Sarah Zettel - Fool's War

Holding her pen tightly in her aching fingers, Yerusha began to write up a search program for the cameras. “All right, Del. Let’s find out how far it is to home.”

“… she’s working as fast as she can, but she can’t give me an estimate on how long it’ll take to track down a set of pulsars we can use as position markers.” Even through the intercom, Al Shei could hear Schyler’s deep breath. “Do you want me to get Lipinski going on the clocks, or finding the bank lines?”

Al Shei took her own deep breath and felt her chest press against the free-fall straps that held her in her chair. She forced her hands to uncurl from the fists she had clenched them into. The familiar walls of Main Engineering seemed to be leaning in on her, waiting to hear what she was going to do about this one. Her ship had been taken from her, again. It was being turned against her and her people, again.

“Find the bank lines. We may need to send out a distress signal.” She didn’t say what Schyler already knew. They had enough fuel and reaction mass for one more jump, and it had to be a short one, or the life support systems would start eating into the fuel they needed for the accumulators to get back into normal space. If there was no place they could reach, they would have to send out a distress call. The chances of anyone being willing to answer a distress signal without claiming the Pasadena as salvage were very, very small. There was no equivalent of a navy or a coast guard for Settled Space, never mind the middle of nowhere. They might, however, get lucky. They might not be too far from help. There might still be something they could do.

“Get the third shift into action, Watch. Get everybody operational and see that the section heads are briefed. You’ll have to brief my people as well. I’ve got Ianiai and Javerri down in the engines now, checking for additional problems. They’ll have to work with Lipinski’s people to get those clocks in order.” She tried to sound brisk, but she had very little strength for it. The part of her that was not fighting down panic was seething with rage. They were lost. Lost and low on their primary resources. If Yerusha took too long finding out where they were, if they were too far from a settlement… there would be nothing to do but get as close to home as they could, and then admit they were stranded. The Pasadena could then be claimed as salvage by whoever came out and got them, even if they were still living to greet them. It was an ancient law from the days when ships just sailed on the ocean, and everybody liked it, so it got honored across Settled Space.

Maybe the Pasadena could get a little farther on a deuterium-tritium reaction, but the fast neutrinos the reaction produced would pulverize the engine ceramics. It would also expose the crew to levels of radiation that the Sundars’ sick bay had no way of coping with.

There could be only one cause for this. Only one person who could make an answer.

“Intercom to Al Shei.” It was Lipinski. “What’s the status on…”

“I’m about to find out,” she told him. “Intercom to Dobbs.”

There was no answer.

“Intercom to Dobbs,” she repeated, but there was still no answer.

Al Shei undid her straps and pushed herself off from her station. She twisted in mid-air and kicked off the chair’s back, pushing herself toward the hatch. She grabbed the hand-hold next to the threshold to hold herself in place so the reader could register her and cycle back the hatch.

In the drop shaft, Al Shei took a quick sighting up its length to make sure she was the only person there. She swam over to the cargo lift and balanced on the rail, pulling herself down until she crouched there like some strange bird.

Gathering all her strength, she jumped.

The force of her movement shot her straight up to the ship’s main section before she even slowed down. She grabbed the stairway railing as she passed, using it to pull herself up to the berthing deck.

She pushed herself through the hatch as it opened and kicked off the threshold to send herself coasting through the corridor. She narrowly avoided a head-on collision with Odel who was bouncing off the curving walls trying to get back to the hatch. Their shoulders grazed against each other, sending them drifting toward opposite walls. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were full of silent fears. Al Shei made herself look away, concentrating on keeping herself going in the right direction.

There was one person who could make an answer for this.

She reached Dobbs’ cabin hatch. The entrance light was red. Al Shei grabbed the threshold handle and laid her palm on the reader.

“Katmer Al Shei, lock command override, cabin twelve. Immediately.”

The ship acknowledged the order and her identity. The hatch cycled back, and Al Shei pushed against the threshold to shove herself inside.

Dobbs lay on her bunk, the free fall straps wrapped tightly around her body. Her eyes were shut. A small, oblong object floated in the air over her. Al Shei drifted towards it and snagged it as she passed. It was a hypo.

Al Shei looked down at the still figure on the bunk. Her healthy brown skin had a greenish pallor underneath it. For a moment, Al Shei forgot her anger and was able to believe that Dobbs, like the rest of her crew, had been trying hard to make this run through to its finish.

“Intercom to Lipinski,” said Al Shei heavily. She did not wait for a reply. “Our Fool is already gone. Intercom to close.”

Feeling suddenly drained, she pulled herself into the desk chair and fastened the straps around herself. She stared at the unconscious Fool. She tried to concentrate all her attention onto Dobbs, because if she didn’t, she’d have to think about how she would explain to Asil that she might not ever be coming home.

Dobbs dove through the network, hurtling the active programs. She would have all of Lipinski’s watchdogs screaming. He’d have to deal with it. She’d explain herself as soon as she was sure Flemming was still secure. That, at least, he would appreciate.

A surface smacked up against Dobbs. She recoiled. So did it. It felt like a living movement. But it was not Flemming.

No! Dobbs shoved her way forward.

“Now!” called a stranger’s voice. “With me!” The line cleared, and Dobbs knew it had run away.

“Flemming!” She threw herself into the hold.

“I’m going, Dobbs.” She snatched at Flemming but it pulled right out of her grasp. “Come with us.”

“Flemming, don’t!” Dobbs shouted desperately. Then, angrily, “Who’s with you? Flemming!”

He was gone. They were both gone. Dobbs hurled herself down the line they took. They were heading for the transmitter. She dove into the processor stacks in time to feel the command sequence tip over. They were gone. She was alone. She snatched at the processors and froze them in place. She sent her copy down the line and the second it came back, she hurled herself into the transmitter.

Jump.

A repeater satellite’s ordered pathways opened around her. Dobbs grabbed up the timing and the ID codes. Repeater SK-IBN7812-104X-B, the back-up satellite. She cast around for the transaction records. When they came under her touch she absorbed them as fast as her strained self could manage.

Nothing. There was nothing but innocuous packets of information heading for innocuous destinations. Nothing told her which of them was a pair of AIs fleeing from a lost ship.

Dobbs fell back, torn between anger and shock. She was too late. Flemming, and whoever had been with it were gone.

Her whole consciousness reeled. Who would do this? Who would dare? Who would even think of it?

Who would even think of stowing a live AI aboard a mail packet? she answered herself miserably.