Death is only a waypoint. Katherine Campbell Kobol, Fifth Lord of Kobol
From time immemorial self-important Colonial port officials had hated free traders. One of them, whose fat head had been even bigger than his ass, had slapped a five thousand cubit fine on the Star Chaser for using red paint number seven instead of red twenty-six for hull lettering. The fine had eaten up that voyage's entire profit. Obviously the Chaser never put down there again.
In most ports, however, the planet's gatekeeper settled for being nosey and asking unanswerable questions like "where are you bound?" or "who hired you for this trip?" In a twenty-year career as a free trader, Maya Godden had learned by necessity to lie very well.
The most important part of lying is knowing whether you've been believed. A doubter will knit his brows and tilt his head forward to shroud his eyes. A believer looks straight on.
Judging by that, of the three kidnappers on the Star Chaser's bridge, two of them, billionaire Garner Graham and his pet stellar archeologist Doctor Amoss Rainier, bought the technical comet shrik she was feeding them. The other one, Graham's chief thug, a square-headed brute named Blakeney, just might be getting wise. His eyes were black slits under a heavy primitive brow. His left hand played with the bright green plastic grip of the power pistol stuck in his belt.
"Mr. Garner, I don't think we oughta listen to the bitch anymore. Let's just bug out of this frakking flying circus. The Galactica won't stop us," Blakeney said to Graham as the latter paced restlessly about the crowded bridge, bobbing his thin old body up and down like a loose-limbed puppet on a string. "They've bought the engine trouble story. If we wait any longer, that damned engineer'll be back."
Maya took her cue. "It's already too late for that. Suben's shuttle will lock and dock in less than ten minutes. And I keep telling you the Galactica will fry us if we unexpectedly break formation. We could be a Cylon plant for all they know and you heard Commander Adama that first day – no one goes back."
For a military prick, Adama seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. He didn't want to hand the Cylons any leads back to his convoy.
Maya had told the kidnappers that she needed to return to their last FTL jump clear point to return to Colonial space. It was a bald lie – she could have jumped it from right here in the middle of the convoy -- but the ground grippers had swallowed the excuse. Now she was just about to run out of delaying tactics.
This would be her last chance to get help. Somehow she had to make Chief Suben realize on this visit that she and her nephew Dehan were prisoners. Despite Graham's loony conspiracy ideas, returning to Colony space wasn't an option. Maya had seen the color stills of Caprica on fire. Graham had snorted and claimed the pictures had been digitally altered, but the Galactica shuttle pilot swore the camera had been less than a thousand klicks away.
Maya's father had told her about Cylon torture techniques he'd seen in the last war. She didn't want to investigate them firsthand.
Maya figured that Graham's money had fried his brain. Without his fortune he was a powerless old man and he couldn't handle it. As fantastic as it looked to anyone else, it was easier for Graham to believe his competitors had faked the Cylon war. "We've found an actual piece of the Kobol ark," he'd told Maya. "What else can they do?"
Graham had paid double Maya's usual charter rate for three months of asteroid prospecting in the outer belt. They'd found a piece of durallium wreckage about five meters across in its largest diameter. It was in the rear hold. None of their recently departed complement of twenty-five refugees had seen it. Maya's five crewmen, who'd also offloaded with the refugees, had had no idea what it was supposed to be.
Turning to Blakeney, Maya pleaded, "Look, I can make it look like we've got a gremlin in the FTL engine. That's a random static charge, and they're almost impossible to fix without a dead-stop overhaul and degaussing. A gremlin can even screw up a space normal engine." Even ground grippers knew about engine gremlins from the Sacred Scrolls and space folklore. Action-adventure vid. plots featured them all the time.
Since the kidnappers had taken over the Chaser yesterday, they had been forced to buy Maya's comet shrik. None of them knew in which direction the Colonies lay, much less FTL navigation. And she'd been forced to cooperate with them, telling the Galactica they had engine trouble and making sure the refugees and crew left without setting off any alarms. She had to. They had her nephew Dehan, and he was all Maya had left. The rest of her family -- her parents, Dehan's mother Karen and Karen's husband Rander -- all of them had been on Caprica.
Dehan had been with his Aunt Maya for his annual school vacation. The cruise had seemed pretty safe for the boy's first time in space. Out to the belt, wander around for a few months, then take him home for his sixth school level. The Goddens had always been spacers, and thirty years ago Maya had made her first cruise on this very same ship.
The wireless sputtered. "Star Chaser, this is Colonial Raptor Three One Two. We are at your doorstep and ready to lock and dock. Do you have a nice warm airlock for us?" The young male voice was familiar, but not the usual shuttle pilot, and Maya couldn't recall where she'd heard it before. When Suben had left a few hours ago, a woman had picked him up.
Blakeney grabbed Maya's arm and shoved her at the wireless console, "Make some happy talk, Godden. And don't forget we've got your boy."
Maya glanced at the locked hatch of the master cabin where Dehan slept curled up with his pet spider cat then to Graham who had stopped pacing and stood looking blankly out the bridge's forward canopy at the atmosphere canards. In the co-pilot's seat Doctor Rainier plucked rhythmically at its worn leather arms. Graham's other three goons had gone to the passenger lounge to gobble the last of the food supplies. Under Galactica's orders the Chaser had been short rationing with its load of refugees for a week and a half. They were all hungry.
Other than Blakeney, Graham's bodyguards looked so much alike -- big, blond and ugly -- Maya could never tell them apart and thought of them collectively as the "goons."
She'd been delaying too long. Blakeney pulled out his power pistol. "Do it!" he barked and gave Maya a hard shove that wrapped her small frame over the wireless. Pushing herself upright slowly, she picked up the mike. "Uh, welcome, Three One Two. We've been looking for you. Why don't you cuddle up to our topside lock? I'll meet you up there." Of the Chaser's three entry locks, topside was furthest from the engine room.
Graham came out of his reverie. "You'd better not play any tricks, Ms. Godden. We just want to be rid of them." Every once in a while Graham still made touchdown. Last trip he'd been all over Suben, blocking him at every step, only to fall apart again as soon as the Chief left.
Ten minutes later Maya, Graham, Blakeney and one of the goons were crowded into the narrow passageway beneath the topside lock's overhead hatch. Rainier and the remaining two goons were keeping an eye on the bridge. Blakeney stood behind Maya, looming over her like a brick wall, and close enough that his pocketed power pistol gouged into her back. He hadn't a shower in a week or more. He smelled like a toilet. As the hatch opened, they all looked up. Two heads looked down.
The spare goon made himself useful steadying two heavy tool kits that came through the hatch on a chain hoist. Suben and another man followed the tools down on the ladder.
When they all stood in the passageway, practically nose to nose, the shuttle pilot stuck his head through. It was Apollo, one of the Galactica's Viper pilots and as cute as a brand new coupe jet. He'd been on board briefly in the first days after the Cylon attack surveying the Chaser's flight status, and Maya regularly heard him talking on the wireless. No wonder he'd sounded familiar. Apollo looked around at the packed passageway then at the two men he'd just dropped off. "Call me when you need a ride, okay? I'll be waiting." He nodded at Maya. "Ma'am, always a pleasure." Pulling up the ladder, he clanged the airlock's inside hatch shut. A moment later Maya heard the outside hatch shut too, followed by the vibration as the Raptor undocked.
From the belts of the two Galactica crewmen hung standard military hard-shot pistols and several spanners and covered pouches. They wore orange work coveralls that had seen better, cleaner days. The Galactica must be as short of water as the rest of the convoy. Like Blakeney, Maya hadn't had a shower since before the attack.
Suben straightened from heaving the toolboxes onto a couple of wheeled carts. "Commander Godden, this is, uh, Chief Husher. He's had some practical experience working on twelves and volunteered to get yours back in shape."
The new man held out his hand and smiled. White teeth gleamed in a rugged face. A long healing cut hashed with stitches accented the old scars crisscrossing and pock-marking the man's cheeks and forehead. He stood shorter than Suben by a good head, and when Maya took his hand, it felt soft for an engineer. Perhaps he did mostly paper work. He looked too old to be a full-time grease monkey. "Honored to meet you, Commander Godden," he said. The deep hoarse rumble was somehow familiar.
Maya nodded. Blakeney poked her in the back again with his pocketed power pistol. Her head jerked and she looked at him over her shoulder, but she said, "I certainly hope you haven't come all this way for nothing, Chief Husher. I think we've got a gremlin."
"Please call me Hush, ma'am. All my friends do. A gremlin you say? Well, I know a few tricks. Maybe we can just give him the boot. Shall we?" He gestured in the correct direction for the engine room. The man did know his twelves.
And that rumbling voice … there was something about the voice. But Maya didn't have time for mysteries. She nodded agreement at the Chief, who seemed to outrank Suben. She started down the passageway, Chief Husher a half step after her pulling behind him one of the tool carts, a fuming Blakeney following up, and Suben and the spare goon bringing up the rear.
Graham stepped out to block Maya's way, his eyes jumping out of their sockets. Apparently he'd gone back into full orbit. "Uh, Hush, this is Garner Graham," Maya said. "He's chartered the Chaser for a three-month exploration."
The Chief stepped forward and nodded to Graham. "It's a pleasure, sir." The two men looked each other in the eye until Graham finally sidestepped into an open hatchway and let them by. Maya didn't turn to see if Graham followed after them or not.
She was impressed. She'd never seen Graham back down a millimeter for anyone or any reason. He'd been a royal pain when they'd been carrying the refugees. And even an old spacer like the Chief must know about Graham's fortune.
When the passageway reached mid-ship it widened out a little and Maya dropped back to walk next to Chief Husher. Now was the time to try something. It had to be subtle, though. Blakeney and his power pistol were less than a meter behind. He could make charcoal out of both of them in a matter of seconds.
None of the kidnappers knew anything about FTL navigation. Maybe she could fling the Chief some of her comet shrik and he'd catch the stellar drift.
"Uh, Chief … I mean, Hush, I understand that Commander Adama is throwing a party for all the ship commanders." The Chief actually laughed at that, and shook his head as if wondering about the sanity of his superiors. "Yes, ma'am, so I'm told. Scuttlebutt says five of the commanders have already signed on. Are you planning to go?"
"I suppose so, if it means a shower and a decent meal."
"I'm sure it will mean that, ma'am. President Roslin and the Commander are putting together something special." The Chief shifted so he could pull his heavy cart with the other hand. Definitely a paper pusher.
Here it comes. Did the Chief have enough rockets to catch it? Earlier Maya had tried to drop Suben several hints, but he hadn't picked up on any of them. Chief Husher seemed a lot smarter, although it was hard to tell from so little conversation. Maya could feel Blakeney's eyes boring into her back. "I was thinking, um, that is, I was hoping that I could ask some of the other commanders about this problem I have figuring my FTL plots. Maybe you even know the answer. I always get my destination right, but my transitions are thirty seconds too long." That was pure gibberish. FTL plotting was all about destination. Nothing else mattered. A ship could be anywhere and jump anywhere else instantaneously, even a million light years away. The trick was to make sure that nothing else was there first, which grows more difficult with distance. Scanning a destination a million light years away shows everything as it was a million years ago, not in the present cosmic instant.
Chief Husher's brows knit together and he looked sideways at her with a frown. A hand went to his chest pocket and played with a long, slender pen, but all he said was, "Well, ma'am, I'm afraid that sort of question is beyond me. I just fix 'em."
Behind them Suben, who was still walking after Blakeney, said, "What in the Twelve Colonies do you mean by that, Commander Godden? That doesn't make any sense."
Blakeney yelped a curse. Without missing a beat, Chief Husher shoved his cart away behind him at Blakeney's shins. Catching him on one leg, it knocked him down. Blakeney's power pistol flew out of his hand and rattled against the bulkhead. Further down the passageway another power pistol flamed, and the air seemed to explode.
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What is reasonable is real; that which is real is reasonable. Philosophy of Right, George Hegel.
Now that quote I just had to put in. It is so … so reasonable. Please send me your reviews. We still have a long way to go on this story. I would like to know what you think.