a major overhaul there. We can make Jomsborg in forty-two hours; that should be sufficient."
"So, that's it? You're just going to leave?"
"No, I'm taking us out of the crossfire. I didn't say anything about leaving."
Both stared at their Captain.
"Look, you two. I know. This whole situation stinks of Pandemanian politics. For all we know, that ambush had more to do with this station than it did with us. But the important thing is that someone has taken a shot at us without the courtesy of telling us why. Until we know what is going on, it's safer for all concerned if we simply move to the shadows."
"And then?" Vik asked cautiously.
"We try to figure out who wanted us off this station and why... and act accordingly."
One corner of her mouth turned upwards. "So, we're not really going to fade away after all, are we?"
The Captain nodded in confirmation. "You should know me by now, Vik. I don't leave friends in the lurch. If someone is making moves against Terminus, we can do Nyssa more good off station than on." He considered something, then continued. "For the moment, though, keep that particular information under wraps. Something is going on here, but I have no idea what it is or who to trust. Besides... its still possible this was an old friend making a collection call. If that's the case it would be better not to involve anyone here."
The other two nodded in agreement. Kal left them to meet the MIS chief, leaving Vik and her Captain behind.
"You know you should apologize to her before we leave." Vik said, as soon as Kal was out of earshot.
She could hear him sigh.
"Yes, I know." He murmured, turning toward the extended ramp to his ship. "I'll think of something..."
*****
They worked through the night to get the warp drive repaired.
Among the crew, the fuel of choice quickly became stimtabs, followed closely by various caffeinated beverages (including one carbonated greenish-yellow concoction that Kal preferred) and periodic splashes of ice-cold water. Increasing apprehension over the rapidly closing deadline also provided no small degree of impetus; the prospect of testing Galren's resolve beyond the twenty-five hour period was something none of them particularly sought.
The techs lent by Terminus' MIS chief proved invaluable; a few even had prior military and/or commercial starship experience, and were thus notably beneficial. Their familiarity cut the workload down tremendously, and together they were able to accomplish in a mere 18 hours what often took full crews days to do.
Still, this didn't mean that they were out of trouble yet. They still had to get somewhere -- anywhere -- else first, and there was no telling how long the lash-up they'd duct-taped together would hold. "Long enough." was the Captain's professional opinion, a view shared with mixed confidence by Kal.
Vik merely shook her head and mumbled something about Corellian ships. Everyone pretended not to have heard.
Words have an innate ability to spread quickly on space stations; among the tightknit community aboard Terminus, this was especially true. Thus, it was sometime in the early morning that they started to arrive. A trickle at first, then in still greater numbers. Most came to say thank you or to wish them luck; a few even brought presents (alcoholic beverages, mostly). But all came to wish them goodbye and safe voyage.
The Captain took all the attention in stride, but whispered to Kal an opinion to the effect that he'd rather they could just disappear when no one was looking. He was consoled, however, by the fact that Police Commandant Galren was finding this public display of support somewhat disconcerting.
Kal made it a point to wave to the Commandant whenever that man scowled in his direction. It seemed to make the man's face contort even more.
Nyssa came down in the early afternoon, soon after the drive pods had been mated back to the ship and everyone was checking connections and reactor integrity for any potentially fatal irregularities. She had actually dropped by the evening before, but at the time they'd all been too busy to do more than exchange distant greetings; after a few words with Vik, she took her leave and decided that the next day would be more appropriate in exchanging final pleasantries. So now she was there, standing on the sidelines and watching with some interest the goings on. Around her could be heard snippets of technical jargon (most of which she even understood) and the sound of power tools operating.
She started to wonder if it was worth the amount of effort she was expending. But then again there was no guarantee he'd ever actually decide to come that way again, so for all she knew this was the last chance she'd ever have.
She considered and decided it was worth it, if for no other reason than to salve her conscience.
In one hand she held the pouch, the drawstring looped nervously around one finger.
Vik noticed her immediately and walked up. "So, ready to sell tickets yet?" she asked, nonchalantly.
Nyssa gave her a muted laugh. "No, not quite. I was almost ready to yesterday, but... as much as I hate to admit it, he was right this once. I just wasn't too fond of the way he presented it." She looked thoughtful, as something occurred to her. "I suppose that's one thing about him that hasn't changed; he keeps finding new ways to annoy those around him."
"That he does. He has about as much tact as an Ogron with a blunt instrument." She smiled. "I'll go let him know you're here."
Vik ran up the gangway into the ship, passed a few Terminus techs with a panel open and a scanning device engaged, and made her way to the flight deck of the ship. She found him hunched over Kal's terminal, discussing something with SELDON.
As she approached he hit a button, and a small silvery disk popped out of a slot on the console.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Just retrieving something from archives." He dropped the disk into a hidden pocket just below his shoulder. "Something I forgot about until this morning. It's not much, but..."
Vik gave him a quizzical look, but decided to wait for an elaboration. "She's outside..."
"I know. That's why I came in here to copy this." He looked at her, as if he'd suddenly remembered something. "Did you get the chit written?"
Vik handed him another small disk. "One Hundred Fifty Thousand, just like you asked."
"Can we afford it?"
"We'll manage. We still have to drop a hell of a lot more once we get to port, so what's another hundred-and-fifty?."
He nodded, and without another word exited the flight deck.
Vik watched him leave, and fought the urge to see what kind of cameras and listening devices the new ship had. Instead, she went off to the engine room to find Kal, and having done so, gave him a quick thumbs up.
Kal merely rolled his eyes, shook his head, and went back to the occupation he was more comfortable with.
*****
On the deck along the perimeter of berth zero-niner, a stripped yellow-and-black line was painted, marking the boundary of the allocated space. The Blue Star Thrice, sitting along a slant from one corner to the other, was actually almost too big for the volume assigned to it. The nose of the ship (and hence, most of the flight deck) stuck out over the line into the area beyond, and portions of the ion cannons on each side likewise hung over the boundary. The Aesir class' landing gear, however, was firmly set within the zone, and so technically the ship was not overstepping it's assigned area.
Unconsciously, they chose to walk on either side of the boundary line, Nyssa to the outside, the Captain to the inside. It was something to follow while they talked, a convenient mark on the ground as they exchanged greetings and thank-you's. Their walk was slow and even, their voices quite and subdued. Their somber pace added an air of formality to their manner; yet if one listened closely, one could perhaps hear the start of a thaw.
The Caption started the process of breaking the ice. "I'm sorry for yesterday." he said, his hands folded behind him. "I didn't intend to cut everything out from underneath you like that, but..."
Nyssa nodded slowly. "I know. I probably should actually thank you for it. You saved me from saying something politically damaging, no matter which way I went." She sighed. "I'm not much good at politics, I'm afraid. It requires me to become someone I absolutely detest."
"My sympathies. I know what its like." He looked up toward a catwalk and a polished figure, and decided to emulate Kal's lead with a wave in the figure's direction. "By the way, there's something I didn't catch. Who is his father?"
"Clan Lord Ser Muchanis, leader of Clan Ser and something like the tenth richest Clan Lord on Pandemania. Also one of the principals on Terminus' Board of Directors."
"Ah. Politics. I thought as much."
"It's not just that. Last year Clan Ser raised about thirty percent of my operating budget, pretty much twice the next nearest patron. I quite literally can't afford to offend the Ser..."
He looked up at the catwalk again. "He's watching us, you know. I think he looks morally offended."
"Good," she said, with such vehemence that the Captain arched an eyebrow. "I hope he gets an ulcer."
They continued their pacing.
"You know," Nyssa said finally, "I'd only just gotten used to the idea that you were still around, and now you have to leave. I'm sorry it had to be under such circumstances."
He nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, well, this isn't the first time we've had to go because someone told us we weren't wanted. I suppose... one gets used to it after awhile."
"Any chance you'll come by this way again?"
He nodded again. "A good chance. A few months from now, when this has all blown over... Yes, a very good chance."
He stopped and looked up and around him, taking everything in at once. "You know... it's all very impressive, Nyssa. The organization, the people, everything. It's a very remarkable job." He turned to her. "You've chosen wisely. You should be proud of what you've done here."
"Thank you. It's been long and hard, but, yes I'm proud of the work we've done. It's made a difference to a lot of people, and we're finally beginning to make headway." She glanced upwards. The flight deck of the Blue Star Thrice loomed above them, and they were standing nearly underneath it. "You haven't done so badly yourself..."
"Yes, well..." He shrugged his shoulders. "To tell the truth, there are times when I'd just as soon trade it all for a little peace and quiet."
They resumed their pace.
"You know," Nyssa said, guardedly, "Ever since you arrived here, I've been hearing stories about what you've been up to all these years." She chanced a glance toward him as she continued. "I'm rather sorry I didn't get the chance to hear anything from first hand."
She watched him for any sign of a reaction, but saw none save the slow nod. His tone remained even. "Yes, it was... unfortunate... that there was never a real chance." A perceptible pause, then: "When we do come back, however... perhaps then?"
"I'll look forward to it." she replied, and suddenly found that she had meant it.
There was another awkward pause, as if neither were entirely certain what should be said next.
She chanced another glance at him, then took a deep breath to gather her strength.
It was time, she thought.
"Look, um... I know this is probably years too late and far too short, but... I wanted to say I'm sorry for what happened." She stopped to face him. "No matter what the excuse, it was wrong to leave you like that. You... deserved better than that."
A flicker of something crossed his hardened face, but that was the only visible sign she could detect. Nevertheless, he met the look she gave him, squarely. "Thank you." His voice dropped, became quieter. "That, um... actually means something to me."
"Still friends?"
He nodded again, slightly. "Still friends."
"Good..." she said, and gave him a relieved half-grin.
And quite suddenly, it felt as if some great weight had been lifted from both of their shoulders.
It was only then that she remembered what she had been carrying. Guiltily she glanced towards it. Somehow, the drawstring had become tightly wound around her finger, and it took an extra moment before she was able to extricate it. He watched her quizzically as she did so.
"Here." she said as she started to hand it to him. "I also wanted to give you this. I'd have given it to you earlier, but... well, this is rather embarrassing, but I actually forgot I even had it."
His eyebrows furrowed. "What is it?"
"Open it."
She watched as he loosened the neck of the pouch and peered inside, and for the first time since his arrival, saw his face contort into an expression somewhat different from stoic reticence. "I'm sorry about the state it's in." she apologized, as he reached in to pick out one of the bag's contents. "The Doctor had to use it to kill a Cyberman."
The piece he pulled out was the largest. Chipped, blue enamel still clung stubbornly to the base metal, though one side was completely broken off, as if it had been run along a grater. But two whole points and most of a third remained, enough to immediately recognize what it had once been.
He regarded the piece carefully, slowly turning it around with his fingers, astonishment still clearly visible on his face. Finally, he looked up at her and began to ask the obvious question. "Where...?"
She nodded; she'd expected to be asked. "When I left the TARDIS, the Doctor and Tegan gave me a box of mementoes... things to remember everyone by." She indicated the pouch. "That was in there, and I've had it ever since."
Gingerly he put the piece back into the pouch, along with the other fragments. "Thank you. This was... still is... rather important. I'd always assumed it had been lost... Again, thank you."
He unzipped a zipper just below his right shoulder, and stuffed the pouch into the flight suit pocket. He hesitated, then reached over to the opposite side and pulled out something from that pocket.
She recognized them immediately as data chips, two of them. One was an ordinary financial chit, the standard kind used for electronic fund transfers the universe over. The other, however, was not easily recognizable as anything other than a small, silvery data diskette.
He handed them both to her.
"The chit is for the station. Consider it our thank-you present, for putting up with us this whole time. It's not much, but... well, it isn't hard to see that you need all the help you can get right now."
Nyssa looked at it guiltily. "Are you sure?"
"Take it. Terminus needs the money more than we do."
She nodded understandingly. "And the other?"
"It's, umm, data. Something you mind find of interest."
The look she gave him raised more questions than he had answered.
He seemed to consider something, then reached a decision.
"Ok, then. One story. I probably owe you at least that much." He took another deep breath, then continued. "When I escaped the Master, I had just enough time to steal and imprint a spare memory core with various things from his TARDIS's data banks. Now, most of what I hacked were engineering and technical files; that's how I was able to draw up plans for a time rotar of my own. But I also got a large amount of miscellaneous intelligence -- ongoing operations, plans, that sort of thing. Invaluable when it came time to hunt him down."
He looked at her directly. "One of the things I managed to get were his medical records."
Her eyes opened wide, as the implications of just what it was she held suddenly hit. She looked immediately at the disks in her hands.
"It's all there," he assured her quietly, "every last detail, unfortunately. He ran a full battery of tests on himself just to make certain. There's also a detailed scan of your father for comparison purposes. Just to be absolutely certain I once had SELDON interrogate the AI at John Hopkins on Earth; that data is there, too. Everything, um, more or less confirms what the Doctor had already told us... I thought you'd want to ease your mind."
For once in her life, Nyssa was at a complete loss for words. She turned the disk in question over in her hands, handling it gingerly as if it were something incredibly precious, all the time unable to find a voice.
He watched her with no small degree of concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to open an old..."
"No... no, it's not that, its not what you think..." She looked back up at him. "How did you... I mean, I couldn't think of a way to ask... How could you have...?"
He dipped his head once. "Lets just say... I know what it's like to walk around without having something closed."
A look of understanding, and then she nodded. "Thank you. I... Thank you..."
It happened then. Their looks met, and suddenly each could see it in the other: the years of pain and uncertainty, and of scars that were never quite forgotten; the guilt of second-guesses, and of paths never travelled; the anguish and hardships that had tempered one and reforged the other, and the costs each had paid to be standing where they were at that point in their lives. It was all there, all apparent, all visible for the other to see. Even if the details were yet a mystery, the common recognition was not.
In their own way, each had somehow managed to face down the same demons. It was only then that they realized how similar their lives had been.
The Captain broke the spell. "I have to go now." he said simply, indicating his ship. "They're probably starting to wonder what's taking so long."
Nyssa shook her head. "No, just... just one moment more, please."
Briefly she regarded him, as if considering something. Then, to his surprise -- and to hers as well -- she took a step forward, wrapped her arms around him, and held.
Startled, he hesitated -- and then did the same.
They held for as long as they thought proper, and then let go.
Nyssa continued to regard him. "Listen... I've had to mourn far too many friends in my life. You're the only one who has ever come back. Don't make me have to mourn you a second time." She flashed a small grin. "You're not indestructible, you know -- no matter what everyone else around here thinks."
He nodded. "You take care. Don't let Galren and your Board keep you from doing what you think is right. Just remember... there's always more than one way of doing something."
He regarded her one last time, then bowed his shoulders in goodbye, and took a step back and away.
Nyssa watched as he began his departure, and then a thought crossed her mind. A question she had intended to ask, but the occasion for which had not arisen. It was a minor question, a trivial one even, but suddenly it was one that had new meaning.
"Wait!" She shouted, impulsively. He stopped, and turned once more to her. "Um, can I ask you just one last question?"
He nodded an assent.
"What do I call you now?"
His face twitched once, twice, as it seemed to weigh the answer.
"Adric." He said, finally, definitively. "You can call me Adric."
And with that, Adric of Alzarius took his leave, turned away, and walked across the deck toward his ship.
*****
Overlooking the hanger there is a room. It is dark, but it is not empty.
A lone figure stands in the darkness near the window, looking down at the scene below him. The bright lights of the hangar provide adequate illumination, but because the windows are angled downwards, only shadows are cast on his face. The figure hopes that it is enough to hide him from view.
He is a small figure, but his mere size does not bespeak the centuries he has lived. He carries an umbrella, but now only uses it as something to lean upon. There are question marks on his lapel, and a hat on his head. He observes the people below him with varying degrees of dread and melancholy. He watches as they exchange gifts. He is silent as they say their farewells. He nods slowly as the two he has come to see share one final, parting embrace.
He is waiting.
He heard the first sounds as if in the distance, but did not look up. He'd been expecting them, after all.
The noise rose, and appeared to be coming from a point exactly behind him. It was a groaning noise, cyclic and constant, but one growing in intensity. He knew what the noise was, of course; he even knew who was responsible for it. He even, he realized, was dimly aware of what would be happening next, although as usual in such cases he knew he wouldn't fully remember until the entire encounter was finished. Such were the vagaries of time travel.
The noise grew until it was so loud that, briefly, the figure feared it would attract someone's attention. But then, he suddenly remembered, nothing had happened last time, so he doubted it would happen this.
Behind him, the groaning noise stopped with a distinct thud. The figure heard a door open, and then footsteps. Still he did not turn around. There was no need to see who it was; the figure already knew.
"I was beginning to wonder if you'd show up." the first figure said, as the second figure approached.
"I had to see for myself, of course." said the second figure, his voice sounding much younger than his actual age. "I had to see if it really would come... to pass..." The other's voice trailed off as the scene below him came into view, and he saw for the first time older versions of two people he knew very well. The other stood as if slightly stunned. "Oh, my..." he whispered.
"Thirteen years make a difference, don't they?"
The second figure nodded slowly. "Yes, they do... they do indeed." He sighed and tore his gaze away, and for the first time turned directly toward his older self.
"It's started then, hasn't it?" the second figure said to the first.
The first figure nodded solemnly. "Yes. I'm afraid it has."
"Is he ready?"
"As ready as the years can make him." the first figure said, breaking away to face his younger self. "He's more self-assured than he ever was before. It's a start."
The second figure nodded slowly in agreement. "That's good to know," he said, turning once more to the windows. "Self confidence was his only real problem."
"Not all. You weren't much of a help."
The second figure ignored the sarcasm.
There was a moment of silence between the two, as they watched the Alzarian make one final pre-flight inspection before boarding his ship.
"Does he know yet?" the second figure said, finally breaking the silence.
"No, not yet. It won't be long, though, before things start happening. Then he'll probably figure it out."
"And what will you do when he does?"
"Run like blazes. He's not the most forgiving of sorts these days."
The second figure shook his head. "What a mess... I'm awfully glad it's happening on your shift."
"Yes, well... just wait until you have to lie to their faces. Then see how much of your breakfast you can still stomach."
Silence again.
"You know," the second figure ventured, "I hope before it's all over, he at least recognizes the irony of it all."
The first figure furrowed his eyebrow and looked at the second questioningly. The second continued.
"From this point on, you're just the decoy, grabbing their attention while the real battle is fought here." The second figure pitched his head toward the window. "If we're lucky, they won't even notice him until it's too late."
The first figure nodded in agreement. "Maybe. If we're lucky. Somehow, though... I don't think he'll find it a consolation."
"No... no I suppose not."
Silence again.
"Did we do the right thing?" the second figure asked.
"We'll soon find out."
"That isn't an answer."
"No, it isn't, but it's all I can give you." The first figure once more turned away and faced the other, his face a mask. "Trillions of lives are at stake. We're trading one life to save trillions. It's not nice, but it's the only solution we have."
The second figure nodded. "The Chinaman Question." he muttered to himself.
"Pardon?"
"The Chinaman Question. Come, you should remember that one. We've certainly encountered enough Jesuits who've asked it of us."
"Sorry, refresh my memory."
The second figure closed his eyes, as if to remember. "The question goes something like this: Suppose there is a person in China that you have never met, will never meet, and even if you did, you would not like him. In fact, there is no one around who likes him, and everyone who does know him has nothing good to say about him. He is, in short, the most friendless, disagreeable person who ever lived. Now, suppose also that you had the power to grant world peace, or world happiness, or some such worthy goal... but the price for achieving the goal is to kill the Chinaman. So the question is, do you kill the Chinaman? Are the lives of everyone else more important than the life of the least? Or is the result somehow tainted because it was achieved by committing a sin?"
The first figure nodded in understanding. "Ah yes, I do remember that one."
The second figure's eyes opened. "I don't suppose you're willing to supply an answer?"
"Are you? You're the philosophical one, after all. Perhaps you should provide the answer."
Silence again. One object of their discussion gave a short wave to the other, and boarded the ship. After a minute, he could be seen in the cockpit.
"He's hardly friendless." the first figure whispered, as if that made all the difference.
The second figure turned away, and began to walk back toward his TARDIS. The first figure watched him depart. "Leaving so soon?"
"I've seen what I wanted to see. Is there any point in staying?"
"No, I don't suppose there is." The first figure returned to viewing the hangar.
The second figure paused, as if expecting the other to say something. But when no further words were forthcoming, he breathed a heavy sigh, and turned once more to his ship. It was only as he touched the door did he hear the other speak.
"Nothing is set in stone, you know. He'll have a fighting chance. It's still better odds than what he would have gotten."
The second figure gave his other self one last glance. "I suppose you should know. You're the scheming one, after all."
"You agreed to it."
The second figure nodded slowly, guiltily. "Yes... yes I did." A sigh. "But did we really have to destroy him to do it?"
The first figure continued to watch through the window, contemplating his other's question. He heard the door shut behind him, then listened as the familiar groaning noise first rose then faded off into infinity and beyond. Below him, the people in the cockpit were making their final preparations to leave, while those on the hangar deck watched with varying reasons of interest.
For one last time, he looked at the black-haired man in the cockpit, then at the brown-haired woman on the sidelines.
Then he turned away.
"Yes," he said, finally, answering a question posed several lifetimes ago. "It was necessary."
He began to walk toward his TARDIS.
"And if there is a supreme maker out there... may he forgive me for it."
*****
"Captain tel-Varesh, I would have a word with you."
Adric tel-Varesh turned toward the voice of Galren, who was now coming down from the catwalk and advancing toward the ship. He had just finished his habitual pre-flight check and was about to board when the Commandant had called. Therefore, he stood with one foot on the base of the ramp leading up to the cargo hold, and waited for the officer to approach.
"Commandant Galren, a word is all I can spare at the moment." he replied formally, as soon as the man was within something less than shouting distance. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
The taller man looked at the other, not bothering to hide the contempt. "Yes, there is. One last thing." Galren's voice lowered to a near whisper. "A piece of advice. When you leave this place, don't look back. Stay away, and don't ever come again. I mean it, tel-Varesh; these people don't need your kind here."
Adric's eyes became like icicles, cold and pointed. "And what exactly are my kind?"
"Scum. Criminals. Outcasts who should stay out. I'm warning you, tel-Varesh. If I ever catch you back here, I'll pick an arrest warrant at random and hand you over, even if it means talking to Daleks. Stay away from this place, stay away from these people. They don't need you, and they certainly don't need the kind of trouble you bring."
The police commander watched for any acknowledgment on the other's face, but didn't detect any. "Commandant Galren," tel-Varesh said, icily, "my ship and my crew go where we please, when we please. Neither you nor anyone else can tell us otherwise."
"If you try your luck, I'll make sure you'll lose. You were lucky this time. Don't think it'll continue the next."
Tel-Varesh turned away from the Commandant, stopped, reconsidered, and turned back to the police officer.
His eyes shown as thin, dagger-like slits, white as death.
"One last thing, Commander. A piece of advice for your own. Be careful when you start pushing around outsiders. Sometimes they wake up and decide they don't particularly like being pushed around anymore."
He didn't look back to see what Galren's reaction was.
At the top of the ramp, he took one last look around. Yet another place he was not welcome anymore. At least this time, it was over the local authorities' objections.
His eyes found the principal local authority. He gave her a short wave, as much because he wanted to as because he suspected it would annoy Galren. Then he entered the ship.
He wasn't surprised at who was waiting for him immediately inside.
"What did he want?" Vik asked as he passed her. She had to move quickly to catch up with him.
"Nothing much, just the usual. Get out, and don't ever come back. One little wrinkle, though. I think he thinks I'm intruding on his territory."
Vik half-grinned. "And are you?"
Adric stopped and turned around. "Vik. How long have we known each other?"
"More than six years."
"Uh huh. Don't ever think I won't notice when I'm being set-up."
She gave him a look of mock exasperation. "Oh, come on. Can't anyone have a little fun around here?"
"Vik, I'm serious about this. Let it drop. Now. I've never gone into your personal business before; please don't go into mine."
The humor drained from her face. "Well, it was worth a shot..." she said, feebly.
They resumed their pace.
"Vik." he said, after a few steps.
"Yeah?"
"It was a nice thought. I'll give you that much."
A climb up the rings to the second deck later, and they were on the flight deck. Kal was already seated in his usual place at the engineering station, Vik immediately made her way forward to her usual spot at co-pilot/weapons.
Adric approached the pilot's couch.
Above it, a slate hung from a small hook, its electronic display glowing with what appeared to be a list of known battle damage, including notes on repair status.
He regarded the hanging slate for a few seconds.
Then he lifted it off the hook, placed it in a documents bin below the console, and reached for his right chest pocket. He unzipped it, and pulled out the small pouch.
And hung the pouch from the hook by its drawstring.
He started to climb into the station.
"Kal. Status report."
His voice was weary, but still strong. "Drive pods are operating at 80%. They should hold, but I think our ETA to Jomsborg will be closer to forty-eight hours than forty-two."
"Good enough. Shields?"
"Operational. Aft is still a problem, but we can get them up to seventy-five now."
"Good. Vik, weapons?"
"Nominal. I'm gong to pull everything once we get to port, but it'll hold for now." She examined one screen. "They confiscated our last 328, though."
"Big shocker that." Kal muttered.
"So we're good to go?"
"We'll last as far as Jomsborg."
He put on his headpiece, then activated a few controls and watched as the threat board booted up. Vik looked over and noticed with amusement that one of the displays he had engaged was the forward camera, now aimed at the crowd of people outside.
She pretended not to notice who it was trained on.
"All right, people." the Captain announced, "Lets do it by the book. Shields."
"Go."
"Impulse."
"Go."
"Warp."
"Go."
There was a rumbling noise from behind, followed by a very familiar hum rising in intensity.
"Compensators."
"Affirmative."
"Life support."
"Affirmative."
"Navigation."
"Affirmative."
"Weapons."
"Go."
"Tractor."
"Go."
A box lit green on one display. Adric reached over to a throttle-like control, and slowly pushed it forward. Outside, the walls of the hangar appeared to move downwards.
"Terminus Control, this is Blue Star Thrice. Requesting departure clearance."
In his earpiece, Glio's voice sounded. "Affirmative, Blue Star Thrice, you are cleared for departure along our ninety-by-ten outbound."
He went off-mic. "Retract landing gear."
Vik keyed a command on her touchpad, then watched a display at her elbow. "Landing gear stowed." she announced, after some seconds. "We are clear."
In the forward viewport, a young blue-haired woman with horns and dressed in tiger-striped overalls floated in mid-air. She waved a pair of lightcones in one direction. Slowly, the ship turned on its pressor beams in the beckoned direction. The woman flew backwards slowly, bidding them with her lightcones to follow her to the central area of the hangar. Once there, she directed them to turn their nose toward the open entrance.
She floated to one side, and waited for the force fields to adjust themselves. Once ready, she gave them a lightcone-to-temple salute, turned sideways, and then issued a quick circle-and-point.
Captain tel-Varesh gave the order. "Blue Star Thrice... Hasshin!"
*****
In a darkened room adjacent to the hangar, a lone figure was standing in the doorway of his ship when he heard the roar of the engines. He looked out the window, and just caught a glimpse of a large hawk-like shape exiting into the void beyond.
He took a deep breath, shook his head, and closed the door.
In nearby space, three people watched on their displays as the departing station became just another light source behind them. They were accelerating, and soon would reach a velocity with sufficient kinetic energy to permit a hyperspace transition.
One wondered if he really could keep the drive pods from self-destructing for another forty-two-plus hours, another wondered what the hell was in that pouch above the pilots station, and a third just wondered.
On the station, a number of individuals were walking away, some with varying degrees of melancholy. One stood his ground, muttering "Good riddance." underneath his breath.
Another watched as the ship became a distant point of light.
She watched it for as long as she could, then turned away, mindful of the promise that had been made. She took two steps, then stopped and looked back out toward the bay entrance.
She was just in time to catch the flash of light, marking the transition of a ship into hyperspace.
She watched the flash until it faded completely, sighed, and walked back to her duties.
*****
And so the thing began, as such happenings usually do: quietly, without fanfare, the principal pieces themselves (mostly) unaware that the game had already started.
In distant, dark corners, long laid plans were starting to come together. Tentative alliances were being forged, and contingencies were being formulated.
Long held animosities were held in check, but seethed nevertheless. For the moment. Vengeance was almost at hand; everything had their place and time, but neither had yet come.
The universe, of course, continued on -- the galaxies spinning, the hydrogen burning, the foibles of its inhabitants ever perplexing -- unaware that it itself was about to be called into question, that it itself was about to change. For the better or for the worse, there was as yet no way to tell. The only certainty was that it would happen, that a new reality was about to be forged.
In fire.
And in flame.
And in death.
Once upon a time, there were three people:
...an ancient timelord, who thought of the future, and wondered if he had skirted the line once too many times...
...a determined woman, who thought of the past, and wondered of things that might have been...
...and a disillusioned man, who thought of the present, and wondered where it had brought him.
The Fates had already been unkind to two of them. Fortune had smiled, and made life bearable for both; but the Lady's mercies have always been fickle, and her wheel is ever turning. Only Destiny knows the truth, but he is at present mute.
Once before, their paths had crossed, and for a time they had been fellow travellers. But those times have long passed, and each -- willingly, and unwillingly -- have long since departed company, and have found ways to move on with their lives. Yet, History still remembered, and still knew that which had long been forgotten.
Something was left undone.
A terrible tempest that had been stayed, but not quelled.
So terrible, that not even the dead were permitted their rest.
And in all the universe and in all existence, only three beings possessed the knowledge that was key. To one of them must fall a cruel choice. There is no other way. The Fates have decreed it thus.
For in distant climes, the President of the Immortals has awoken once more, and finding the game-board set, has reached forth and grasped at a new plaything...
...while all around, the foundations themselves trembled.
*****
D Minus 347
Tsuduku
(To Be Continued)
NEXT EPISODE: "WALKING IN EXILE"