James Scotson - Planets Falling

“Where dad?” Grey was woozy.

“Where indeed?” And his father vanished.

The cave melted and Grey tumbled again, weightless in a timeless sea of color. The scent of Verat’s infernal tea permeated his universe, as if it was the only smell that ever graced existence. Grey approached a shiny, aquamarine globe, growing larger, engulfing him. Old earth, the forbidden fruit of humanity, loomed large. Gravity tugged again, but this time he floated above a wooden structure. A strange symbol was painted on the side. Horses snorted nearby and a tendril of wood smoke twirled around him. Dogs barked in the distance. This time the voices were familiar — humans, singing. He knew that he was in his time now and ghosts were everywhere, living, rejoicing, celebrating life.

“Grey, wake the hell up.” Verat was holding a steaming cup of tea and blowing the vapor into Grey’s slackened face. Grey’s face contorted and brought forth a staccato of gasping coughs. Pain was pulsing in his chest.

Grey mustered all his strength. “Verat, I don’t know what’s worse, the smell of that tea or your breath. How long have I been out?”

“About a week. Glad to see you too.”

“Fen?”

“Fine.”

“Nine?”

“Still glowing.”

“I feel like crap. It would’ve been nice at the very least to have a dream while I was unconcious.”

“Just be happy you’re alive. Somebody tried to kill you and Fen.”

Fromer questioned everyone on the Platform during the week that Fen and Grey were bobbing in and out of semi-consciousness. Of all the investigations he undertook in his many years, motives were always clear. Here, he could find no one on the Platform that had a reason to kill Fen or Grey. He suspected that the attempt was linked to Fen’s arrival and the planned trip to Nine. But most of the technical staff held a vague notion of these events. Those who did know the full details were eager to learn more about Nine and had no reason to hamper the planned expedition.

Not long after the burn on the deck occurred and Fen and Grey were dragged out — miraculously alive — Gorian found a chunk of foreign code in HM’s security register. It was encoded to set off a defabrication cycle when Grey’s communication badge entered any of the environmental chambers. The code was unsophisticated and easy to detect. The real trick was for someone to get past the layers of security to alter HM’s programming. Fromer did not tell Gorian, but he suspected that this was initiated by actions high in the Institute hierarchy. Someone powerful did not want the Fuersts to reach the planet — to see the place that their beloved father and brother had adopted and perhaps loved.

To ensure that the HM interface would not hiccup again and in the process kill Grey, Fen, or one of the Platform’s staff, Fromer enlisted Gorian to watch HM’s status continually and swore her to secrecy. Gorian was more than eager to assist and remained silent. Within a few hours she generated a set of clandestine algorithms in HM’s data ports that alerted her to any suspicious behavior. Fromer watched Gorian work with amazement. She both worried and amused him. She was tightly wound, but so very happy about it.

Fromer struggled with his next steps. How should he report this back to the Council? He and his hybrid kind held a unique place in the galaxy. They were agents of the Institute — however, their dual allegiance to humans and zenats gave them a freedom to act more autonomously than many of their peers.

His assignments were typically given by decree of the Institute security council, with a specific goal: Stop the bad guys. Keep these two colonies from destroying each other. Babysit a bakery. How he met these goals were left to his wisened devices. Resources were never limited. The Institute provided all the funds, travel, and weapons needed. Here on the Platform, the game changed. His so-called superiors may have been responsible. If so, he must step lightly, lest he find himself being crisped in an ecology deck or blown out into open space. In some ways, the lack of control and uncertainty was compelling. Life may actually end for him.

Dying was a novelty to Fromer. He had no familial bonds and avoided attachment. Thus, he never confronted death in a closely personal way. Hybrids were genetically predisposed for longevity — he had no expiration date. During the occasional coup or feud, he found himself in combat, which theoretically threatened an end to his existence. But he disposed of challengers handily. He recalled fighting Mup — practicing — in the domed arena during his boyhood. Mup was more cunning but Fromer was quicker. As Mup raised his lancet to strike, Fromer flipped backwards while simultaneously whipping his pole under Mup’s legs. Time after time Mup tried to counter this move. But he could never step back quick enough to avoid Fromer’s attack. Fromer eventually agreed to abandon the move so that Mup would keep sparring with him. Fromer smiled slyly at the memory.

He always kept that move in reserve — just in case. He would do the same with the knowledge that someone hacked into the HM interface. The Institute and the Platform staff would learn of an unfortunate experimental accident with no mortalities, nothing more. In the meantime, he hoped that the trap Gorian set would capture its prey.

With Grey and Fen mending, the date for the expedition was set — departure in 48 hours. Melat had much to do to prepare. The intergalactic vessel needed to be prepped. The Raven was a glorious machine — coal black, shimmering in the starlight. Its cargo bay held a small shuttle that was used to travel from orbit to the planet. The bottom of the Raven was lined with small alloy plugs used to generate a quantum field that made space-time fizz like Fromer’s tonic water. Aft, the vessel held the most modern ion thrusters available. Melat suited up and checked every inch of the hull from space. Not a hint of scarring or pitting was visible. Perfect, like Fromer’s engineered skin.

After Melat had locked back in and stripped off her suit, she surveyed the pilot station. In front of the chamber was a view screen that could be used to maneuver the ship manually. A seat sat in the center of the room with pedals and a steering column. Here the resemblance to a shuttle cockpit sharply diverged. The remainder of the room was empty. No buttons, levers, keyboards, screens, or seats were visible. She sat in the command chair and the room darkened. A net of green light engulfed her head and spine — each strand within the web was attached to a location on the walls, floor, and ceiling. Her eyes closed and she began traveling through each beam, thinking, feeling, even tasting the commands she was sending to the Raven’s interface. Where she ended and the Raven began was no longer clear. She thought, thrusters port, and the port thrusters gently fired. Check quantum pulse. Engage life support. For hours her mind drifted through the complex arteries of the ship. She drifted in serene contentment. At last, her journey ended. She reluctantly thought, end systems check. And life again weighed her down.

Melat’s next task was the least interesting yet most critical — navigation. She settled in her office and began tracing the route from the Platform to Nine. She had help. For hundreds of years, pilots littered space with buoys, similar to those used to navigate ships in waterways on old earth.

A buoy was impossible to explain in ordinary three-dimensional terms. The best explanation was that a length of cable was left on one side of a drop and then threaded along the path of the traveling vessel; the other end poked out at the destination. Although the cabling only extended several thousand kilometers in real space, it wound thousands of light years through infraspace — the ‘in between’ place that pilots navigated. This not only aided navigation but also allowed for messages traveling at the slow pace of light to tranverse the galaxy in moments along the cables. The job of a pilot was to follow these lines through infraspace if possible, or to chart new areas if necessary.