Redemption Trail

By

Marcus Malone

Copyright © 1993 by Marcus Malone

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Marcus Malone.

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1, Justice

- Chapter 2, Tripolean Syndrome

- Chapter 3, The General

- Chapter 4, Toys of a Genius

- Chapter 5, The Disaster Shelter

- Chapter 6, Metal Fatigue

- Chapter 7, God-Forsaken Darkness

- Chapter 8, The Time Continuum

- Chapter 9, Strange Voices

- Chapter 10, Personal

- Chapter 11, Milwaukee Brew

- Chapter 12, Crumbling Fortress

- Chapter 14, Sea of Destruction

- Chapter 15, Clearance for a Kill

- Chapter 16, Tainted Treasures

- Chapter 17, The Bait

- Chapter 18, Sifting Through the Ruins

- Chapter 19, Tricana

- Chapter 20, Nothing Short of Spectacular

Chapter 1, Justice

The lunar surface was an important component in the overall scheme of human affairs. Unlike the four frontier planets, the moon was never divided among the nations of the world; it had been claimed by the United Nations as an international sanctuary for human life. As a result, each of the one hundred twelve lunar cities were politically unbiased and open to anyone from any nation. Although there were some heavy industries on the moon, most of the lunar economy centered around tourism and international politics.

The largest of the lunar cities was Le Monnier, which was located at the east edge of the Sea of Serenity near the foothills of the Taurus Mountains. It boasted a population of seven million and played host to the largest spaceport in existence. Other cities, such as Faith and Linne, were not nearly as large but much more eloquent. These cities were filled with luxury resorts, which catered to crowds of party-goers who sought recreation in the form of legalized gambling and prostitution. There was also the Tranquility Base Museum, the Mount Argaeus Observatory, and countless guided tours across supposedly pristine lunar landscape.

Among the tourist attractions, party-goers, and international diplomats, were the meek, who made a modest and humble living tending to the whims of the more fortunate. Many of them would have gladly left the lunar arena, but the cost of a ticket on a spaceliner was far beyond their humble means.

In amongst this quagmire of affluent and deprived, were an assortment of renegades and two-bit hoods, who tried their best to make a living by less than honorable means; drugs, theft, cons, and whatnot. Almost all of the lunar cities had the same proportional mix of wealthy, poor, and hoods; except for one—Unli.

Unli's name was actually an acronym for United Nations Lunar Installation, which was established long before the moon became a social hot spot. As a result, Unli, which is located near the Tranquility Base Museum, was not nearly as flashy and elaborate as the other lunar cities, though it did support a population of two and a half million.

Unli, however plain, was by far most prestigious place to be; it was the meeting place of world leaders and the seat of government for human affairs throughout the known realm. Representatives from Earth and the four frontier planets argued and debated at Unli on a daily basis, laws were drafted, UN missions were outlined, defined, and implemented while world media organization constantly hounded diplomats for spicy pieces of news. Everyone who was anyone had the privilege of entering Unli.

To Krey Altson, however, the privilege of being in Unli was indeed a dubious honor—and one that he would have gladly foregone. He sat quiet and humble in a UN courtroom next to his attorney, Mr. Shelton, who had put forth a respectable effort in a futile attempt to save him from justice. Krey's wrists were locked in cufflets which, in turn, were locked to the arms of his chair. The cufflets had been installed on his wrists ever since he was apprehended two weeks earlier.

Krey was a young man, a kid by some standards, full of vim, vigor, and motivated by a longing for adventure. He was of average height with a build that was considerably massive. He seldom engaged in athletics, though he could have rammed flesh with the best of quarterbacks, as was evident by his triumphs in various bar-room brawls. He was considered good-looking by most and could often turn a lady's head, though his urge to roam prevented him from striking up a meaningful relationship. He had, for the most part, a carefree attitude, which was dangerously coupled with a nasty habit of procrastination. It was this combination, in part, that brought him to the UN courtroom that morning.

Krey was nervous about the outcome of the proceedings, though somewhat relieved that his long ordeal with the UN was about to come to a close. It had been nearly a week since he was convicted of his crime in a fair and honest trial, and, after spending six days in a cramped holding canister, his sentencing was finally at hand.

He looked around briefly at the dozen or so other convicts who, like him, were waiting for their turn under the gavel. The courtroom was filled to capacity, though they were hardly the international murders, spies, and assassins that drew media attention. This was the UN's lower court, which processed misdemeanors committed in UN jurisdiction, such as crimes perpetrated on the moon or in orbital zones around Earth.

The long, drawn-out proceedings had been in progress all morning and the judge was beginning to grow weary, as was evident by the increasing severity of the sentences that he hastily administered; some fines were as high as two million marks, and prison terms were beginning to exceed seven years. Krey hoped that his turn would come before the sentences became so stiff that suicide would seem like an attractive alternative.

Krey saw himself as an innocent victim of circumstances—the UN saw him as a repeat offender. An objective bystander, on the other hand, might have assessed Krey as basically honest, though certainly guilty of being irresponsible—as well as young and foolish.

Krey's uneasiness grew when his attorney shoved a thin, plastic computer terminal in front of him. The terminal looked like a sheet of stiff, flexible, legal-sized plastic, which displayed vivid blue letters on a glossy white background. The keypad for the terminal was nothing more than a series of icons and numbers printed in the margin of the plastic sheet.

Krey immediately recognized the glowing-blue data displayed on the paper-thin terminal; it was his UN record. Mr. Shelton hammered the thin, plastic computer with a fingertip as he pointed to one of the line items on Krey's record.

"What the hell is this about?" Mr. Shelton's voice was firm, yet discreetly quiet.

Krey looked down at the computer display, which was somewhat difficult with his wrists locked to the chair by cufflets, and read the line in question: `Item 26: Pending law suit—Property damage; see record 007FC4'.

Krey swallowed hard before replying in an uneasy voice, which was hardly much louder than a whisper.

"I told you about that. A panel drifted off my craft and dented a communications reflector on a passing vehicle."

"I know that," Mr. Shelton retorted, though he prudently kept his voice down, "You said you took care of it!"

"I did—I paid the repair bill."

"Then, why is it still on the record?"

Krey shrugged his shoulders then replied in a less-than-confident tone, "I guess I never got around to filling out the computerwork."

Mr. Shelton let out a sigh of disgust.

"Let me give you a quick, cruel lesson in law..."

Mr. Shelton pressed several icons and numbers at the edge of the plastic sheet; the document's lettering changed to display some obscure segment of UN law.

"...Look here." He read the law to Krey as he followed the words with his finger. "Under UN Provision 1292, an alternate sentence of exile must not be offered if one or more of the following conditions exist..."

The list of conditions was far too long to be displayed on the flexible computer screen; Mr. Shelton pressed several more icons at the edge of the plastic, then the list quickly scrolled up through several pages of text. He pointed to item ninety-eight, then continued with his informal lecture.

"...Defendant has a private or public law suit pending at the time of sentencing." Once again, he pressed several icons at the edge of the plastic sheet; the display returned to Krey's UN record. Mr. Shelton pointed to the line describing the pending law suit.

"If it's in the record, it's pending." He shook his head to emphasize his point, "I can't get you an alternate sentence, kid—you're going to jail."

"But," Krey argued hopelessly, "I paid the bill!"

Mr. Shelton made a sharp, karate-like gesture with his hand, "Never neglect your responsibilities under the law!"

The discussion was interrupted by the unmistakable, electronic gong of the gavel as it fell three time in rapid succession. Mr. Shelton looked up and realized that his words had become a little too loud; the courtroom was quiet and all eyes were focused on him.

There was an unnerving moment of silence, then the justice spoke from behind the bench; he directly addressed Mr. Shelton in a flat, calm, authoritative voice.

"With your permission, Mr Shelton, we would like to continue these proceeding without interruption."

Mr. Shelton's expression portrayed a noticeable amount of embarrassment. He knew that, although the incident could not be held against him legally, it would certainly taint the judge's opinion of his client's case. "My apologies to the court, your Honor."

There was another unnerving delay as the judge used silence to emphasize his point.

"Thank you, Mr. Shelton." The judge turned his attention to the bailiff, "Next case please."

The bailiff looked at a small, plastic computer terminal, which was about the size and thickness of an index card, then read off the next case to be sentenced.

"The United Nations verses Kreymec M. Altson."

Almost immediately, Krey's cufflets came free from the arm of the chair. He took a moment to slide the bracelet-like cufflets back from his wrists and massage the area where they had been holding him. He followed Mr. Shelton's lead as he rose to his feet.

The judge scrutinized Mr. Shelton and his client for a brief moment before proceeding.

"Kreymec M. Altson... Where have I heard that name before?" His voice carried a biased, taunting tone, which led Krey and Mr. Shelton to believe that the judge had full recollection of the last time they approached his bench.

The judge turned to the bailiff, "Proceed with the preliminaries."

The bailiff, again, turned his attention to the small, plastic computer terminal. "Kreymec M. Altson. Age 24. Nationality; United States. Occupation..." There was a slight delay as the bailiff squinted at the card in disbelief, "Salvage entrepreneur. Registered owner of tail number RQ-773. Previous convictions as follows—"

The judge held up a hand to interrupt, "Tail number RQ-733." There was an uneasy pause; Krey could clearly see that the judge was not amused. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Altson... Isn't tail number RQ-773 that dirty, rusted, lumbering junk-heap that constantly obstructs UN space traffic?"

Mr. Shelton was quick to speak, "Objection!"

The judge let out a disgruntled sigh, "Very well... Then tell me this, Mr. Altson—What, exactly, is a salvage entrepreneur?"

Krey tried to sound as responsible and dignified as possible, "I recycle space junk, your Honor."

The judge settled back in his chair, "You could start with tail number RQ-733." He turned his attention to the bailiff, "How many formal complaints have been filed against tail number RQ-733?"

The bailiff pressed several icons at the edge of his card, then waited for the information to appear. "One hundred forty-three total. Ninety-five complaints by private individuals, thirty-one complaints by international representatives, seventeen by various UN agencies."

"I see," the judge smiled, "Proceed with the preliminaries."

The bailiff pressed an icon at the edge of the plastic display, then continued from the point of interruption.

"Previous convictions as follows: Twenty-seven counts of illegal mooring. Fourteen counts of obstructing space traffic. Twelve counts of illegal communications protocol. Twelve counts of flight safety violations. Nine counts of illegal orbiting maneuvers. Six counts of personal property damage. Five counts of public property damage. Two counts of illegal landings. One count of illegal breach of time barrier. One count of flying while intoxicated. One count of drunk and disorderly. Eighty-nine misdemeanor convictions in all."

The judge shook his head, "How many of these convictions do not involve tail number RQ-733?"

"One, your Honor; the drunk and disorderly conviction."

The judge looked down at one of several thin, plastic computer terminals, which were neatly laid out across the bench. After studying the document for some time, a slow, sinister smile slowly grew across his reverently aged face. He looked up at Krey.

"I am delighted, Mr. Altson." He looked down at the computer display; his voice reflected a taunting tone of delight. "I see your council has applied for exile under UN Provision 1292." He looked back up at Krey. "Am I to assume that you will be taking tail number RQ-733 with you on your journey to the frontier planets?"

"Yes, your Honor."

The judge held up his hands in a delighted gesture of relief. "Excellent! The courts won't have to pay for the demolition of your ship—and I won't have to see you in front of my bench for the remainder of my days. This calls for champaign, Mr. Altson."

Mr. Shelton was quick to speak out, "Ah—begging the court's pardon, your Honor." Mr. Shelton nervously rubbed his chin as he tried to think of the best way to phrase the bad news. The judge's expression quickly changed to something that resembled a bulldog.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Shelton?"

"I sincerely regret these irregular procedures, your Honor, but I must withdraw our application for exile. It would seem that—"

The judge held up a hand to interrupt. "Save it, Mr. Shelton. You've used enough of the court's time with your foolish antics."

The judge turned his attention to one of the plastic computer sheets on his bench. He pressed several icons at the edge of the sheet, then turned his attention to Krey.

"It would appear that I'm rid of you either way, Mr. Altson. Your past record of eighty nine misdemeanor convictions, in conjunction with your recent crime of failure to move an illegally moored vehicle, brings a sentence of four to twelve years. It is the judgment of this court that you serve six years in a holding canister in the UN Rehabilitation Warehouse. Furthermore, I am ordering the courts to confiscate and demolish tail number RQ-733. Do you have the funds to pay for the demolition of your ship?"

Krey lowered his head in remorse, "No, your Honor."

"According to UN law, I am authorized to extend your sentence by as much as three years to offset the cost of demolition. Since RQ-733 is an enormous craft, I'm going to impose the maximum extension of—"

The judge was interrupted when Mr. Shelton's thin, plastic computer terminal began to beep. Mr. Shelton looked down at the display sheet in disbelief; there, on Krey's UN record was a message that flashed, `Item 26, Pending property damage, deleted from record. Proceed with exile under UN Provision 1292.' He could see by the transmission code that the message was sent directly from the UN's mainframe computer.

"Mr. Shelton, Please keep your personal messages out of the courtroom. If you insist on interrupting these proceeding I'll be forced to charge you with contempt of court. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Shelton?"

Mr. Shelton looked up at the judge briefly, then back down at the flashing message. This was indeed highly irregular; someone, or something, with UN connections apparently wanted Krey exiled. He looked at the big, impetuous kid next to him and wondered what kind of connections he had—or what kind of people he was involved with. He had known Krey since his first conviction; he was hardly anything like an international spy and had absolutely no political pull as far as the UN was concerned. Mr. Shelton began to wonder if he should pursue the advice passed on by the mainframe, or if he would eventually regret getting mixed up in something he would rather not know about.

"Do I make myself clear!" the judge insisted.

Mr. Shelton looked at the judge then humbly replied, "My apologies to the court, your Honor. Ah—if the court pleases, I would like to re-assert our application for exile under UN Provision 1292."

Numerous moans, groans, and mutterings began to fill the courtroom. The judge let out a sigh of disgust as he picked up the gavel.

"ORDER!" The electronic gong of the gavel echoed through the courtroom. "I INSIST ON ORDER!"

The judge cast a scrutinizing eye across the courtroom as silence fell on the assembly; no-one wanted to taint their case with so much as a cough or sneeze. The courtroom became so desperately quiet that Mr. Shelton could almost hear himself sweat.

"Make up your mind, Mr. Shelton; do you wish to pursue UN Provision 1292 or not!"

"Our original application stands, your Honor."

The judge beamed at Mr. Shelton for quite some time as he toyed with a decision. Krey stood nervously at Mr. Shelton's side; he didn't have a clue as to what was going on.

After what seemed like an eternity, the judge turned his attention to the bailiff. "Is Mr. Altson eligible for Provision 1292?"

The bailiff pressed several icons at the edge of his card, waited for a moment, then announced the results of the computer search.

"He is, your Honor. He qualifies on all one hundred twenty six conditions."

The judge thought about the case for a moment or two before he finally turned his attention to Krey.

"Mr. Altson. I shall resist the temptation to hold your council's conduct against you and grant you exile under UN Provision 1292. According to the guidelines set forth in 1292, you have a two hour grace period in which to get yourself and that dilapidated piece of junk out of UN jurisdiction. Should you fail to do so within the grace period, you will be in contempt of court and liable to serve the prison term previously set fort. Do you understand your responsibilities under UN Provision 1292?"

Krey did his best to suppress a triumphant smile, "I do, Your Honor."

The judge turned his attention to Mr. Shelton. He emphasized his point with an assertive finger, "Mr. Shelton. If I ever see a repeat performance of your conduct here today, I will personally do everything in my power to revoke your privilege of practicing law. Do I make myself clear?"

There was a detectable tone of animosity in Mr. Shelton's voice, "Yes, your Honor."

"So ordered." The gavel fell, then the judge pointed to the door.

"Get out of my court—both of you."

Krey's triumphant smile finally broke for all to see as he started for the door. He was immediately followed by Mr. Shelton, who blatantly stewed with anger and contempt. Mr. Shelton had spent many years building up a respectable, unblemished practice, only to have it tainted by this unfortunate incident.

Krey was not the only one wearing a triumphant smile that morning. One of the other convicts, who was also awaiting sentencing, watched proudly as her unsuspecting mark, Krey Altson, marched out of the courtroom on his way to exile. Once again, Cassie Hempton managed to manipulate circumstances to her advantage.

Krey slammed a victorious fist into the palm of his hand as he stepped out of the courtroom; he thought for sure that he was going to do time in a holding canister.

"You're the greatest, Mr. Shelton. I'm going to recommend you to all my friends."

Mr. Shelton grabbed Krey's arm assertively and spoke in a voice soured by his disgrace in the courtroom. "Don't do me any favors."

Krey looked at Mr. Shelton and, for the first time, saw anger in his face. A look of shock and concern came over him, "What's the problem, Mr. Shelton?"

"I'm not done with you yet." He looked around the crowded lobby in search of a secluded corner.

"I paid your bill." Confusion continued to dominate Krey's face.

Mr. Shelton motioned to a corner near a political poster, then encouraged Krey with a shove. "This way."

"What!?"

The two men were silent as they marched off to the corner. Krey tried desperately to think of what he might have done to upset his attorney. He was no stranger to the courtroom and was certain that he had conducted himself properly.

When they reached the corner by the political poster, Mr. Shelton released Krey abruptly, then began with the inquisition.

"What the hell are you involved with?"

Krey shook his head emphatically as he held out his arms in a helpless gesture. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Mr. Shelton was beginning to raise his voice, "Maybe playing dumb works with your friends, but not me. Frankly, I don't care what you're involved with, so long as you keep me out of it."

Krey's look of confusion persisted, "Keep you out of what!?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out!" Mr. Shelton looked around nervously after realizing that he had raised his voice just a little too loud. He returned his attention to Krey; the huge, muscular kid was obviously shaken.

"Shit, Mr. Shelton, I wouldn't do nothin' to you—I'd be locked in a can if not for you."

Mr. Shelton pointed in the general direction of the courtroom, "You made me look like a fool in there—I could lose my practice! I don't know who you have pulling strings for you, and I don't care—just leave me out of it!"

"What did I do!?"

Mr. Shelton studied Krey's face for a moment or two; he was beginning to believe that his client's disguise of ignorance was actually genuine. He knew that Krey was a little too free-wheeling at times and perhaps a little naive when it came to shams and politics. He could easily visualize someone manipulating Krey without him suspecting anything. He knew that, sooner-or-later, someone had to knock some sense into the kid's head.

"Look, you big, dumb—" Mr. Shelton paused. He took a deep breath to calm down, somewhat, then proceeded with a more prudent choice of words. "Someone is trying to set you up—someone with connections in high places—"

"But I—"

"Shut up! I don't want to get stung when they take you down. I'm giving you one last piece of advice as your lawyer; get your wet-behind-the-ears ass on that laser-riddled piece of junk, and get out of the solar system before you find yourself hip-deep in something you know nothing about. Next time you get your ass in a jam don't call me—find another lawyer."

With that, Mr. Shelton turned and walked off.

Krey's look of confusion had escalated to something that resembled trepidation. Once again, Krey held up his hands in a helpless gesture as he shouted to his attorney.

"What did I do!?"

Mr. Shelton did not reply or even turn around; he quietly, and prudently, disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter 2, Tripolean Syndrome

The judicial process continued in the UN's lower court. Convicts who expected to get off with a fine were anxiously waiting for due process to commence so they could pay the fine and be done with the ordeal. Others, who expected confinement in a bleak, cramped holding canister, hoped that the proceedings and their last, fleeting glimpse of daylight, would be stretched out as long as possible.

There was one convict, however, who had an entirely different approach to the problem of eluding a prison term; Cassie Hempton.

Cassie, like the rest of the convicts, was restricted to a chair by cufflets. She too, sat next to her attorney as she waited to be sentenced. Cassie, unlike the others, had little to no faith in her attorney; she learned, from past experience, that few people could match her intelligence and skills when it came to worming her way out of a jam—and she was not about to trust this particular affair to some pin-striped attorney.

Cassie was an attractive young woman of 21 and boasted a figure that could have easily rivaled any pageant queen. She turned a lot of heads and might have broken as many hearts—if she would have been willing to venture past the acquaintance stage. Cassie had a happy-go-lucky spirit, broad mind, and a love for fantasy, which she frequently used as relief from self-imposed isolation.

Cassie often fantasized about pursuing an intimate relationship; to share thoughts and dreams, to share feelings and emotions, to share adventures and triumphs. But, in the depths of Cassie's mind, such a relationship was impossible. To share a life would, sooner or later, lead to sharing secrets—and Cassie had a secret that she dare not reveal. Reluctantly, she gave in to the belief that the relationship of her dreams was a privilege reserved for normal women.

Cassie, was by no means, a normal woman. She suffered from a rare, mental aberration, dubbed Tripolean Syndrome, which manifests itself as exceptional, near-superhuman intelligence. There were only six known cases of Tripolean Syndrome in the entire human population. Cassie, however, was not one of those known cases; it was her secret—her gift—her curse. She knew that if the world ever discovered her condition, she would be exploited, controlled, analyzed, and dissected, just like all the others who suffered from Tripolean Syndrome. It was fear of these consequences that locked Cassie's life, and heart, in a self-made prison far more formidable than anything the UN had to offer.

One of the documented side-effects of Tripolean Syndrome was obsession. For Cassie, that obsession was getting away with just about anything, which was generally petty theft. She often resorted to petty theft because, in her mind, it was not all that reprehensible. She had a good conscience and was not about to stoop to devastating crimes, though the urge to do so often presented itself.

Cassie, herself, lost count of the hundreds of petty crimes that she had deliberately, and methodically, carried out over the years. To date, she had only been caught for six of them, five of which she managed to wiggle out of. It was that single, remaining conviction that brought her to the UN courtroom that morning.

The proceedings continued as a man convicted of aggravated assault was being sentenced to five years in a holding canister. Cassie knew that a mind like hers, if locked away in a dark holding canister for any amount of time, would certainly self-destruct. She saw this sentencing as a struggle for sanity, rather than a struggle for freedom. The judge was nearing the end of aggravated assault case when Cassie's attorney leaned over to make one more appeal for a change of strategy.

"We still have time to change our approach," he whispered.

Cassie shook her head in hopes of brushing off her attorney; she was trying to concentrate on the computer-generated voice coming from a small earpiece hidden in her ear canal. The voice was transmitted from a distant UN mainframe computer, which she controlled through a small, matchbook-sized computer hidden in her right hand.

The small computer, a Radio Shack Model 7, converted Cassie's home-made codes, which she tapped out with her forefinger, into valid mainframe commands. The Model 7 transmitted the commands to an illegal software implant, which she had installed into UN computers nearly a decade earlier. The implant allowed her to bypass UN computer security and take command of the mainframe at will. The mainframe, in turn, sent its reply directly to her earpiece. At that particular moment, she was trying to track the movements of her mark, Kreymec M. Altson, who was already under legitimate UN computer surveillance.

"Look," the attorney argued at a whisper, "according to UN provision 1292, if you don't leave for the frontier planets before the two-hour grace period expires, then you'll be in contempt of court—which carries a sentence of at least two years. You'd be much better off serving three to six months for shoplifting."

Cassie's response was firm. "I want 1292."

"Okay," he shrugged as he returned to his previous posture. "You just don't seem like the rich type who could afford a spaceliner ticket."

"I'll find a way," she muttered.

"In two hours?"

Cassie nodded with confidence, though her attorney did not share the same viewpoint.

"Contempt of court is not a trivial charge. Two hours from now the UN computers are going to track you down and—"

The discussion was interrupted by the gavel.

"Next case, please."

The bailiff, again, turned his attention to the small, plastic computer terminal in his hand, "The United Nations verses Cassella R. Hempton."

Cassie's cufflets came free of the chair, then she and her attorney rose to face the UN justice.

"Proceed with the preliminaries."

The bailiff's voice echoed across the courtroom. "Cassella R. Hempton. Age 21. Nationality; Canadian. Occupation; Chamber maid. No previous convictions."

The judge turned his attention to one of the plastic computer terminals on his bench. His brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment or two before he looked up at Cassie and her attorney.

"I see you have filed for UN Provision 1292. Why?"

There was a noticeable pause, then Cassie answered in a humble, yet unswayed tone of voice.

"It's my right, your Honor."

"It is," the judge replied, "But permanent exile is hardly a fitting punishment for shoplifting. Has your council advised you that under UN Provision 1292 you will never be permitted to return to this solar system?"

"He has, your Honor."

Her attorney was quick to defend his position. "Your Honor, I have advised Miss Hempton on the consequences of her decision, and have done my best to persuade her to take the customary prison term in lieu of exile. Despite my efforts, your Honor, she insists on exile under Provision 1292."

"Hmm..." The judge settled back in his chair and rubbed his chin as he thought about the case. After a moment or two, he leaned forward and addressed the convicted.

"Young lady, it is the opinion of this court that your request for exile under UN Provision 1292 is ill-advised and unjust. Your crime hardly warrants a sentence as severe as 1292, but it is your right to pursue exile. Are you aware of your responsibilities under UN Provision 1292?—specifically; you must leave the solar system within the two-hour grace period and must not return to Earth or its solar system for the remainder of your natural life."

Cassie's voice was flat and unmoved, "I am, your Honor."

The judge turned his attention to the court register, "Let the record show that Miss Hempton has been advised, and is fully aware, of her responsibilities under UN Provision 1292."

He returned his attention to Cassie, "Miss Hempton, do you, at this time, wish to withdraw your application for exile under UN Provision 1292?"

Again, Cassie's voice was flat and unmoved, "No, your Honor."

"Let the record show that the convicted, Cassella R. Hempton, was given ample opportunity to withdraw her application for exile under UN Provision 1292. It is the decision of this court to condemn Cassella R. Hempton to permanent exile under UN Provision 1292."

He struck the gavel, "So ordered! Next case, please."

With that, Cassie and her attorney started for the door.

As her lawyer suspected, Cassie was far removed from the affluent class who could afford passage on a spaceliner. As for her old tricks; it was, by far, easier to steal a spacecraft than it was to stow away on a spaceliner, and stealing a spacecraft capable of breaching the time barrier was no short order—but Cassie was diligently working on the problem.

Elsewhere in the sprawling, domed city of Unli, Krey was trying to fulfill his responsibilities under UN Provision 1292. With only an hour and a half of grace period left, Krey had become quite desperate. After pre-paying court costs and attorney fees, he was left without enough funds to secure a rather formidable fuel load for the infamous RQ-733. Since fueling operations and flight preparation required nearly an hour, Krey had something in the neighborhood of thirty minutes to raise a substantial amount of cash.

During this awkward time of need, Krey turned to a close and trusted friend, who, as he was certain, would help him through thick and thin.

"NO, ABSOLUTELY NOT!"

"But Bruni—"

"Forget it! There's no way in hell I'm going to lend a half a million marks to someone who ain't coming back!"

Krey tried to think of a solid rebuttal as Bruni, in his neatly-tailored suit, sorted through a leather-upholstered desk drawer in search of a cigar.

"I'll transmit the money back to you as soon as I get there."

Bruni took little notice as he flaunted a dark, walnut-brown cigar, which he promptly stuck in his mouth.

"As soon as you get there, huh?"

Krey nodded as Bruni fumbled around in his jacket for a cigar lighter. Bruni said nothing as he pulled out his lighter, which was about the diameter and thickness of a large coin, then pressed it against the end of his cigar. After taking several puffs, the cigar began to glow and smoke. Bruni tapped the lighter against the edge of an ashtray to knock off the excess ash, then returned the lighter to his pocket. Meanwhile, Krey waited anxiously for an answer.

After savoring the first few puffs of his cigar, Bruni finally turned his attention to Krey.

"Ah—do you, per chance, have a half a million marks waiting for you at this god-forsaken place you're going?"

"Well," Krey admitted, "It's not waiting for me... but I'll send it as soon as I can earn it."

"Earn it?" Bruni chuckled. "Those frontier planets are impoverished. You'll be lucky to earn enough to live on—much less pay back some chump who was stupid enough to lend you a small fortune."

Krey began to get indignant.

"That's a hell of an attitude, Bruni. What about all the times I helped you? Who towed that meteor that made you a fortune?"

"Who paid for it?"

"Who ferried your customers around all last summer?"

"Who paid for it?"

"Who took the fall for your illegal landing violation?"

"Who paid for it? You see, Krey..." Bruni's voice was beginning to get a little too coy for his own good, "Business is business, and lending a fortune to someone who ain't coming back is, well... stupid."

"For Christ's sake," Krey argued, "This is me you're talking to! Come on—Help me out here!"

"Nope."

Krey let out a sigh of disgust, "Well, at least point me in the right direction—give me some advice!"

"Alright. You want some advice, I'll give you some advice: Go out and get laid while you're a free man. Because in an hour and a half the UN is going to track down those cufflets on your wrist, haul you off by the nuts, seal you in a holding canister, and store you in their warehouse for a very long time. As for the money..." Bruni emphasized his point with a slow, shallow shaking of the head, "No one is going to lend you anything while you have those cufflets on... You're a marked man."

Krey pointed an angry finger at the friend who suddenly became a stranger, "If I had the time I'd drag you down to the gym and knock the living liver out of you."

"Well you don't have the time. And, frankly, neither do I. I trust you can find your own way out."

"One of these days, Bruni—"

"What?"

There was an awkward moment of tension and silence as the two men stared each other down. Bruni thought for a moment that Krey might resort to a barbaric act of violence, right there in his wealth-lined office. But to his relief, Krey simply turned and walked out into the corridor.

Cassie hurried through Unli's crowded city Common on her way to the nearest computer annex. The Common was an enormous, kidney-shaped plaza at the center of Unli where people came to socialize and enjoy a rare glimpse of foliage. In many ways, the Common resembled an artificial park. Numerous benches and pavilions were scattered about to provide gathering places for Unli's citizens, and a small stage was erected where poets and modern folk singers often catered to modest crowds. Because of the need to conserve space, however, monuments and memorials were noticeably scarce; the most impressive of which was a life-size statue commemorating a World War Five general, who was accredited with ending the bloodiest war in human history.

The Common also had its share of greenery. Here and there were numerous, irregular-shaped gardens where a wide variety of foliage thrived in hydroponic environments. Vines grew up the sides of some pavilions, and foliage adorned the tops of nearby shops and offices. The thriving greenery was accented by several small birds, which roamed freely under the giant dome, and three or four resident squirrels who foraged on the ground for tid-bits cast by a friendly hand.

Cassie did not slow her pace as she looked up through the smoke-tinted dome, which rose some 200 feet above the Common. Just beyond the dome, she could see the fragile blue crest of Earth, which was just nearing first quarter. An uneasy, disheartening feeling came over her as she realized that she would never again see a full Earth.

Cassie noticed that several people cast disapproving stares at her cufflets as she entered a computer annex at the edge of the Common. Although she was technically free, the albatross on her wrists marked her as a criminal of one sort or another—and people had the tendency to assume the worst; such as a murder or terrorist. She was anxiously waiting for the moment when the cufflets would fall off on their own accord, which would happen as soon as she left UN jurisdiction.

The computer annex was crowded with patrons; some were engaged in bank transactions, others were making travel arrangements, sending or receiving mail, making purchases, updating wills, and any one of countless other activities that took place at the annex. Cassie's business at the annex, however, was something of a different nature. She hurried past several rows of crowded computer stations in search of an open link to the civil computer network.

After a short and frantic search, Cassie managed to locate an open computer. She stepped up to the station, then plugged her Model 7 into an auxiliary slot on the console. The computer responded with the message, `WARNING: SECURITY BREACH!'

Cassie quickly pressed a key to clear the message, then looked around to make sure that no one had seen it. She knew that the message was only a local deterrent; the Model 7 prevented the breach from being detected by authorities at the network. Cassie had full right to use the civil network and had an authorized log-on code, but she decided to bypass log-on procedures to mask the nature of her inquiry. Satisfied that no-one had seen the security message, she returned to the business at hand.

Cassie entered a series of commands at the keyboard to inquire about the location, status, and scheduled departure time of RQ-733. She was well aware of the fact that Krey had less than an hour and fifteen minutes to launch the ship, and assumed that preparations were well under way. In order to pull off a successful theft of RQ-733, she would have to interdict at just the right point in time; she had to wait until it was fueled and flight ready before she made her move to electronically seize the vessel.

After what seemed like an eternity, the computer finally displayed the data she had requested. A sick feeling churned deep in her stomach as, line after line, the stark reality of the situation hit her square in the face; RQ-733 was shut down, de-fueled, and drifting aimlessly in a mooring orbit high above the lunar surface. According to the computer, there had been no activity associated with RQ-733 in the past six weeks, and absolutely no preparations for flight were currently underway; no flight plan was filed, no fuel load was purchased, no support vehicles dispatched—nothing.

A chill ran down Cassie's spine as she continued with the inquiry. The computer went on to display the specifications and current operating condition of RQ-733. It was an ancient, World War Five vintage fighter; a Sikorsky F-1126 Star Saber. There were only six built, all of which were either destroyed during the war, or scrapped-out when the war ended nearly a century ago. It was a massive craft and, by no means, economical.

The bad news continued line after line as the computer reported on the craft's readiness. Communication systems were marginal, navigation systems could be operated on an emergency basis only, two of the three massive time distortion engines were out, one of the conventional engines was out, the copilot's hydraulic system was out, all three flight control computers were completely missing, both auxiliary power units were out...

Cassie terminated the report. She quickly entered a series of commands to see if any other space traffic was leaving within the next hour and a half. The computer generated a list of 26 vehicles, which were either spaceliners, diplomatic vehicles, or sub-light crafts incapable of breaching the time barrier. There were no private vehicles suitable for snatching.

Cassie pulled her Model 7 out of the console then stared at the blank screen for a while. She could not bear the thought of being locked in a dark, cramped, featureless canister with an over-active case of Tripolean Syndrome eating away at her sanity. She turned, then slowly walked out of the annex with her head sadly lowered.

As Cassie stepped out into the Common, she began to wonder about her mark, Kreymec M. Altson; he too, had a grace period that was about to run out. She remembered that Krey told the judge that he was going to fly RQ-733 to the frontier planets, but, apparently, his plans had changed. She wondered how Krey planned on finding his way to the frontier planets—and if she might be able to tag along.

Cassie slowly strolled to a stop as she began pressing buttons on her Model 7, which was still in communication with the UN mainframe. After a brief pause, the mainframe sent a reply to her earpiece; Krey was about a quarter-mile away, walking south down Wargentin Corridor. Cassie slipped the Model 7 into her pocket, then started for Wargentin Corridor.

Chapter 3, The General

Krey was in bitterly depressed spirits as he wandered down a crowded Unli corridor. He had talked to numerous friends, as well as several business associates, and no-one was willing to help him in his time of need. Bruni's words held true; no one wanted anything to do with a man in cufflets. He was beginning to think that he should take Bruni's advice and get laid before the UN caught up with him because, as near as he could assess—he was going to jail.

Krey was distracted from his thoughts when he heard a stranger's feminine voice call his name from somewhere down the corridor.

"Krey! Krey Altson!"

Krey stopped dead in his tracks, then anxiously turned to search the faces of the crowd for the stranger. After a moment or two, he spotted a lovely young woman making her way through the crowded corridor at a hurried pace. As Krey watched the beautiful woman approach, he casually, and prudently, held his hands behind his back in an effort to hide his cufflets—he did not want to make a bad impression.

As the woman drew closer, Krey noticed that she also wore cufflets. He studied her face as she approached in an attempt to place her; who was this convict and how did she come to know his name? Finally it hit him, she was in the UN courtroom with him that morning.

Cassie offered an uneasy smile as she slowed to a halt and introduced herself.

"Hi. I'm Cassie—I saw you in court this morning."

Krey returned the smile and nodded, "Yeah, I remember—you were in the back. What did the judge hit you with?"

"1292."

"Me too."

There was a short, awkward pause. Cassie's eyes swept across the floor as she tried to think of the best way to approach the subject. Krey's smile grew by a subtle measure as his eyes ran down the length of her body. She was indeed a stunning woman. At the moment, however, Krey was much more interested in why she approached him, rather than her appearance.

Cassie's eyes came up from the floor and met his, "Um... The sentencing took longer than I planed, and I missed my flight to the frontier." She tried to appear as convincing as possible. "I haven't been able to find a seat on anything leaving during my grace period, and... well..." She paused momentarily to let out an uneasy sigh, which was strictly for effect. "You told the judge that you were leaving in your own craft. I was wondering if I could get a ride with you."

Krey's smile diminished somewhat; he would have been more than willing to help the stranger if it would have been possible. He sadly shook his head.

"I'm sorry. I don't have a fuel load—I can't launch my craft." He let out an uneasy sigh. "I'd certainly help you if I could."

Krey offered Cassie his hand, "Come on," He gestured down the corridor with a twist of the head, "I'll buy you coffee."

Cassie accepted his hand, then the two convicts started down the corridor; Cassie was already contemplating several possibilities.

"What kind of fuel load do you need?" she asked in a nonchalant voice.

Krey chuckled in a hopeless tone, "About a half a million marks worth. You wouldn't happen to have that kind of money, would you?"

Cassie shook her head, "No, but I might be able to get my hands on some anti-matter—I have a friend that owes me a favor."

"It better be a good friend—we'd need thirty-five kilos."

"I think I can get that."

Krey stopped and studied Cassie's face; he could see she was serious. He looked down at his watch, "I only have an hour and ten minutes of grace period left, and preparations will take an hour at best. Can you have this anti-matter ready in ten minutes?"

Cassie nodded, "Maybe."

"We'll need a few other odds and ends as well."

A look of suspicion came over Cassie, "What kind of odds and ends?"

Krey squinted up at the ceiling as he counted off each item on his fingers, "Six-hundred pounds of liquid oxygen, twelve hundred pounds of liquid hydrogen, a hundred and fifty gallons of hydraulic fluid, sixty gallons of water, a fully-charged 800 ampere-hour nicad battery, and food for two people for, say, at least two weeks. ...I'll buy the beer."

"Hmm..." Cassie thought about the prospect. It was a very tall order—but the alternative was prison.

Krey knew that it was a ridiculous amount of stores to gather in ten minutes—even if money wasn't a problem. He was fully prepared for Cassie's disappointing response, but when that disappointing response was not immediately forthcoming, he began to hold out some hope. He decided to offer some encouragement.

"Maybe we can cheat on preparations and trim some time off the preflight. If you could possibly have this stuff ready in, say twenty minutes, I'll let you pick the destination—I'll take you anywhere you want to go."

Cassie looked up at him and smiled. "It's a deal! Meet me at the Common in twenty minutes—by the statue of The General."

An overwhelming sense of euphoria had overtaken Krey by the time he reached the statue of The General. In a matter of minutes, his perspective of the future went from dismal to delighted. With the problem of securing a fuel load out of the way, his thoughts turned to the space flight, and the beautiful stranger who made it all possible.

Krey seldom had the opportunity to meet a woman as beautiful as Cassie, and was eagerly looking forward to spending several long, isolated weeks together in the hull of RQ-733. It almost seemed like something out of a romance novel; two young strangers getting to know each other on an adventurous journey to who-knows-where. In his mind's eye, he had already painted pictures of himself and that lovely, sensual woman drifting half-dressed beneath the breathtaking view of the observation port. He could see it clearly; some zero-gravity canisters of wine floating close at hand, soft music, view of the stars, intimate conversation. Then, when the moment was right, they would hold each other closely in the unrestricted bed of zero gravity and share a gentle, passionate kiss. As the perpetual night wore on, they would begin tantalizing each other's bodies with soft caresses that daringly bordered the intimate, until, ultimately...

"Excuse me."

Krey was distracted from his overly-creative imagination when a passer-by happened to bump into him. He looked down at his watch; only five minutes had passed. There was still a long, quarter of an hour to kill before the adventures of his dreams would begin. He nervously looked around the Common for some time, then casually turned his attention to the statue of The General.

The copper statue depicted a young man in a spacesuit, less the helmet, who was heavily burdened with World War Five fighting gear. He was standing on a generic pedestal and poised with a particle beam rifle pointed at an unseen adversary somewhere across the Common. A laser rifle was slung over his shoulder and several miniature, infrared-seeking missiles were attached to his weapons belt. The pressure suit's life-pack was mounted on his back and a .40 caliber, lead-projectile pistol was strapped to one of his boots.

Krey read the plaque out of shear boredom:

General Fenton S. Raver, as depicted here, was a major at the age of 27 when he fought the long, bloody battle of Menti. His victory at Menti saved the lives of seven billion refugees and forced the end of the bloodiest confrontation in human history. His deeds and courage restored hope, peace, and religious freedom throughout the entire human realm. General Raver was proudly awarded the coveted United Nations Metal of Heroics and Valor for his exceptional service to humankind.

Somewhere, across 47 light-years of empty void, in the constellation of Auriga, was a warm, yellow star known for millenniums as Capella. Capella was very similar to Earth's sun as far as heat and color, though somewhat smaller in size. Like the sun, Capella was not alone in space; it too nurtured a small, modest collection of planets, which relentlessly circled the star in their endless orbits. There were five planets in all, whose surface temperatures ranged from searing heat to perpetual, forbidding cold. There was, however, an oasis of life in that remote, single-star system. The second planet out, Theti, had a mean surface temperature of 98øF, and an oxygen/carbon dioxide atmosphere capable of supporting human life.

Theti was, by far, the most remote of the four frontier planets. It was adorned with vast, indigenous forests of towering 400-foot hardwoods, though open fields and lakes were also abundant. Water covered 38% of Theti's surface, most of which was either gathered in a single ocean-sized fresh water lake, or hung around in the atmosphere as stagnant, muggy humidity.

Theti was not tilted on its axis and, therefor, had absolutely no seasons. The weather was generally hot and muggy throughout the 298-day year, storms were rare and never of the severity like those experienced on Earth. It was a haven for vegetation, as well as a home to three and a half billion pioneers from Earth, who settled there in hopes of forging new lives, and new dreams.

One such pioneer was a long-forgotten hero, whose deeds and courage had restored sanity to the once turbulent human realm. General Fenton S. Raver sat quietly at a rustic desk in his modest, semi-domed house, which was nested in a secluded stand of giant, Thetean hardwoods.

Fenton's 124 year-old eyes gazed up through the quarter-shell dome, which covered a small living area and a den. A subtle, peaceful smile tugged at the many fine lines in his face as he watched a monkey-like Krello climb a vine up one of the massive Bao trees, which towered nearby.

"They want them nuts," he said in a raspy, weathered voice.

Chellaina, who had been his wife for ninety-six years, was never far away. She sat in a fluffy, padded chair as she practiced the old, nearly forgotten art of crocheting. Her feeble, 117 year-old hands stopped their slow, tedious task as she looked up at the Krello.

She smiled as her caring voice softly echoed a reply.

"They work so hard for them—bring them down one at a time."

Fenton looked to Chellaina; her frail, 97-pound frame was dwarfed by her fluffy pink chair like a kitten dwarfed by a pillow. To Fenton, Chellaina was as lovely as the day they met. She had a soft, timid personality and was ever so proud of her husband, The General. Fenton smiled at his precious wife, then returned to the countless pieces of World War Five memorabilia, which covered his desk.

The General's shaking hands reached down for a curled, weathered photograph of a massive military spacecraft, which was riddled with laser burns and munitions holes. Several areas of her hull were ripped open and exposed to the inhospitable rigors of space, and smoke vented from one of her crippled engines.

"We were something back then—back when we were young and spiky."

Chellaina pause to smile at her husband, though Fenton did not notice. She knew how much that era of heroics meant to him, and how much he loved to sift through those memories. Chellaina quietly returned to her crocheting as Fenton studied the aged, weathered photograph.

"So many people died that day." His eyes ran from one edge of the picture to the other as they shifted under a sagging brow. "But, we were something."

He set down the photograph, then picked up a tattered scrap of paper, which was considered an antique at the time, and gazed at the numbers scribbled down in ink. The paper itself appeared to have been a blank page torn from a book—a bound, paper book; the numbers were a series of angles, distances, and times.

"I remember these coordinates." He turned and held up the scrap for Chellaina to see. Chellaina smiled and nodded, then returned to her craft. The General returned to his desk, and his memories.

"We used them the day they dispatched us to Menti. I got these coordinates during a communication with UN headquarters. We had orders to protect a make-shift refugee colony of seven billion; most of them were stored in prison canisters and just warehoused on the surface of Menti. The UN said that military ships loyal to the Fourth Order were moving against the colony."

He paused for just a brief moment as a proud smile came to his face, "I wrote the coordinates of the colony down in my diary. We never wrote down coordinates—we let the computers take care of it because, sometimes, people make mistakes when they write stuff down. But, that day, for some reason, I wrote down the coordinates."

Chellaina continued with her craft as she listened to The General. She had heard all his war stories before, but she enjoyed listening to them never-the-less.

"We were heading to the front, us and the other five Star Sabers, when two of us got orders to defend the refugee camp at Menti. We turned our flight computers over to UN control, then broke off from the formation. We were two days out when I noticed that our position didn't agree with the coordinates I wrote in my diary. I tore the page from my diary then took it to one of the computer consoles to check the coordinates.

"We were already within Fourth Order's jamming range when we discovered that our computers were sending us to the wrong place. We couldn't confirm our destination with UN headquarters, so I struggled with a decision. Finally, I decided to order the two Star Sabers on a different course—to the coordinates from my diary. At the time I wasn't sure if I was doing the right thing or not, but, after the war was over, technicians discovered that the Fourth Order placed a software implant in the UN computers, and it was that implant that tried to send us to the wrong place."

Chellaina set her work down and turned her attention to The General's story. "I'm so proud of you, Fenny." The General still had the scrap of paper in his hand as he turned to face his wife. "You saved so many helpless people from that wicked crusade." She nodded in a caring, convincing fashion. "It's not easy to trust the pen over the computer—you did the right thing."

She could see by Fenton's expression that he was pleased by her comment. After a moment or two, a less triumphant look slowly crept across his face.

"It was such a bloody battle—and so senseless. Our crew of 1,200; Christians, Moslems, Jews, Buddhist... We all fought side by side—each in the name of our own God. We constantly argued about religion; who was right, who was wrong—but we all vowed to defend each other's religious rights with our lives." He shook his head, "Not like the Fourth Order—they wanted to exterminate everyone who didn't believe in their religion. They said death was the only redemption for non-believers."

He turned to face his desk as he set down the scrap of paper and began to rummage through the rest of his collection.

"We made it there in time—we met their armada. Two Star Sabers against thirty-five Boeing B-2732 fighter-bombers." He picked up a picture of a smaller spacecraft, which is shown dropping bombs over a distant, hostile planet. He turned, then his slow, shaking hands offered the picture to Chellaina. Chellaina took the picture as The General continued with his account of history.

"We'd go after the bombers and hit them with the fixed laser cannons, while gunners in the turrets went after the falling bombs with particle-beam guns. I don't know how we did it; not one bomb made it to the surface of Menti. But, that all changed when the front collapsed."

"I remember that day too," Chellaina said as she handed the picture back to The General. "I was so scared. When I heard that the Fourth Order took out the front with antimatter weapons, I was sure the entire realm would collapse. The only thing standing in their way was you and Menti."

The General shook his head, "It wasn't just me. Over two thousand God-fearing men and woemen lost their lives aboard those Star Sabers." The General returned the picture to his collection. "We spent two months in that bloody battle, there above Menti; two crippled Star Sabers against the remnants of the front. Every war machine in existence, every thing that could still fly, converged on Menti. Two Star Sabers against an armada of a hundred forty-three vessels."

He picked up the same, curled photograph that started his war story. His eyes, just like so many times before, carefully studied the all-too-familiar details of the photo.

"She was the last one left. The four at the front were vaporized in an antimatter blast. The other one at Menti burned through the atmosphere and crashed on the surface. They fought for two days with no engines, shooting from a crippled, disintegrating orbit. We'd do what we could to speed them up and stabilize their orbit; the Fourth Order did what they could to slow them down.

"I cried that day—the day RQ-653 and her crew of 1,200 went down. She kept her laser cannons firing every step of the way—even when she started to burn in that God-forsaken atmosphere. She held out in the heat for quite some time before her hi-temp alloy finally gave in. She was already burning like a meteor when she shot three fighters off our tail. She hit the ground; scientists say part of her is still buried 2,000 meters beneath her crater."

His weathered, shaking hand slowly passed the picture to his wife. "When it was all over, we were the only fighting machine left in the entire human realm. Our crew of 1,200, was cut down to six, but we finished the Fourth Order. They refused to surrender; they fought to the very last man. The spoils are still in orbit around Menti, like the giant rings of Saturn."

Chellaina carefully took the photograph from The General. She knew how fragile the photograph was, and how much it meant to her husband, the hero. It was his only picture of RQ-733, and the only memorabilia he had to remind his fading memory of the Star Saber that made him a hero.

Slow, gentle tears began to run down Chellaina's face as she looked at the photo. "I remember when I took this picture." The strain of those distant memories marred her voice somewhat, though the courage of a century gone by helped her to continue.

"I saw it from my office viewport, aboard the Mercy Star. I thought it was just war debris under tow." She looked up at Fenton with an unsure smile, then returned her attention to the photograph.

"I saw your ship come in, then someone told me that I was needed immediately. They said they had a job that needed an expert. I—I guess I was an expert because they picked me."

She looked up at Fenton and smiled, "I'll never forget when I met you. When I was scrubbing, my commanding officer came in and told me that the greatest hero in history was on my table—save him. I passed through the doors, then found you on my operating table. Somehow, I knew you were a hero, I could just feel it."

She drew an uneasy breath as her tear-stained eyes smiled at her husband, "Eighteen hours with a laser scalpel, and I still wasn't sure if I would ever have the chance to meet you."

She handed the picture back to Fenton.

The General carefully accepted the picture, "Thank You, Chelly; for saving my life—and for taking this picture."

Again, he turned his attention to the picture, "They should have made a monument out of her."

"What ever became of your ship, Fenny?"

The General shook his head, "It went to salvage. One of her laser cannons is mounted on a memorial on Menti, but no one goes there—you need a suit and there aren't no facilities there—it's a dead world. The rest of it, well, it's probably melted down into tool steel by now."

"Why?"

"Because no-one wanted to remember the war. Our Star Saber was the last war machine left—and no-one wanted her lying around as a reminder." He looked back down at the photo, "They haven't built a single war machine since."

Once again, his frail eyes panned across the photo as sights and sounds of the war echoed through his head. A proud, subtle smile crept across his face.

"We were something back then—back when we were young and spiky."

Chapter 4, Toys of a Genius

Krey glanced at his watch as he nervously paced in front of the statue of The General. The strange woman who approached him earlier had less than five minutes to gather the necessary stores. His heightened feeling of euphoria had gradually diminished to something that resembled nervousness and fear. He was worried that he would not be able to leave UN jurisdiction when his grace period ran out—and he did not relish the thought of going to jail.

Cassie was also nervous about the scant time they had in which to launch such an enormous craft. She was seated at a computer station, in the annex next to the Common, where she was diligently working the problem. She had already bypassed the civil computer network's security using her Model 7, and was trying to establish a hard link with the UN mainframe. Although her Model 7 could directly communicate with the UN computer, it did have its limitations.

After several lengthy minutes at the keyboard, the computer finally displayed the message Cassie was waiting to see; `Contact Established, Preforming Integrity Check...'

The integrity check was part of Cassie's illegal software implant. Cassie had programed the implant to check for software changes each time the implant was accessed, which kept her abreast of any changes that might allow UN authorities to detect her activity. After a moment or two, the computer replied with a rare, disheartening message: `Software Modification Detected.'

Cassie thumped a frustrated fist against the front edge of the keyboard. In order to play it safe, she would have to dump several pages of computer codes into her Model 7 and spend hours analyzing its intent. If the changes were installed to look for implant activity, then exercising her implant might alert UN authorities and lead to her arrest. On the other hand, the changes might just be another periodic update to the maze of software that dominates the mainframe, and she could use her implant without fear or worry.

After giving the matter careful consideration, Cassie decided to briefly view the changes in hopes of getting a general idea of their purpose. She quickly displayed the changes on the screen, then spent several precious minutes paging through the data in an effort to determine what part of the system it affected. The more she studied the changes, the more intrigued she became.

It soon became apparent to Cassie that the changes were not changes at all—it was another illegal software implant! She had never known anyone, other than herself, who could successfully install such an implant without being detected by UN authorities. In fact, no-one ever managed to install an implant since she started monitoring the mainframe's data nearly a decade ago.

Her intrigue grew as she viewed the implant; it was indeed impressive. It was well hidden and equipped with a suicide routine, which would erase the implant should someone other than its original owner try to operate it. It employed several high-level, sophisticated techniques, some of which Cassie could not immediately recognize. She tried to locate the data tables within the implant; the area that contained text to be displayed to the operator, such as `Contact Established', or `Ready'. To her surprise, she did not find any such text buried among the pages of codes; she assumed that its text must have been encoded to prevent someone from discovering the true nature of the implant.

Cassie decided to go ahead with her original plans and interact with the UN mainframe despite the presence of the other implant. The other implant was illegal anyway and, chances were, its operator would probably not raise an eyebrow to her activities. At least, she hoped that would be the case.

Cassie stored a copy of the implant in her Model 7 for later analysis, then turned her attention to the matter at hand. She entered a series of commands to access the UN operations queue, then began entering the long list of supplies that Krey had requested. When she was finished, she returned the computer to normal, removed her Model 7, then hurried for the door.

The presence of other implant continued to haunt Cassie; it was extremely sophisticated and used techniques that would have pushed her abilities to the limit. She wondered what kind of person might have wrote it—and why. She decided that she would analyze the Model 7's copy of the implant at her earliest possible convenience.

Unli's spaceport, which was almost like a community in itself, was located at the far eastern edge of the city. The complex consisted of two huge service hangars, along with fifteen smaller shuttle and refueling hangars, each with its own movable dome. Just to the east of the city, five huge landing pads on pillars rose some thirty feet above the lunar surface. The landing pads were joined to the spaceport's facilities by elevated roadways, which were usually cluttered by giant spaceliners in tow. There were also several ground-level platforms, which were used to store large crafts that were either out of service or in various states of disrepair.

Most of the spaceport's traffic was commercial spaceliners, though several private crafts also used the facility from time to time. Most private vessels, however, were in mooring orbits and their owners had to hire service tugs to ferry them up to their crafts, along with fuel, fresh stores, and whatever luggage or cargo they happen to be carrying.

Three of the shuttle and refueling hangars belonged exclusively to the United Nations; these facilities were used to service vehicles for diplomatic visitors, or to support other UN operations. It was in one of these UN shuttle hangars that a rather odd message appeared on a computer screen.

"Hey, Trellen—come look at this one!" The computer operator's eyes gleamed at the screen and its ridiculous demands. "They want a ton of stores ready in five minutes!"

A look of confusion came over his supervisor as he started walking toward the computer terminal.

The computer operator continued with a tone of disbelief, "It says that two agents disguised as convicts will pick the stuff up under the code-name of Exile." He began to chuckle, as if the information was clearly a joke.

The supervisor walked up behind the operator and viewed the data. After scrutinizing the screen for a moment or two, he pointed to a request code in the upper corner of the screen.

"This is no joke," he said in a firm, authoritative voice. "This code means that the order was dispatched by UN Secret Services—they're expecting this stuff in five minutes. They're even requesting a priority departure clearance. You better fire up a robot and get a service tug loaded."

"What are they refueling with all this stuff—a fleet?"

"I don't know," the supervisor shrugged, "But I remember the last time we dropped the ball on one of these orders—there was hell to pay. Now—get off your butt and order the robots to load a service tug."

Cassie had one last chore to tend to before she could meet Krey at the statue. She hurried down a row of storage lockers, which lined an isolated, dead-end corridor not far from the Common, and frantically searched for the one that she had rented. Once she spotted her locker, she hurried up to it, then plugged her Model 7 into an auxiliary slot on its door.

A relieved smile came to Cassie's face as the door popped open and revealed her most prized possession. Her face beamed with delight as she reached into the locker like a child reaching into a toy chest. She pulled out a metal case, which was about the size of a small suitcase, then eagerly tucked it under an arm as she slammed the locker and removed her Model 7 from the door.

Cassie thought about opening the case and checking its contents, but decided that the corridor lacked sufficient privacy for her liking. She cuddled the cold metal case for a brief moment, as if it were a Teddy Bear, then started down the corridor toward the Common.

It was not the case that had Cassie so delighted, but its contents. Inside, as far as she was concerned, were treasures beyond any possible measure. No living being, other than her, knew what was in the case or even that it existed. She often thought of the pressure-tight, nuclear-hardened case as her toy box—for in it were the toys of a genius.

Krey was incredibly anxious as he watched Cassie walking toward him from a corridor that spilled out into the Common. He looked down at his watch; they only had forty-five minutes to launch RQ-733 and get out of UN jurisdiction. The UN was very explicit about the grace period associated with Provision 1292; it was like trying to elude the IRS. At exactly one minute after the grace period, the cufflets would lock together and UN agents would be on their way to apprehend him.

He looked up at Cassie, who was walking toward him with her case in hand.

"Did you get the stuff?" Krey's voice was anxious.

"Everything's ready." She motioned toward the subway terminal, "We better hurry—time is running out."

A relieved smile came to Krey's face as they started for the subway terminal at a trot; he didn't actually think that Cassie could come up with such a formidable list of stores in such a short time. That relieved smile, however, was certainly tempered with caution; it would take at least four minutes to get to the spaceport, then who knows how long they might wait on the pad for clearance. After that, they still had to make the ascent up to the mooring orbit. All-in-all, they could conceivably use up the remainder of the grace period just trying to get to RQ-733, much less launch it.

They stepped into the subway terminal next to the Common, were two other people, a man and a woman, were waiting for a car. The woman smiled at Cassie as she walked up to the dispatch board to request a car. However, when Cassie pushed a button labeled `Spaceport', the lady noticed her cufflets, then her smile changed to a sneer as she pointed her nose in the air. Cassie took little notice.

A moment or two later, a driverless car, which resembled a fully-enclosed golf cart, came up a ramp from somewhere beneath the city. The prudish lady and her escort climbed into the car, then the car descended down another ramp into the mass transit maze below the city. Krey waited until the car was gone before he resumed their conversation.

"How did you manage to get all that stuff together in such a short time?"

Cassie kept her attention directed at the up ramp and watched for their car, rather than looking at Krey.

"Like I said—I have a friend that owes me a favor."

Krey found her behavior to be a little odd, perhaps even rude, but decided to give her the benefit of a doubt. After all, they were pushing a ridiculous schedule.

"I certainly want to thank you," Krey said with a happy, delighted smile, "If not for you I'd be going to jail and probably—"

"Here comes our car," she interrupted in a flat, indifferent tone.

They stood in silence as the subway car climbed the ramp and slowed to a stop. A door opened on the side of the car, then Cassie stepped in, followed by Krey. Once they were seated, the door closed, then the car began to move down the ramp.

"Looks like we'll be helping each other out for a while," Krey said in an awkward tone of voice. He was generally a little more clever with opening lines, but Cassie seemed to have him at somewhat of a disadvantage; all he wanted to do was break the ice.

Cassie remained silent as she turned her head to look out the window. They had descended to the mass transit network and their car was gaining speed to merge with the other robotic traffic.

Cassie was not being intentionally rude, she was simply trying to avoid conversation. She learned a long time ago that engaging in conversation was risky business. When people talked to her they often picked up on the fact that she was intelligent, and Cassie was determined to hide her case of Tripolean Syndrome—no matter what the cost.

They had already merged with the high-speed traffic, which was racing down a lighted corridor beneath the city. The corridor held three lanes of tightly-packed traffic, which the robotic cars negotiated with impeccable accuracy. Cars often traveled at speed of up to 80 miles per hour, while maintaining only inches of clearance between cars to the front, rear, and sides.

After a minute or two of silence, Krey decided to hazard another attempt at talking to the lovely young woman, who would accompany him on a long, isolated journey through the vast, empty void of space.

"I'm looking forward to this flight," he said with a smile. "It's been four years since I took my ship through the time barrier, and I'm kind'a anxious to do it again."

The uneasy smile persisted on his face as he waited for her reply. Cassie, however, did not move; she remained silent as she looked out the window.

"Have you ever been through the time barrier before?" he asked.

Cassie turned to look at him, then replied in a flat, unmoved voice.

"You talk too much."

She returned to the business of looking out the window.

Silence persisted for the remainder of the trip. Krey's vision of sharing many intimate moments with the lovely young stranger were quickly eroding into dust. Worse than that, he could hardly imagine being locked up in a spacecraft with someone as antisocial and rude as her. He too, eventually turned his attention out of his window and scowled as he mindlessly watched the corridor zip by only inches beyond the glass.

Cassie was extremely uneasy, though it hardly shown. She spent most of her time in isolation and seldom spent more than ten or twenty minutes with any one person. She was extremely nervous about being in close quarters with a perfect stranger, and worried that her secret might eventually become known. She struggled to hold back a frightened tear as her nervous hands clutched the metal case, which was tightly nestled in her lap.

The silence of the subway car was finally broken as the car crawled up a ramp at the spaceport.

"Just follow my lead and don't say anything," Cassie whispered.

A look of confusion came over Krey's face; the comment struck him as odd, though he was a little too naive to suspect that anything underhanded was about to take place.

Krey was distracted from his thoughts when the car came to a stop and the door opened. He stepped out of the subway car into the spaceport terminal, followed by Cassie and her case. The door closed behind them, then the car began to crawl down the ramp as it pressed on with its business. Cassie motioned toward the UN section of the terminal.

"This way, hurry."

She started off across a wide, open lobby, which was lined with several commercial and private terminals. Krey was quick to follow in her footsteps.

Krey had definitely begun to feel uneasy about his new travel partner. He looked at the assertive, arrogant way she walked, as if she happened to be sole heir to the entire human realm. She said that a friend owed her a favor; he wondered who could possibly befriend such a hard woman—as well as what kind of favor they might have owed her. He began to wonder what he might be getting into—and how deep.

They walked up to a reception counter near the UN terminals, which was seldom plagued with long lines like the other terminals. The smartly-dressed lady on the other side of the counter looked down at their cufflets in disgust, though her voice remained polite and soft.

"May I help you?"

Cassie replied with a single word.

"Exile."

The lady stretched out an arm to a door marked, `UN Personnel Only.'

"This way, please."

A nervous, eerie feeling ran down Krey's back as he followed Cassie through the door. He could somehow sense that they were doing something wrong. However, he noticed that Cassie did not seem to be the least bit uneasy; he managed to convince himself that everything was above board and proper.

They followed the receptionist across a vast warehouse area stacked with metal drums and crates.

"You'll have to hurry," the lady said in a soft, polite voice. "Your priority clearance was approved—you have a thirty second window in three minutes. That will be just enough time to board, de-pressurize the hangar, and deploy the dome."

The receptionist escorted Cassie and Krey up to a door marked with a huge, yellow `B'. "Hangar B, service tug 1136." She handed Cassie a small computer module, which was about the size of her Model 7, "Good luck."

"Thank you," Cassie replied as she accepted the module.

The receptionist turned to leave as Cassie slipped the computer module into a slot on the door. The door opened to reveal a vast, circular hangar some 250 feet in diameter. Cassie removed the module, then stepped inside.

Krey followed Cassie into the hangar, then the door closed behind them. He looked at his watch; they only had thirty-five minutes to launch RQ-733. He looked up as Cassie pointed out their tug among the other six that were parked in the hangar, "There it is—1136." She started toward the service tug with Krey close behind.

The service tugs were, by no means, sleek or impressive. They were hardly more than forty to forty-five feet long, fifteen feet high, fifteen feet wide, and had the aerodynamics of a loaf of bread. The tug rested on three short, stubby landing struts, each of which supported four small tires for maneuvering the craft on the ground. Two huge, massive engines dominated the rear, while four smaller, maneuvering engines were mounted on the bottom. About one third of the tug was consumed by its fuel tanks and engine, with the bulk of the remainder being cargo area. The twelve-passenger crew compartment was mounted on top of the tug, which almost made it look like some kind of after-market add-on. A long, mobile staircase was parked next to the tug, which allowed access to its crew compartment.

As Cassie and Krey started up the steps, Krey could not help but wonder what kind of connections Cassie had; what kind of strings did she have to pull to get such royal treatment? He still couldn't shake the feeling that they were doing something wrong, but no-one seemed to be stopping them or even raising an eyebrow. By the time they reached the tug's access hatch, Krey was beginning to wonder what was so special about this strange woman; was she a diplomat's daughter or something? He thought about what his attorney had said; that someone was trying to set him up.

Cassie opened the tug's hatch and stepped in. Krey followed Cassie into the tug, then quickly looked around at the empty seats in the crew compartment.

"Where's the pilot?"

"I'm the pilot." Cassie replied as she stowed her case in one of the lockers. "Go ahead, strap yourself in."

Krey planted himself in a seat next to the pilot's controls, then fished around for various pieces of the flight harness. As he strapped himself in, he could not help feeling somewhat apprehensive about the upcoming flight.

He wondered about the strange woman he suddenly found himself stuck with. His illusions of many tender, intimate moments had completely disappeared and were replaced with the uncertainty laid down by her rigid, assertive personality; he felt like he was being manipulated.

After giving the matter some thought, a sinister, devious smile came to Krey's face; once they reach RQ-733, they would be on his turf—he was the captain. His smile grew as he thought about the prospect; once they were on his ship, no one could tell him what to do.

Chapter 5, The Disaster Shelter

General Raver and Chellaina were enjoying the last hours of the short Thetean day from the comfort of their modest home. Capella was just beginning to set in the colorful western sky, and the Krellos were busy with their daily chore of preparing their nests for the night. It was a typical Theti evening.

The General had put away his photographs and war memorabilia, and was using a household computer to write a letter to a close friend. Chellaina was still busy crocheting, though her pace had slowed somewhat; she paused frequently to look out through the dome and enjoy the colors of the sunset.

Fenton was just getting ready to close the five-page letter when Chellaina broke the gentle, evening silence.

"Shall we go for a sit outside and watch the sunset?"

Fenton stopped what he was doing and turned his attention to Chellaina. "Yes—that would be nice. Let me finish this first—I'm almost done."

"Certainly."

Fenton returned his attention to the computer as he finished his letter:

I have brought this matter up to the UN on several occasions, but they don't seem to be interested. No-one wants to remember the war. I fear, however, that unless someone documents the war for history's sake, then the memory of World War Five will die with old soldiers like us. Worse yet, the human realm might forget about that bloody lesson and, God forbidding, future generations might decide to start the whole thing all over again.

Anyway, I'll keep trying to convince the UN to record our account of history, despite the wide-spread lack of interest. Tell the little woman that Chellaina and I are thinking of her and, as always, we send our best wishes.

Goodby for the moment,

General Fenton S. Raver, UNSF

Upon completing the letter, Fenton pressed a command key on the computer, then turned his attention to a document recorder on his desk. The document recorder, which was about the size of a shoe box, began to eject a thin, shiny sheet of plastic about the size of a business envelope.

Fenton took the small sheet of plastic from the document recorder, then examined the address on the front. He pressed an icon marked `Open', which was printed at the edge of the plastic sheet; the address disappeared and was replaced by the text of the letter. He briefly read through the letter to check for mistakes, using printed pointers in the margin to scroll through several pages of text. Satisfied that the letter was presentable, he pressed an icon marked `Close'; the text disappeared and was replaced by the address. Once the letter was mailed, the United Nations Mail and Message Service would disable the `Open' icon until it was delivered to the appropriate party—thereby guaranteeing privacy.

Fenton set the letter on his desk, with plans to mail it the following day, then turned to his wife, Chellaina.

"Shall we go for our sit then?"

Before Chellaina could reply, the quiet, peaceful evening was shattered by the sound of a disaster siren coming from somewhere outside. Chellaina's eyes grew wide and fearful as her hands stopped their never-ending task.

The loud, piercing siren slowly climbed in pitch, stopped for a half-second, then descended in pitch. The shrill, repetitious pattern of the siren sparked gloomy, century-old memories of a time when the realm was ripped apart by turmoil. Its prolonged, monotonous rhythm could have easily pushed a person to insanity, but within the sanctuary of their home the siren was somewhat muted and at least remotely bearable.

"What is it, Fenny?" Chellaina's worried eyes looked to Fenton for strength.

"I don't know," He labored to push himself up from the chair. "I'll see if they published a bulletin."

He hurried to a panel on a nearby wall as fast as his aging legs would carry him. He was considered to be in excellent condition for a man of his age, but the human body has limitations and was never intended to live beyond 100 years. Fenton's firm, yet shuffling steps hurried to the communications panel on the wall. His face was marked with an uneasy, worried expression, which did little to sooth Chellaina's fears.

Fenton pressed several buttons in succession, pausing after each one to hear nothing but static marked with a deep, unnerving buzz.

"Maybe they have a bulletin on television," Chellaina suggested.

She set her crocheting down next to her in the chair, then picked up a remote control from a nearby end table. She pointed the remote at a neatly framed picture of a lush, green forest scene, then pressed a button. The picture changed to show a torn, tattered interference pattern marked with the same unnerving buzz as the communications system. She pressed several more buttons in succession, but the result was the same on each channel.

Fenton looked at the distorted patterns of light; his expression grew more disturbing. "It's either a jamming signal, or an EMI wave."

There was a short pause as The General analyzed the situation. Chellaina could almost see the brave, young soldier in him, even after a century of living the quiet, peaceful life. He still had somewhat of a hero-like demeanor, which brought Chellaina comfort during that moment of uncertainty, but the years had taken their toll and the elderly couple was far from independent.

Although they lived alone in their secluded house, they were frequently visited by social workers who helped people over 100 live a quality life that had the appearance of being independent. That thought was foremost in The General's mind as he continued to study the situation; there would be no friends from Elderly Support Services to consult with, and Chellaina would look to him for strength—the decision had to be his.

"Gain your feet, Love," his voice was firm and commanding for Chellaina's sake; deep inside, however, were disturbing feelings of uncertainty. "We're going to the disaster shelter."

Chellaina's look of worry began to shift toward fear; the 100 year-old memories of the war were still far too vivid to ignore. She set down the remote, then struggled to lift her frail, wobbling frame out of her pink, fluffy chair. Fenton hurried to assist her.

"Maybe it's just an EMI wave," Chellaina suggested. She managed to bring herself to her feet, but had not yet fully gained her balance. "It will pass in a minute or two."

"Maybe," The General took his wife by the arm and offered enough support for her to let go of the chair. "Maybe not. Maybe it's an attack."

"But, there's no war," Chellaina tried to assure herself, "There's no military, no troops—there isn't even any war machines."

"Maybe you're right, but we're going to the disaster shelter never-the-less." Fenton gave her a gentle reassuring pat on the shoulder, then motioned toward the back of the house.

The General was no longer the strong, brawny man of his youth, though he was considerably stronger than his frail wife. He applied a gentle, yet firm pressure against her back in order to encourage her toward the back of the house; Chellaina had no choice but to start walking.

Chellaina looked at the ground as she slowly, and carefully, put one foot in front of the other. She was not excessively weak, but she had extreme problems maintaining her balance. Her sense of balance had deteriorated to such a point that Elderly Support Services had given her a walker-like device, which generally sat idle in a closet. Fenton was almost always there to help her maintain her balance; she preferred it that way and Fenton certainly didn't seem to mind. After hardly more than one or two careful, uncertain steps, she paused and looked to The General.

"It's so hard to get down the stairs," she said with a frightened tear in her eye.

"Don't worry—I'll help you."

"Would you bring my crocheting?"

"Certainly."

The General reached over the chair and picked up the crochet hook, yarn, and the unfinished afghan, then returned to the task of helping his wife to the disaster shelter.

Disaster shelters were definitely a thing of the past. Peace had plagued the entire human realm for nearly a century, and few people saw any need for the expense of a disaster shelter. Fenton and Chellaina both harbored frightening memories of the war; The General saw inhuman suffering from the bridge of RQ-733, Chellaina saw it across her operating table. When they finally walked away from the war's bloodshed to build their dream home, they saw fit to put in a disaster shelter. It was literally the only building on Theti that was equipped with a disaster shelter.

The monotonous, war-like siren continued to wail outside. By the time Fenton and Chellaina reached the disaster shelter, they had more than their fill of the ungodly sound; they were eager to leave it behind and descended to the shelter.

The entrance of the disaster shelter was located in a utility section at the back of the house. Fenton pressed a button on the wall, then a red light began to flash and an alarm sounded as a section of the floor slid away to reveal a long, dark set of stairs.

Chellaina became more nervous as the sights and sounds of the disaster shelter brought back terrifying memories of the days when she, along with many others, had to pile into disaster shelters on a regular basis. She watched and waited as the floor slid away from the opening; she kept trying to assure herself that the alarms and interference was caused by one of the pesky EMI waves that periodically disrupted electronic devices on Theti. She did her best to convince herself that they would be emerging within an hour's time to the same serine world that they left behind.

The floor finally stopped moving, the flashing light went out, and the alarm went silent. A second or two later, lights came on to illuminate the staircase, and power was cut from the rest of the house. The siren outside, however, continued to wail.

"Let me go first so I can catch you if you fall."

The General held onto his wife; he was extremely careful not to disturb her balance as he walked around her. He took a step or two down the staircase, then turned and offered her a hand.

"Come on—take your time."

Chellaina began the slow and tedious descent to the disaster shelter. Each and every uncertain step was carefully directed with her hands clenched tightly on the railings. Fenton never let go of her during the entire, lengthy descent, though he himself had some difficulty negotiating the stairs.

Once they had made their way down the first six or seven steps, the concrete slab began to slide back into place. It was an eerie feeling, to be sealed into a disaster shelter, and one that they had not felt in a long time.

The view of the lunar surface was impressive from the UN service tug as a tail of fire pushed it closer to the mooring orbit. The vast expanse of cities, craters, and mountain ranges against the dull grey moonscape was certainly unique. It was a place where life could not exist outside of a dome, yet millions thrived there. It was a place where only the adventurous lived.

Krey turned his attention from the lunar landscape below to the watch on his wrist; his grace period was only twenty minutes from expiration. He looked at Cassie in the seat next to him. Her hair draped around the headrest and trailed behind her as the massive engines continued to push the craft toward the mooring orbit.

Krey noticed that Cassie kept her hands on the controls, which wasn't actually necessary, and her attention rigidly focused on the vast nothing outside. He began to suspect that she was, in some way, different or abnormal, though he couldn't exactly put his finger on it.

Krey glanced out the forward window at the mooring orbit above where countless, idle space vehicles drifted in a continuous ring that encircled the moon. Each of the various size crafts were regimentally spaced in a perfect line at equal intervals, like soldiers in formation.

There was, however, one huge, lumbering craft in the distance that did not quite line up with the others. Krey proudly pointed to the massive vehicle.

"There it is."

Cassie looked up at the craft, then glanced down at her instruments.

"It's illegally parked."

A sheepish grin came to Krey's face as he shrugged his shoulders, "Well... My navigation computers aren't the best."

Cassie did not reply; she was well aware of the state of RQ-733 after her inquiry in the computer annex.

Krey studied Cassie's face as the tug continued its ascent to the mooring orbit. She was a complete mystery to him; she was strangely distant and independent, and didn't seem to be anything like a convict. He began to wonder what kind of convict could get such royal treatment at the UN. It just didn't add up—even to Krey's slow way of thinking. Finally, he couldn't help but ask the one question convicts, sooner or later, ask each other.

"So, Cassie... What were you convicted of?"

To his surprise, she actually honored his question with a reply, though she kept looking out the forward window.

"Shoplifting."

"Shoplifting!? And you got exile?"

There was no reply.

"What did you steal?"

"A used romance novel." She still did not take her attention from the forward windows.

Confusion dominated Krey's face as he thought about her reply: How could anyone get exiled over a stolen romance novel? Krey was, however, somewhat relieved that she was at least talking to him. He decided that since she seemed to respond to that subject, perhaps he should continue the conversation in hopes of breaking the ice.

"What's the biggest thing you ever stole?"

Her reply was flat and unmoved, "This service tug."

Krey's eyes grew wide with disbelief as the conversation came to an abrupt end; he really didn't want to know anything more about stolen UN vehicles. He turned his attention to the forward windows and the huge, dilapidated craft that they were approaching.

Cassie cut the engines, then the phenomenon of weightlessness set in as the tug continued to drift toward RQ-733. It was Cassie's first opportunity to inspect the massive Star Saber that would ferry them through the time barrier to a world light-years away; she looked up at the dilapidated craft, then shook her head in despair.

The Sikorsky F-1126 Star Saber was, by far, the most formidable fighting machine ever built. It measured 1,000 feet from tip to tail and boasted a 200-foot width. It had the rough, overall shape of a spearhead and was dominated by three, massive laser cannons, two of which were mounted on its back, the other on its belly. Each of the fierce laser cannons measured some 700 feet in length, and were just over fifty feet in diameter. The ship supported a fighting crew of 1,200, and had all the amenities of a small city.

RQ-733, however, was nothing like the proud Star Sabers that pushed World War Five to its conclusion. Its three, massive laser cannons had been removed after the war and their empty pylons ended in a disarray of twisted cables and frayed coolant lines. The hull was marred by numerous laser burns and particle beam abrasions, and munitions impacts left several gaping, twisted holes in her heavily armored hull. Large patches of corrosion left by munitions residue had spread across the hull giving it a dull, rust-orange appearance.

Cassie's face was dominated by a look of dread as they approached the crumbling hulk; she couldn't imagine trusting it for one lap around the moon, much less trusting it through the time barrier. A dull, sickening feeling churned at the bottom of her stomach as she surveyed the grotesque state of the craft. She noticed that one of its three, massive, time distortion engines had completely melted down and was nothing but an empty shell, another one was clearly in questionable shape. Here and there, drifting around the craft like a swarm of flies, was a vast collection of screw, washers, nuts, cotter pins, and other assorted bits of metal, some of which actually appeared to be in slow, shallow orbits around the massive hull.

They approached RQ-733 from the rear and passed across the belly as they headed toward the service dock near the front. The little service tug was dwarfed by the mammoth, twisted mass of corroded, high-tech alloy. They passed several gaping holes in the hull, some of which were big enough to fly the tug into. Cassie noticed a mess hall inside one such hole, where burned seats were still bolted in front of corroded, dilapidated tables; here and there were broken pieces of dinnerware that just drifted aimlessly through the tomb-like remains of the hull.

"My God," Cassie whispered in a voice shaken by reality, "This thing won't even hold air."

"Don't let that worry you," Krey tried to assure her, "There's plenty of compartments up near the front that hold an atmosphere." He casually motioned toward the back of the craft using a nonchalant, waving motion of the wrist. "I don't use anything near the back—except the engines and whatnot. All the good stuff is up front."

Cassie shook her head in disbelief and spoke in a tone that reeked of certainty, "You're crazy."

"Its not that bad—sure it leaks a little here and there—but it's nothing we can't keep up with."

Cassie continued to shake her head as they passed over the scarred, dented hull, "How did you come into possession of this... this..."

"I bought it from UN salvage."

"You paid money for this?"

"Hey, I bought it fair and square," Krey said pointedly, "At least I didn't steal it!"

Cassie looked at Krey in a rather indignant fashion, "Don't judge me, Mister Convict, I only have one charge against me—you have a shit-load."

"I never stole anything!" Krey insisted.

"Big deal." Cassie returned her attention to the Star Saber, "Where's the docking port?"

Krey was somewhat irritated by the exchange, though he decided that it would be best to ignore it and try to maintain some kind of civilized relationship between him and his new travel partner. He pointed to a set of long, narrow doors, which hung open to space, then did his best to keep his voice from reflecting his mood, "Up there—in the drone bay."

"Any drones left in it?"

Krey shook his head, "No, they were removed along with the lasers and the turret guns long before it went to salvage."

Cassie shook her head as she maneuvered the tug in front of the drone bay, "They should have never sold this thing as a spacecraft."

"They didn't," Krey replied proudly. "It was just orbiting junk that was supposed to be dismantled. But I know a few things about space vehicles and managed to fix it up—"

"This is fixed up?"

Krey was quick to defend his position. "I don't think anyone else could have done it."

"Who'd want to." Cassie could hardly understand why anyone would want to expend such a major effort on something that was going to fall far short of perfect.

No one spoke in the wake of the exchange, though Krey was certainly stewing over it. Both of them, for the most part, had turned their attention to the docking procedures, which could sometimes prove to be tricky, especially with spaceborne debris drifting about; it would only take something about the size of a screw lodged in just the right place to trigger a fatal disaster.

Cassie carefully maneuvered the tug into the bay, which was littered with a dozen or so empty mooring mounts that once proudly held a fleet of high-tech, unmanned, robotic drones. She turned her attention to her instruments as the docking port on the ceiling of the tug closed in on the Star Saber's docking port. After a moment or two of careful maneuvering, they heard the docking ports mate, followed by a heavy, metallic click as a locking mechanism joined the two crafts together.

Once the tug was rigidly joined to RQ-733, the sounds and vibrations of the massive ship could be heard inside the tug. Cassie panned a nervous eye over the ceiling as she listened to the low, hollow, metallic echo, which seemed to last forever. It was immediately followed by a short series of creaks and moans from the huge, crippled hull.

Krey unfastened his flight harness then pushed himself up from his seat. "We should hurry—we don't want to be in a stolen UN vehicle when the grace period runs out. If we don't get this thing launched right away, we could find ourselves facing some pretty nasty charges."

Cassie agreed with a nod, then unfastened herself from the seat, "Can you close this bay?"

"No, the doors' hydraulic system is shot."

Cassie pushed herself up toward the ceiling, then grabbed a rail next to the docking hatch. After bringing her weightless body to a complete and stable stop, she turned her attentions to the controls for the hatch. She pressed several buttons in rapid succession, which was followed by a short hiss of air, then the tug's hatch opened to reveal the Star Saber's hatch just on the other side of it. She pressed several more buttons on the control panel, then waited patiently for the Star Saber's hatch to open.

When it became apparent that the hatch wasn't going to open, she furrowed her brow in confusion, then pressed the same sequence of buttons again. She looked at the panel's small computer display, then let out a disgusted moan.

"What's wrong?" Krey asked.

Cassie turned to face Krey as she folded her arms in an arrogant fashion. Her voice was clearly condescending as she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb.

"There's no pressure on the other side of this hatch, Einstein, what do you propose we do?"

"I know," Krey retorted, "The service compartment leaks."

Cassie's attitude changed to something a little more indignant, "How the hell are we suppose to get in? You didn't say anything about extravehicular activity—we didn't bring any pressure suits!"

"It's just a slow leak—"

"What difference does it make? There's still no pressure on the other side of the hatch."

Krey let out a disgusted sigh, "The service compartment is only about 1,400 cubic feet—just pump some air into it and open the damn hatch."

"This is stupid," Cassie grumbled as she turned to face the hatch. She pressed several buttons on the door's controls, which was followed by the sound of hissing air. As she waited for the service compartment to fill up, she could hear the ship creak and moan as the aged, battered bulkheads of the Star Saber's service compartment flexed somewhat under the pressure of an atmosphere. After several lengthy minutes, the hissing stopped, then the door's computer responded with a beep.

Cassie carefully opened the hatch, then looked inside. The interior didn't suffer from corrosion like the outside, though it did have its share of dents and battle scars. The service compartment was dark, cold, and had all the appeal of an ancient, musty tomb. She drifted quiet for a moment as she surveyed the antique array of dark, dormant controls, when she heard a subtle hissing that sent shivers up her spine.

"That's more than a slow leak!"

"It's slow enough," Krey snapped, "Now show a little backbone and get in so we can finish this before all the air is gone."

Cassie shook her head, "I don't like this—it's not safe."

"Fine," Krey said in an arrogant tone, "If you don't like it just get your prissy little ass back on your stolen tug and go back to the UN!"

Cassie did not like ultimatums, but under the circumstances there was little she could do; she reluctantly passed through the hatch into RQ-733. She looked around the aged, battered interior as an uneasiness crept over her. She examined a dirty, ancient control panel, which was mounted on a wall; some of the controls were cracked or broken, others were completely missing. She drew an uneasy breath; she was somehow certain that that rotting mass of century-old steel would eventually become her grave.

Chapter 6, Metal Fatigue

The night continued to age on Theti as the dim evening sky faded to darkness. The disaster siren still sounded its warning, though its message had become somewhat diminished by fading batteries. Despite the dying sirens, the Theti night was still peaceful and unburdened by whatever threat that had triggered the alarm. General Raver and Chellaina were still in the confines of their disaster shelter; they were determined to stay underground until communications, and word of an all clear, were restored.

The disaster shelter was buried deep underground and protected by three feet of top quality, lime/shale concrete. The long staircase leading to the disaster shelter was sealed off by a sliding slab of concrete at the top, and a thick, hardened alloy hatch at the bottom. All-in-all—it was nuke-proof.

The shelter was reasonably large and divided into three rooms, two of which were used to store supplies and equipment. It had been electronically maintained by a small collection of utility robots, which had kept it clean and made sure that supplies and equipment were in proper working order. Despite the fact that the shelter was tidy and fresh-smelling, its dull, grey concrete walls and utilitarian d‚cor made it seem more like a prison than a disaster shelter.

Chellaina found a chair to sit in as she worked at her crocheting, though it was small, hard, and nothing like the pink, fluffy chair she had become accustomed to. Still, she managed a smile as her hands diligently worked the hook and yarn in the drab, prison-like shelter. She looked up from her task to see if she could catch a glimpse of Fenton, who had been busy with something in one of the store rooms—she had a pretty good idea of what held The General's interest.

Chellaina returned to her task, then spoke in a tone that sounded suspiciously like a tongue-in-cheek demand.

"What are you doing in there, Fenny?"

She continued with her art as she waited for a reply. When it became apparent that a reply was not forthcoming, she looked up to see if anything was wrong.

There, standing near the door of the storeroom, was General Fenton S. Raver in full battle gear. He was dressed in a World War Five spacesuit with a .40 caliber lead-projectile pistol strapped to his boot and a weapons belt wrapped around his waist. The General's aged body clearly had trouble holding up the 30 pound life-support package on his back, along with a laser rifle, which was slung over his shoulder. To add to his burden was a 25 pound particle beam rifle, which he precariously held with both hands.

He stood motionless with an ear-to-ear smile, and said nothing.

Chellaina set her crochet in her lap, then slowly brought her hands together in a heart-warming gesture.

"Oh, Fenny. You look so handsome in your uniform." She smiled proudly as she briefly glanced up and down his uniform. The sight of The General in his uniform did spark a few precious memories, though it was his smile that brought her the greatest delight.

"I used to wear this—back when I was young and spiky."

"I remember," Chellaina assured him.

His smile diminished somewhat as he brushed a feeble hand over the five gold stars that were proudly mounted on the shoulder of the pressure suit.

"I never wore these stars into battle; the UN didn't make me a general until the war was over. Three months later, the UN decided to disband the military all together."

Chellaina nodded proudly and did her best to keep his spirits up, though she knew that The General's short reign was somewhat of a sore spot with him.

"You're still a general, Fenny—you'll always be a general."

The General let out a disgruntled sigh, "I know."

There was an uneasy pause as The General thought about the past. "I had good ideas for rebuilding the United Nations Space Force." He nodded in an assured fashion, "Damn good ideas."

He lowered his head, "But, the security council decided that no-one needed a military anymore. They said my plans were good, but they just didn't need them."

Chellaina tried to sound encouraging, "Remember, Fenny, a lot of people still had bad feelings about the war—it had nothing to do with you or your plans."

The General nodded, "I know..." He lowered his voice to a mumble, "...We're probably better off without a military or war machines—they only bring about war."

The General turned, then, with a certain amount of difficulty, carried the heavy particle beam rifle toward the door of the store room.

Chellaina felt an incredible pain for him as she watched him set the weapon down next to the door frame. She did her best to bring out his pride, which had become somewhat hidden by increasing age.

"The world has changed, Fenny. That was all history—and you were part of it. You were there when the realm needed you. You're a hero—nothing can chance that."

The General's aged hands carefully withdrew from the particle beam rifle in a slow, uncertain fashion as he checked to make sure that the weapon was propped up properly and would not slide to the floor.

Satisfied that the weapon wouldn't fall, he turned his weary eyes to Chellaina, then sadly nodded, "I was a hero, back when I was young and spiky." He shook his head in self-pity, "Now, I'm just a doddering old man."

"Now, Fenny!" Chellaina's words were punctuated with an assertive, upheld finger; her voice became somewhat scolding, "You remember what our friends at Elderly Support Services said about that kind of talk!"

A silent moment or two passed, then Fenton agreed with a reluctant nod. "I know." He presented a weak smile for Chellaina's sake, "I should be proud of what I am, no matter how old I get."

"That's right," there was a marked degree of certainty in Chellaina's voice, "I'm proud of the fact that they picked me to save the greatest hero in history. I know I'll never be a surgeon again, and you'll never be a soldier again—but we can still be proud of what we are." She nodded, "Together we saved a lot of lives; you from the bridge of your Star Saber—and me in my operating theater."

The General tried to appear more positive, "You're right, Chelly; nothing will change that." He though about her words for a moment or two, then smiled and nodded in a more genuine fashion, "We should be proud of what we are."

Chellaina shared his smile; she knew that The General's doubt of his self-worth had passed, just as it always had, and that it would probably not surface again for quite some time to come.

The General seemed to be in much better spirits as he, and his bulky gear, went back into the store room, which was somewhat akin to a pack mule in a china shop. After rummaging around for a moment or two, he struggled to turn his burden around in the cramped, congested space of the storeroom, then emerged with a World War Five doctor's uniform on a hangar.

Chellaina smiled at the sight.

"Try it on!" he encouraged.

"Heavens, no—that was so long ago." There was a pause as Chellaina thought about that era in her life and the countless lives that she saved. Unlike Fenton, Chellaina usually avoided reminiscing about the war, though on very rare occasions, she did feel the urge to sift through her glory years.

"Is my medical case still in there?" she asked with a fragile smile.

Fenton nodded, then eagerly pointed to the store room, "Should I get it for you?"

"Well," her smile grew somewhat, "I don't suppose it would hurt to take a look."

With that, Fenton eagerly returned to the store room; it wasn't often that Chellaina wanted to indulge in his favorite hobby: war memorabilia.

Chellaina waited patiently as Fenton rummaged through the store room. Her gentle smile began to fade, however, when she noticed an unsettling, eerie, low pitched rumble that seemed to come from everywhere. The uncertainty on her face quickly changed to fear as the rumble grew.

"Fenny?" Her voice was marred by alarm.

Fenton struggled to emerge from the store room; it was apparent by the look on his face that he too was disturbed by the rumble.

"What is it, Fenny?"

The General shook his head as his uneasy eyes surveyed the confines of the shelter, "I don't know."

The rumble continued to grow, as if a herd of multi-ton beasts were racing across the ground above them. Within seconds, the entire disaster shelter began to shake and tremble. It started out low at first, then quickly escalated as dust began to fall from the ceiling.

Fenton started to make his way toward his wife's side, though the growing, pounding vibrations of the floor hampered his efforts. The ground-shaking tremor continued to escalate; Chellaina could see that Fenton was having problems maintaining his footing.

There was a loud crash as several shelves in the store room caved in, then Fenton lost his footing on the shaky floor. Chellaina saw him fall to the ground just an instant before the lights went out.

Chellaina's terrified voice could hardly be heard over the growing rumble, "FENNY!!?"

A brief instant later, an enormous crash, followed by the sound of falling debris, filled the dark confines of the shelter. Chellaina screamed as something of enormous proportions knocked her off her chair and sent her tumbling to the cold, concrete floor.

"Fenny!"

There was no response.

Chellaina cried and whimpered on the floor in total, absolute darkness. The shelter continued to tremble for a moment or two, then the shaking quickly diminished as the disturbance moved off into the distance.

Chellaina coughed once or twice from a heavy haze of dust, then made a feeble effort to raise her head. She felt bruised and battered in numerous places and had reason to believe that her arm was bleeding, though she could not be certain because of the darkness. She abandoned her efforts to raise her head when she realized that something heavy was lying across one of her legs.

"Fenny!" she pleaded, "Help me Fenny!"

There was no answer from the dust-choked darkness.

The rumble that reaped havoc in the nuclear-hardened shelter had diminished to nothing. Once again, Chellaina raised her head in an effort to find her husband.

"Fenny?"

She listened carefully to the silence of the darkness. She heard no reply, no moaning, no breathing—there was nothing, only complete and utter blackness.

"FENNY!?"

Chellaina's heart-shattered tears filled the ruins of the disaster shelter; she was somehow certain that the great World War Five hero, was gone.

The huge Star Saber that once took General Raver to victory continued to drift helplessly in orbit above the lunar surface, though preparations to launch it were well underway. Krey and Cassie had already connected the huge, 800 ampere-hour battery to the ship's crippled power distribution system, which allowed them to activate life support and overhead lighting. Work on the craft had become somewhat easier with the introduction of overhead lighting, despite the fact that many corridors were still dark due to missing bulbs and faulty wiring.

The preparations for flight had been expedient, considering the state of the vehicle; most of the stores, including Cassie's case, had been brought on board, the hydraulic system was topped off, and liquid oxygen and hydrogen had already been pumped from the tug's tanks to those of the Star Saber. With the bulk of the chores behind them, the crew of two struggled with the final task; loading the antimatter.

The antimatter itself only weighed 35 kilograms, or about 77 pounds, but the high-tech canister that kept the antimatter separated from the real world weighed nearly five time as much. Krey and Cassie were struggling to get the heavy, cylinder-shaped canister down a long, narrow access tunnel that led from the service area to the time distortion engines. The tunnel was only about three and a half feet in diameter, just big enough to accommodate the canister with three inches to spare, and nearly 600 feet in length. That long, pipe-like tunnel of ancient steel was one of the few passages in the rear of the ship that still held an atmosphere.

Cassie was guiding the rear of the canister, while Krey handled the front. Cassie insisted on taking the rear; she did not want the canister to block her exit, should a mishap occur. As it was, they nearly got the canister stuck when they tried to negotiate a narrow section, which was caused by a huge dent on the outside of the tunnel. They managed to get the dent behind them and had less than fifty feet of tunnel between them and the engine room, when Krey noticed the time on his watch.

"Whoa!" He let go of his end of the canister as surprise swept across his face, "Do you know what time it is?" He struggled to look at Cassie through the three inch gap between the canister and the wall of the access tunnel.

"Watch your end!" Cassie insisted, though his end of the canister was in no particular peril at the moment; it continued to drift down the tunnel under its own inertia.

"It's ten minutes past the grace period!" Krey exclaimed.

Krey grabbed a handel on the end of the canister and tried to add a little more speed to the massive cylinder.

"Why didn't the cufflets lock together?"

"I don't know," Cassie insisted. There was a short pause as she tried to think of a way to distract Krey from the facts; she did not want him to know that she had a computer connection with the UN, or that she had used that connection to extend his grace period. "How much farther do we have to go?"

Krey turned around to look down the tunnel—then panic struck; they had less than ten feet of access tunnel left, after which, the heavy battering ram would fly through the engine room and pile into the only time distortion engine that still worked. He did his best to apply as much graceful pressure to the center of the canister as possible, which was extremely difficult given the narrow dimensions of the tunnel and its lack of footholds.

When it became obvious that his effort was useless, he turned around and planted his back against the massive canister, then tried to grab the sides of the tunnel with his rubber soles. His boots finally found purchase against the cold steel walls and sang out with a short screech as Krey laid the bulk of his muscle into the canister. His efforts managed to slow the canister down considerably, but in doing so, he knocked the heavy cylinder off course—sending it into the aged, steel walls of the access tunnel.

A heavy, hollow, metallic thud echoed and reverberated throughout the ship—followed by the sound of hissing air.

"Now you did it!" Cassie reprimanded. "You cracked the bulkhead!"

Krey turned around and grabbed the canister, then started to pull it toward the end of the access tunnel.

"Is it a big crack?" Judging from his tone of voice, one would have thought that a crack in a pressure-tight compartment was no particular cause for concern.

"Big enough," Cassie replied, "It's leaking—we're going to die in this death trap of your's! What kind of idiot would—"

"Don't get excited! Here..." Krey reached into his pocket and pulled out a foil tube about the size of a small tube of toothpaste. "Just put some of this on it."

He tossed the tube back to Cassie through the scant space between the cylinder and the wall then returned his attention, and his brawn, to the fuel canister.

Cassie managed to catch the tube as it came sailing out from between the canister and the wall. She turned the tube over, then read the label in disbelief.

"Leak Stop!?"

"Never go anywhere on this ship without it," Krey chuckled. "There must be at least a hundred pounds of that stuff holding the hull together—I buy it by the case."

Cassie looked at the tube with uncertainty, then looked at the crack. The thread-like crack was only about three inches long, but air was escaping out of it fast enough to draw several strands of her hair toward it.

"This is stupid," she muttered as she squeezed some of the thick, gooey paste onto the crack. "You need a welder in here for something like this."

Krey had already managed to get the fuel canister into the engine room, and was struggling to maneuver it toward the time distortion engine.

"Just put some of that shit on it then come down here and give me a hand," Krey snapped.

Cassie watched the gooey paste with a skeptical eye; the thick bead of paste that she had laid on the crack was being pushed into the fracture by cabin pressure. She was certain that the air would escape once the pressure pushed the goo out the other side of the metal. To her surprise, the gooey substance quickly hardened, leaving the crack filled with a tough rubbery seal.

Cassie put her ear up to the crack and listened for escaping air; she heard nothing. She was impressed with the performance of the gooey Leak Stop, though she certainly wasn't going to give Krey the satisfaction of knowing that.

"If you don't mind," Krey shouted, "I could use a hand down here!"

An uneasiness crept over Cassie as she recognized the nature of the crack; it was metal fatigue, a condition that occurs when repeated stress takes temperament out of metal, making it brittle and susceptible to cracking. Her uneasy eyes glanced down the length of the tunnel; she began to wonder just how brittle the rest of the ship might be. She also wondered if Krey had any idea that his craft had become brittle with age—and that one good shock could cause the entire vessel to break into pieces.

"We want to get out of here before the UN shows up and starts asking questions about their stolen tug—which I had nothing to do with."

Cassie was ready to return the volley in their bickering match, but decided that it would be better to just finish their work and get out of the service tunnel while there was still an atmosphere hanging around.

The antimatter canister drifted aimlessly about the engine room while Krey struggled with a stuck bolt on one of the massive engines. The engine room was dominated by three huge, time distortion engines, each of which was about eighty feet long and twenty feet in diameter. One of the engines had completely melted down and was nothing but an empty shell, another was marred by signs of overheating and stress. The third engine was serviceable, though it too had its problems.

Cassie's eyes widened as she entered the engine room; her mouth hung open in awe as she looked at the mammoth engines.

"Wow!"

"Impressive, huh?" There was a trace of arrogant pride in Krey's voice.

Cassie shook her head in disbelief, "This thing must create quite a time wake. I can hardly imagine anything needing this much engine."

Krey was still fighting with a stuck bolt, "I don't think they used them all at once." He paused to grunt a the bolt, which finally broke loose and was beginning to turn more freely. "One is more than enough to penetrate the time barrier—even for this floating city."

"Floating junk-heap, you mean."

"If you don't like it, you can—"

"What's wrong with this engine?" Cassie interrupted as she pointed to the engine that was obviously over-stressed. She really didn't care about the state of the engine; she was just trying to secure the last word.

Krey was quiet for some time as he finished removing the bolt. He thought about just ignoring her and pressing on with the job but, after looking at it with a cooler head, he decided that playing that kind of game would only bear ill fruit.

"The transfer plates are shorted," his reply was flat and unenthused.

"I see," Cassie said with a nod, "The plates got warped, shorted together, then took out the reactor."

Krey aired his mood with a disgusted, arrogant moan. He removed the last bolt on the engine, then opened a large access panel before replying.

"If you must know—the plates are perfectly straight. They're shorted because someone welded a piece of metal across them—and the reactor still works."

"Oh." A look of confusion came across Cassie's face as she surveyed the engine. "It looks like they ran this engine after the plates were shorted—that would cause a time inversion." She looked to Krey, "Why would anyone want to do that?"

"I don't know," Krey shrugged. "There's a lot of mysteries in this old ship." He gestured toward the floating canister, "Help me load this antimatter—then we can get on our way."

Chapter 7, God-Forsaken Darkness

Tears streamed down the side of Chellaina's face in the dark ruins of the disaster shelter. Her heart-wrenching cries of agony had been reduced to a feeble, exhausted sob as her hopeless efforts to free her leg faded with her strength. It had been quite some time since the rumble; the dust had long since settled, the creaking stopped, and the air was becoming noticeably stale.

Chellaina laid on the cold, cluttered floor in tears with her leg still pinned under a piece of debris. Her frail body was uncomfortably draped over several rough chunks of concrete, and her fine, silky clothes were torn to hanging, tattered shreds. She drew an erratic breath, then sobbed as she used the last of her strength to prop herself up on one arm.

Chellaina looked out across the blackness of the shelter, "Fenny?"

She waved an arm through the darkness in search of anything within reach. After feeling nothing but air, she turned her attention to the floor and the debris scattered across it.

"Where are you, Fenny?"

Her hand wandered over numerous chunks of fallen concrete, bits of steel, powdery dust—but nothing that felt like a body, an arm, or even a boot. She frantically combed the ground in search of her fallen hero, reaching out farther and farther across the debris.

The pain in her leg escalated as she strained to extend her reach; she thought that, perhaps just another inch and she would at least be able to touch her husband before she died. She spoke to the darkness in a bleak, frightened whisper.

"Please don't be dead, Fenny."

She pulled at her trapped leg and strained her muscles in hopes of reaching just a little farther into the darkness, but felt nothing other than fallen concrete. Finally, she gave up in despair; her body went limp, then she began to sob on the cold, debris-cluttered floor.

"Dear God," she begged through dirt-streaked tears, "please don't let it end this way!"

She laid on the dusty collection of crumbled concrete and cried—she could do no more. She succumbed to the fact that she was trapped, that she would suffocate in a matter of hours, and that her husband would suffer the same fate—if he was still alive somewhere in the God-forsaken darkness.

Chellaina's sobbing came to an abrupt halt when she heard an eerie noise somewhere in the darkness; it wasn't a comforting noise, like the sound of a man stirring—it was a frightening noise, like the sound of the roof creaking.

Several small pieces of concrete fell from the ceiling; Chellaina covered her head. Less than a heart-beat later, a tremendous crash echoed through the shelter as another piece of the ceiling came smashing to the floor. It was immediately followed by the sound of smaller debris, then the slow, creeping cloud of dry, choking dust began to drift through the shelter. Chellaina just laid there on the floor, waiting for the entire shelter to cave in on top of her.

The eerie, unforgiving silence returned to the shelter. The ceiling stopped creaking, the debris settled, and the dust was beginning to thin out. It was then that Chellaina noticed something peculiar; her leg did not seem to hurt as much as it did before the crash.

Chellaina struggled to push herself up to somewhat of a sitting position. The change in her posture caused her trapped leg to rotate slightly; she couldn't move it at all before. Chellaina drew a quick, excited breath as her hand followed her leg down to the slab of concrete that had her pinned.

It did not take long for Chellaina to realize what had happened; the falling debris shifted the slab of concrete, causing it to tilt in her favor. She reached down and felt the wound left by the weight of the slab—there was enough room to get several fingers between her leg and the concrete. She soon discovered that her leg was able to move about freely under the confines of the slab, though she could not pull it out because her ankle was too wide to pass through the narrow gap between the concrete and the floor.

Chellaina's fingers returned to the painful wound left by the concrete; she was puzzled by the fact that her brittle leg bones weren't broken. She felt around under the slab and soon discovered why; there was a smaller piece of concrete under the slab, which had been supporting the bulk of the slab's weight.

Chellaina's excitement grew when she realized that the small chunk of concrete that saved her leg was now loose. She frantically tugged and pulled at the piece of debris, moving it just an inch or so at a time. She thought that if she could get the debris out from under the slab, then, perhaps she could free her leg. She tugged and jerked on the piece of concrete, despite the fact that her strength was spent, her muscles ached, and her stiff joints were being bent beyond their normal limits.

After several lengthy minutes of fighting with the concrete in the darkness, Chellaina finally managed to remove the small piece of rubble. Just as she had hoped, the modest space left by the small piece of concrete gave her enough maneuvering room to pull her leg out from under the slab.

A excited, relieved smile came to her dirt-streaked face as she gently rubbed the strained muscles in her leg.

"Thank you, dear Lord."

Almost immediately, Chellaina turned her attention to the darkness that was once just beyond her reach. She crawled on her hands and knees with no regard for the pain in her leg, or the pain of her bony knees against the jagged chunks of concrete. Her fingers wildly searched the floor for her husband.

"Fenny? Where are you, Fenny?"

She searched the scattered debris for quite some distance, though she wasn't sure of her direction. Everywhere was the same thing; concrete, dust, and bits of steel. She crawled across the rubble and wasn't even aware of the fact that her knees were bleeding as her hands frantically searched the ruins. Suddenly, her fingertips swept across a tough, smooth fabric—like that of a pressure suit.

"Fenny!"

She let out a gentle sob of relief as she clamored to The General's body—though her greatest fear was yet to be confirmed or denied. The General was on his side, propped up by the life support pack on his back, with his arms and legs lying askew among the rubble.

Chellaina struggled to get her ear against Fenton's chest; she sat perfectly still and even held her breath as she listened for a heartbeat. A frightened anxiety crept into her as she listened; there was absolutely no sound coming from Fenton's body.

Her hope began to diminish drastically when she was unable to detect any sign of breathing. Chellaina had prepared herself for the worst; she knew from past experience that scant vital signs could be hidden by the thick, durable material of a pressure suit, though some sign of life was usually evident. She drew an uneasy, erratic breath, then reached up toward The General's neck.

Her frightened, trembling hands slowly crept toward the hero's juggler vein; this would be the moment of truth—and Chellaina was not sure if she would be able to face it. Her frail, slender fingertips gently came to rest on his juggler vein, then Chellaina broke down in tears—he was alive!

The long ordeal since the rumble had left Chellaina weak, exhausted, and in pain. She laid there for quite some time, holding onto her husband's unconscious body. To her, he was a beacon in the darkness, a strength, a shelter from uncertainty. After living a long and fulfilled life with the greatest hero in history, Chellaina was now content to die quietly by his side. Tears continued to run down her face as her lungs labored for an adequate breath in the closed, failing air.

Chellaina's misty eyes idly gazed into the blackness as memories of her hero passed through her head. She remembered back to the day when she first saw him on her operating table; he was in a spacesuit, bloody and unconscious. She remembered how worried she was for his life, how badly he was battered, and how difficult it was to cut the spacesuit off of him without aggravating his injuries.

Chellaina's hand began to wander frantically across The General's body. She remembered that the uniform they had cut off of him nearly a century ago had a small flashlight in a thin, narrow pocket on the sleeve—she wondered if this uniform had one as well. Within seconds, Chellaina's hand came across the pocket—and the pencil-sized flashlight. She let out a sigh of relief as she pulled it out of the pocket.

Chellaina fumbled with the flashlight for a moment or two, then clicked the switch on the back. The century-old batteries were dim with age, but the faint light that they managed to cast was more than enough to pierce the absolute blackness of the disaster shelter.

The light quickly swung to Fenton's blood-covered face—Chellaina drew a quick, frightened breath; the sight reminded her so much of the day they met. With pains-taking movements, she hobbled over the rubble to get above his head and have a closer look at his injuries, though it had been quite some time since she was a doctor.

Tears filled Chellaina's eyes as she checked Fenton's injury; he had apparently been struck on the side of the head by a piece of falling concrete. She laid a gentle hand along his cheek as she inspected the wound. It was difficult to determine the extent of the damage; the two inch gash in Fenton's head was covered by a thin layer of fine, powdery dust, which hid the finer details of the injury underneath.

Chellaina instantly swung her light toward the ruins of the storeroom; she wondered if she might be able to find her old medical case among the rubble.

A bright, hopeful smile came to her face as she started to crawl across the rubble toward the ruins of the store room. She thought that there still might be some useable field drugs in her bag. For the first time since the cave-in, she had a plan; she would try to use the field drugs to bring Fenton back to consciousness. She was certain that The General would know what to do about the air, survival, and how to get rescued. All she had to do was save her hero—he would take care of everything else.

Cassie nervously eyed her watch as she floated idle in a dim, narrow corridor of RQ-733. She maintained her position by holding onto a dusty pipe while Krey wrestled with a stuck hatch, which separated them from the bridge of RQ-733. He had taken his shirt off, sometime during the battle, and was pushing pounds of solid, bulging muscle into the stubborn handle.

"Damn thing," Krey grumbled as he wrestled with the hatch.

"Maybe there's no air on the other side of it," Cassie suggested.

"No..." Krey paused to grunt and grit his teeth as he put more effort into the task. "...It does this from time to time."

Krey took a deep breath, then made one more assault on the stuck handel. His muscles bulged, his face turned red, and entire body began to shake and vibrate. After a second or two of Krey's abuse, the latch finally began to cry uncle with a series of squeaks and moans.

"Here it comes," he grunted.

The latch finally gave in with a loud heavy click, which ominously echoed through the massive, dilapidated hull. Krey paused for a moment to catch his breath, then proudly opened the hatch. His outstretched hand gestured toward the bridge, which was hardly any brighter than the corridor.

"After you."

Cassie stepped through the hatchway into a large, pentagon-shaped room, whose haphazard d‚cor reminded her of a gorilla's cage. There was at least ten or twelve feet between ceiling and floor, though one could hardly tell which was which because tattered, dilapidated seats were mounted in front of consoles on both the ceiling and the floor. Six or seven ropes had been strung up at various places between the floor and ceiling, as well as three or four that ran the length of the bridge.

One such set of ropes had been tied to a makeshift, zero-gravity bed, which looked somewhat like a hammock with a large, human-sized pocket. Another set of ropes was tied to the corners of an old rug, which was stretched out perpendicular to the floor and ceiling in an effort to create a partition. Behind the rug was a makeshift shower, which had been fashioned out of a large, industrial-strength plastic bag, along with several towels, a shaving mirror, and a very old bag of laundry. The sight reminded Cassie of a homeless refuge set up in the corner of an abandoned warehouse.

"Care for a beer?" Krey asked as he made his way to a refrigerator, which formed the cornerstone of his rug-like partition.

"No," Cassie replied flatly, "And I don't think it would be wise to start drinking."

"Doesn't matter."

Krey opened the refrigerator and pulled out a zero-gravity canister of premium Milwaukee Brew. Cassie noticed that the refrigerator was predominately stocked with beer, though there was also some wine and several vintage snack cakes, which were well past their prime. As near as she could tell, there was absolutely nothing in the refrigerator that resembled food. Krey slid the beer into a pocket on his pant leg.

"This is just the living section—"

"How nice," Cassie's voice was clearly sarcastic.

Krey's demeanor changed to something less friendly, "Business is conducted at the front."

With that, Krey slammed the door on the refrigerator then reached for a rope, which was strung roughly parallel to the floor. He started following the rope hand-over-hand as the rest of his body drifted precariously in the zero gravity environment.

"C'mon. This rope leads to the controls."

Cassie waited for Krey to get a comfortable distance down the rope before she followed his example. The rope was at least thirty feet in length and ran the entire distance from the back of the bridge to the main flight controls at the front; Cassie shook her head in disbelief almost every inch of the way. Most of the equipment seemed to be in various states of disrepair, and literally everything was covered with dust, dirt, grease, or grime of one sort or another.

They passed several ragged, battered seats mounted in front of neglected, broken-down consoles. Most of the consoles were dominated by huge square holes, out of which hung an assortment of frayed cables and bent tubing. Everywhere she looked seemed to be some kind of reminder that the ship was not entirely in one piece; missing equipment, bent or broken pipes, patch cables running from one console to another, and whatnot. She noticed one place where an access panel had been removed to make room for a pair of locking pliers, which was being used to hold a broken bracket together.

"What do you think of the view?" Krey asked as he pointed to a huge five-foot viewport, which was partially obstructed by a protective iris stuck somewhere between open and closed.

"This is crazy," Cassie muttered, "This junk-heap will never make it through the time barrier."

"Have a little faith," Krey assured her. "Have you given any thought to where you want to go?"

"Theti."

Krey stopped for a moment to look back at Cassie, "Why the hell do you want to go all the way out to Capella—that's 47 light-years away!"

"I don't need a reason," Cassie insisted. "You agreed to take me wherever I want to go—and I want to go to Theti."

Krey shrugged his shoulders as he continued down the line.

"Okay, Theti it is."

The end of the line was tied between two seats, which were mounted behind the flight controls at the very front corner of pentagon-shaped bridge. The pilot's seat was in extremely poor condition; one of the armrests was missing and the cushion had been replaced by a pillow, which was secured to the bottom of the seat with several bands of thick plastic tape. The copilots seat had both armrests, but the bottom cushion was missing and the backrest was tattered with tufts of stuffing poking out of it in various places.

The instruments and displays in front of the flight controls were, for the most part, intact, though several pieces of equipment were missing and one or two of the display screens were cracked and useless. An uneasiness crept over Cassie when she looked up at the huge forward windows; one of which was also cracked.

Cassie pointed to the crack as Krey positioned himself in his seat, "How long has that windshield been cracked?"

"Don't get excited," Krey muttered as he strapped himself in, "Only the outside layer is cracked."

Cassie shook her head as she maneuvered her body into the cold, hard copilot's seat. "This isn't what I bargained for."

"What did you expect?" Krey snapped, "A luxury yacht?"

"No, but I assumed—"

"This is your last chance to bail out," Krey warned. "If you want to leave, do it now before we cross the time barrier." He shook his head to emphasize his point, "Once we're in the time continuum, I'm not going to turn back for you or any one else. Do I make myself clear?"

There was a tense moment of silence as the less than friendly faces stared each other down. It was Cassie who finally broke the silence.

"So—launch it and be quick about it."

"I never met anyone with such a shitty attitude," Krey muttered as he flipped several switches in rapid succession. A few of the displays and instruments in front of the flight controls came to life as a result of Krey's efforts, though many of them stayed dark and dormant.

A low, throbbing rumble began to reverberate through the dilapidated hull; Cassie's eyes grew wide with concern, "That antimatter reactor won't make it to Theti."

"It will." Krey kept his attention on his instruments, "The vibration settles down once the reactor gets up to speed."

Cassie shook her head, "You're not going to use the time distortion engines here, are you? You'll drag half of these other vehicles with you!"

"What do I look like—stupid?" Krey kept his eyes on a the engine instruments as he dug his beer out of the pocket on his pant leg. "The auxiliary power units don't work—we have to run the generators on the time distortion engine or else we won't have enough power to operate the conventional engines."

Krey brought the nozzle of the beer can up to his mouth, then pressed a button on top of the can as he took a drink.

"You shouldn't be drinking during a critical phase like this," Cassie warned.

"This is my ship and I'll do what I please."

Krey flipped another switch on the console as several more instruments came to life. Cassie shook her head as he took another drink. Krey set the beer in a drink holder, which was jury-rigged to the side of the seat, then cracked his knuckles and reached for the stick.

"Hope you're ready for this," he warned.

Krey pulled back on the stick for just a moment or two; they heard a short hiss from the attitude engines, then the nose of RQ-733 slowly began to tilt upward from the mooring orbit. The laser-riddled hull began to creak and moan under the strain.

"You haven't even laid in a course yet!" Cassie criticized.

"There's nothing to lay a course into." Krey paused to take another drink of beer as the nose of the massive craft continued to rise. "I sold part of the navigation computers to pay a stupid UN fine."

"What are you going to do for a course—guess?"

Krey nodded, "That's exactly what I'm going to do."

Two of the three, huge nozzles at the rear of the craft suddenly came to life as a 200-foot tail of fire lit up the mooring orbit. The mammoth, lumbering craft slowly began to move out from the mooring orbit, leaving behind an abundant collection of screws, nuts, washers, and other assorted bits of metal.

Chellaina wept among the ruins in a dark corner of the store room as she tried to free her medical case from the rubble. The case was hopelessly stuck behind a large piece of equipment and laid half-buried under an assortment of debris and rubble. The air was dangerously thin and her frail strength grew weaker by the minute.

The biggest obstacle keeping her from her case was a sizeable chunk of concrete, which was wedged between the equipment and the wall. She had already cleared out what little debris she could and had been unable to make any progress in quite some time. Finally, with the air spent and her strength failing, she decided that, perhaps, she should return to Fenton's side—while the opportunity to do so was still at hand. She sat up against the bulky piece of equipment to catch her breath before crawling back to The General.

The equipment that stood between her and her case was of considerable size; it was roughly square when viewed from the front, stood waist-high, and was about half as deep as it was wide. It was a nondescript piece of equipment with absolutely no features other than a cooling vent and a handle, which was mounted on a fairly large access door on the side.

After taking a moment to catch what little breath she could in the stale air, Chellaina reached up for the handle in an effort to maneuver herself out of the corner that she had precariously dug herself into. She tried to use the handle to assist her movements, but, after applying just a modest amount of pressure, the door popped open. To her surprise, a light came on in the opening behind the door, followed by the sound of an electronic voice.

"Ready. Please initialize."

Chellaina's squinting eyes were used to the dim flashlight; she struggled to focus on the brightly-light compartment inside. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, she realized that the compartment had a control panel, a speaker, and a long, narrow cubby hole in which a computer keyboard was stored edgewise.

The electronic voice repeated itself.

"Please initialize."

"Oh, dear!" Chellaina brought a worried hand up to her mouth. She knew that Fenton had stored a wide variety of World War Five equipment in the shelter, including items that were potentially dangerous, such as small weapons systems and explosives. She hoped that she did not inadvertently trigger something that would ultimately bring death or destruction. After studying the equipment for a moment or two, Chellaina realized that something seemed familiar about that particular piece of equipment, as if she had used something similar to it during her military days. She tried to remember; was it dangerous?

"Environment corrupt—Please initialize."

Tears of joy began streaming down Chellaina's face when she realized what it was; it was an emergency life support system, like the back-up systems they used in military space vehicles. It all started coming back to her—these life support systems were required for shelters and space vehicles, in case the main environment systems failed. Its primary function was to convert exhaled carbon-dioxide into breathable oxygen, using an artificial photosynthesis process, though it was also capable of producing power, maintaining temperature, controlling humidity, and provided basic emergency radio services.

Chellaina also remembered that the portable environment system had another, creature-comfort feature that was standard on most equipment over 150 pounds; it was mounted on a set of tank-like tracks and could move about under its own power. She drew a quick, joyous breath when she realized that the environment system could not only fix the air; it could also move itself away from the trapped medical case.

Chellaina's short-lived joy was quickly restrained when she turned her attention to the complicated control panel; the controls were clearly marked, but she had problems making any sense out of them. She tried to remember what each of the obscure controls were for, but time and age had diligently hid those memories.

"It's been so long."

"Improper command—Please initialize."

It was then that Chellaina noticed something printed on the inside surface of the door; it was a body of text labeled `Operating Instructions.'

Chapter 8, The Time Continuum

Cassie's nervous hands clenched the armrests of the copilot's seat as the thrust of the dilapidated Star Saber pushed her against the backrest. The deafening rumble of the engines helped mask the creaking of the hull, though Cassie could still hear an occasional bang or clunk. She was dead-certain that the cracked windshield would collapse or that the brittle, creaking hull would buckle under the strain of the engines.

After four or five lengthy minutes of listening to the deafening roar, she noticed that the stars in front of the ship were slowly shifting from side to side. She looked at Krey, who was taking another drink of beer; his unsteady hand was wildly fighting with the stick, though the look on his face was calm and relaxed.

"Can't you hold a course?" She had to shout to be heard over the roar of the engines.

A devious smile came to Krey's face as he lowered his beer canister.

"If you think you can do any better," he shouted, "you fly it!" Then, with a smart, cocky grin—he let go of the stick.

The nose of the massive craft began to yaw hard to the left as the creaking of the hull escalated; Cassie grabbed the copilot's stick in a panic. The loud, deafening roar of the engines persisted as Cassie fought with the controls. She leaned the stick hard to the right, though the nose continued to edge toward the left.

"We're going to tumble!" she shouted in a panic. "Take it! Take it!"

"What's wrong?" Krey shouted through a smug grin, "Can't you hold a course?"

The nose of the craft continued to yaw to the left at an increasingly higher rate; panic covered Cassie's face as she leaned the stick hard to the right.

"Take it, you idiot! Take it!"

Krey reached up to the engine console then flipped a switch; the roar of the engines came to an abrupt and sudden halt. The deafening rumble was replaced by the subtle sound of the hull creaking, along with the hiss of an attitude engine, which was still responding to Cassie's stick position. The leftward yaw of the ship gradually began to slow.

"What'd you do that for—you moron!"

"It just so happens," Krey said in a calm, arrogant voice, "that I can hold a course—and probably better than most."

Cassie continued to hold the stick to the right as the leftward rotation of the craft slowly came to a stop.

"That's good," Krey said. "Just leave it there."

Cassie released the stick, then turned an angry finger to Krey.

"You knew these controls didn't work—you just did that to pump up your ego by making me look bad!"

Krey shook his head, "There's nothing wrong with the controls." He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, "The hull is warped, so the thrust isn't centered and the ship yaws to the left."

"But I had the stick all the way to the right!" Cassie argued.

"Doesn't matter; the little attitude engines up front don't hold a candle to the burners in the back. Once you get a few degrees too far to the left the slack in the hull works against you and there's no chance of recovering—other than shutting down the mains."

A look of disbelief came to Cassie's face, "The slack in the hull?... How much slack are we talking about here?"

Krey shrugged his shoulders, "Not that much—but it's enough to push the center of gravity out of the control envelope if you don't stay on top of it."

Cassie was clearly uneasy as she thought about the dynamics of the warped, creaking hull. "So—you have to crab to the right?"

Krey nodded as he pointed out the forward window a few degrees to the right, "Yea, a straight course is actually seven and a half degrees right of the nose. If you try to fly it straight, it will go into an unrecoverable tumble every time."

Cassie became somewhat indignant, "You didn't say anything about this when you gave me the controls—you're just trying to make me look foolish!"

"No," Krey insisted. "I was just trying to shut you up. You have a nasty mouth and a rotten disposition." He drew an uneasy breath as he shook his head, "I don't think this arrangement is going to work. Maybe you better leave."

"It's too late for that," Cassie argued.

Krey glanced out the window at the mooring orbit below, "We're in a half-way stable orbit; you could go down to your stolen tug, pump some fuel out of my tanks, and take it back to the UN. I'll wait until your clear before I engage the time distortion engine."

Cassie glanced at her watch; there was less than ten minutes left before their extended grace period ran out, and she could not extend it any further. She looked at Krey and emphatically shook her head.

"No chance—I paid for this trip with fuel. You owe me a ride to Theti and I'm not about to let you worm your way out of it."

"Fair enough. Just remember—I'm the captain, you're the crew."

There was a pause as Krey lifted his beer canister and drained the last few swallows. He lowered the empty canister with a belch, then handed it to Cassie.

"Here," He said with a smug grin, "Get rid of this empty and fetch me another beer. I'll get the time distortion engine ready for the transition."

Cassie was noticeably irritated as she snatched the canister out of Krey's hand, "Yes, captain. Whatever you say, captain." She started to grumble about the less-than-ideal circumstances as she started down the rope toward the refrigerator.

Perfect, Krey thought.

Cassie was still stewing about the exchange as she stuffed the empty beer canister in a trash bag, which was floating at the end of a short tether tied to the refrigerator. She could hardly imagine enduring the long, three or four-day trip in the company of someone so irresponsible and arrogant.

"What does he know?" she muttered as she opened the refrigerator.

Cassie reached in and pulled out a beer, then slammed the door in anger.

"He thinks he's so smart—he doesn't know shit."

Cassie reached for the rope, then started to make her way back to the flight controls.

The whole affair grated at her; it was not just the thought of being subordinate under Krey that irritated her—she was also disappointed with herself. After all, it was her own doing that brought her to that rope, towing a beer for someone with a fraction of her intelligence. She kept thinking about the carefully-crafted plan that was suppose to grant her an easy exile; and how miserably it failed.

Still, the cufflets on her wrist were a constant reminder of the overall purpose of the flight; at least she would not have to spend time in a bleak holding canister for her crime. All she had to do was hold out for three or four days with this idiot, then she would once again be free to seek the isolation that she had become accustomed to. She just hoped that she could keep her case of Tripolean Syndrome concealed in the mean time.

Krey's eyes focused on a cluster of engine instruments while his thoughts focused on the rude stranger, whom he suddenly found himself stuck with. There was something incredibly peculiar about her, though he couldn't put his finger on it. He thought back to the stolen service tug; she certainly pulled that off without a hitch. He also thought about the subtle way she managed to maneuver him into taking her to Theti. He began to wonder what they might find on that distant world; was something evil afoot?

Krey's imagination continued to escalate; she seemed pleasant enough when they first met in the corridor at Unli—why the sudden change in disposition? Maybe his attorney was right, maybe he was being set-up. Maybe she's a UN agent—or an organized crime leader. Maybe she's a drug king-pin and the stolen tug is loaded with contraband!

Krey shook his head as he realized that he might be getting a little carried away; chances were that she was just a good-looking woman with a rotten disposition. Still, she was a stranger and he didn't know what she was capable of; would he wake up one morning with a knife sticking out of his back? He decided that, perhaps they should try to smooth tensions down somewhat before something catastrophic happened.

"Here's your damn beer!"

Krey turned to see Cassie hovering near the end of the rope with a beer canister in her hand. Krey accepted the beer with an uneasy smile.

"Thank you."

Cassie muttered to herself as she maneuvered back into her seat, "Thank you, he says."

Krey waited for her to get settled in her seat before he approached the subject of making amends.

"The reactor is just about ready... Ah.... Look, Cassie, I think maybe we should try to get along with each other, at least for—"

"Not a chance!" she snapped.

"Why?" Krey asked in disbelief.

There was short pause as Cassie searched for a viable reason. When one couldn't be found, she resorted to diversion.

"Because you're dangerous and irresponsible."

"I'm not," Krey insisted, "and what does that have to do with being civilized toward each other?"

"You are so!" Cassie gestured to the flight controls, "You gave me the controls knowing full well that the ship would go into a tumble."

"Big deal!" Krey argued, "So the nose edged left—there's nothing dangerous or irresponsible about that."

Cassie pointed toward the rear of the ship, "You have a hundred-thousand tons of steel back there that's as brittle as glass. Another stupid maneuver like that one could cause major damage!"

Their voices were beginning to get noticeably loud.

"Fat chance! This ship has been around for a hundred years, and it'll still be here long after you're dead."

Cassie shook her head emphatically, "When was the last time you took it through the time barrier?"

"Three years ago—no problems!"

There was a short pause in the bickering match. Krey was just about ready to mark the score on his side, when a smug grin came to Cassie's face.

"I'll prove it," she said in a much more hospitable tone. "I'm willing to predict that you have a ninety percent chance of losing a major piece of this ship as soon as you engage the transfer plates on the time distortion engine."

"What's your idea of a major piece?" Krey asked skeptically. "Three screws and a compression fitting?"

"A half a ton or more."

"Not a chance."

Cassie nodded, "Chance. I'd also give you three to one odds that you rupture a pressure-tight compartment."

Krey began to chuckle arrogantly, "You wouldn't want to put a wager on this—would you?"

Cassie thought about the proposition for a moment or two, then looked at Krey through a devious smile, "I'll put my ship up against your's. If I'm right, then this pile of junk is mine, and I become the captain."

"Your ship?"

Cassie nodded, "Yes—the service tug."

Krey shook his head, "That's not your ship; it belongs to the United Nations."

"It is so my ship," Cassie argued, "I stole it fair and square!"

Krey shook his head more emphatically, "I won't accept stolen property—no deal!"

Cassie shrugged her shoulders, "No matter. It'll be satisfaction enough just to prove you wrong."

Krey glanced at the engine instruments, "We'll see who's wrong." He cracked his knuckles as he looked at Cassie. "Are you ready to take on the time barrier?"

A smug, confident smile came to Cassie's face. She nodded as she secured a better grip on the armrests. Krey offered his own version of a confident grin; he casually reached for the engine controls, then flipped a switch.

The huge dilapidated Star Saber hung idle in its high orbit as it began to shake and vibrate under the strain of the time distortion engines. A moment or two later, the massive hulk of rotting steel began to slowly fade away into obscurity. Within seconds, it simply vanished from sight like a wisp of smoke dissipating in the air.

Cassie's nervous eyes panned across the ceiling as the decrepid hull rumbled, creaked, and moaned under the strain of the growing distortion created by the unconventional engine. The thought of metal fatigue, corrosion, and warpage haunted her as she felt the entire hull vibrate under her seat. She knew that the strain on the hull would cease as soon as the distortion of the time continuum was fully deployed; it was the slow, crushing transition that had her concerned.

Cassie glanced at Krey, who was still wearing a proud, confident grin, as if there was no particular cause for concern.

"Just like I said," Krey boasted, "No problems."

"We're not there yet." Cassie looked out the forward windows to get a rough idea of how much abuse they had yet to endure.

The view from inside the Star Saber was considerably different than the vanishing act seen from the real world. As the time distortion engines slowly warped the time continuum around the ship, the distant stars gradually appeared to be moving closer, as if the whole universe was shrinking in around RQ-733. The universe itself wasn't shrinking; it only appeared as such from their distorted reference of the cosmos.

As far as they were concerned, however, the foreshortened distance between them and the neighboring stars was getting smaller. Stars that were ten light-years away in the real world were compressed to only a fraction of a light-year by the effects of the distortion; this technique allowed space vehicles to travel over immensely great distances in a reasonable amount of time.

Judging from the apparent compression of the universe, Cassie guessed that they were only about half-way through the transition. Neighboring stars appeared to be considerably closer and brighter, while distant stars that were too faint to be seen by the naked eye were beginning to come into view. The changing, twisting forces around the hull steadily grew as the universe continued to close in around them.

Krey glanced at his instruments, "We're just about there."

The cosmos continued to close in on RQ-733. Neighboring stars had grown in size to more closely resemble small suns, rather than stars. The faint band of stars that formed the Milky Way had become a brilliantly glowing ribbon of light that completely encircled the Star Saber. The rest of the cosmos was cluttered with numerous tiny stars that were virtually undetectable from the real world.

Gradually, the compression of the universe slowed to halt, as did the nerve-racking sounds of the hull under stress. The rumble of the time distortion engines had settled down to an undetectable level, the vibrations ceased, and silence once again returned to the aged Star Saber.

It was at that moment when the constant reminder of their exodus, the ever-present UN cufflets, each separated into quarter-length segments. Cassie drew a sigh of relief as she gathered up the eight floating pieces that once formed confining bracelets around her wrists.

"Finally," she said with relief. She looked at her watch and shook her head, though her antics were strictly for Krey's benefit; she was trying to cover-up the fact that she had extended the grace period. "Looks like the UN was asleep at the switch—the cufflets should have locked together a long time ago."

"You're trying to avoid the issue," Krey snapped.

Cassie looked at Krey in confusion, "What issue?"

"You were wrong—the ship didn't break apart."

Krey wore a proud, self-satisfying grin as he reached into a pocket on the side of his seat and pulled out a pair of sun glasses. He donned the sun glasses then turned his attention to Cassie.

"Like I said, we lose two screw and a compression fitting—tops."

"I don't get it." Cassie shook her head, "I thought for sure that this piece of junk would—"

The conversation was abruptly interrupted as the sound of a modest explosion echoed through the dilapidated craft. It was immediately followed by an alarm as several flashing lights came to life on an overhead panel. The disturbance also disrupted the ship's attitude and caused the nose to pitch downward ever-so-slowly.

Krey immediately reached up to silence the alarm; his proud, cocky demeanor was quickly replaced by concern as his uneasy eyes studied the panel's indication.

"What is it?"

Krey shook his head, "We lost pressure in a compartment somewhere."

"Where?"

"Just a minute..." Krey pressed several keys on a keypad mounted near the alarm. After studying the keypad's display for a moment or two, he shook his head in confusion, "I didn't even know there was pressure in that compartment."

"Which compartment?"

Krey shrugged his shoulders, "I do'no—some compartment near the belly, about a hundred and fifty feet beneath the engines."

Concern began to creep across Cassie's face, "What's the compartment for?"

"How the hell should I know," Krey snapped, "What do I look like—a map?"

Cassie's scrutinizing look of concern grew; she drew a cautious, uneasy breath, "Are you trying to say that you don't even know what's on your own ship?"

"Well..." Krey tried to side-step the issue by focusing his attention on the overhead panel.

"How long have you had this ship?"

"Since I was sixteen."

"And, in all that time you never bothered to go back there and take a look?"

Krey kept his attention on the overhead panel, "Most of the ship won't hold air—you need a pressure suit to go exploring and—"

"Don't you have a pressure suit?" she asked pointedly.

"Well," Krey shrugged, "I just borrow one from Bruni when I need one."

Cassie shook her head as if she were passing judgment on a pitiful excuse for a human being, "You fly a busted-up, leaking sieve like this, and you don't even have a pressure suit."

Krey kept his attention focused on the overhead panel as he tried to assess the damages. "Don't get excited—I don't think we suffered any structural damage."

Krey felt Cassie's finger tapping him on the shoulder, followed by her smug tone of voice.

"Then—what do you call that?"

Krey glanced at Cassie; she was pointing out the forward windows. He turned his attention to the star-filled view of the cosmos. There, tumbling end over end in the not-too-distant emptiness, was a twenty-foot section of hull with a large, corroded tank attached to it. Krey realized that it, undoubtedly, had been expelled from the ruptured compartment on the belly, and was just now coming into view because of the gradual nose-down rotation of the ship.

"I told you," she said in a condescending voice. "I said a half-ton or more—and probably from a pressure-tight compartment."

"So!" Krey muttered as he turned his attention to the flight controls. He pulled back on the stick to correct the ship's attitude; the nose of the Star Saber began to pitch up as the piece of debris fell from view.

"Aren't you going to check the damage?" she argued.

"No."

"You should at least try to find out what was in that tank," she criticized. "Maybe it was—"

"Shut up!" Krey's brow grew heavy with anger as he angled the ship toward Capella. "It was probably a septic tank full of shit we don't want anyway."

He reached down to a set of controls between the seats and grabbed a T-shaped lever. He kept his attention, and his scowl, focused out the windows as he slowly pushed the lever forward. The dilapidated hull responded with a series of metallic creaks and moans as the distortion shifted toward the front of the ship. The Star Saber began to move forward as it virtually fell into its own distortion.

Chapter 9, Strange Voices

The air in the disaster shelter had become much more palatable since Chellaina managed to get the emergency life support system operating. Despite its age, the bulky piece of World War Five equipment worked without a flaw; the air was fresh and rich, the temperature was regulated at a comfortable 82øF, and a reasonable amount of humidity had been added to the dry, dusty air. In addition to basic life support functions, the environmental unit's compact, yet powerful, nuclear reactor produced enough surplus power for lighting, power tools, cooking, and whatnot.

Chellaina had set-up the emergency life support system in the main shelter room, not far from Fenton's unconscious body. Since the huge piece of equipment was self-propelled, she had little problem moving it away from the ruins of the storeroom and was even able to use it as a walker, of sorts. She had already activated its emergency homing beacon, a device that was designed to signal rescue parties, and had the emergency radio turned up just high enough to be heard over the subtle hum of the reactor. To her dismay, the receiver continued to pour out the same dull buzz that they had heard on television before they made their descent to the shelter.

Chellaina also found several utility lights, which were stored in a compartment at the rear of the unit. Once the lights were set-up, they revealed the true nature of the damage to the disaster shelter. There were several, gaping cracks in the shelter's thick walls, some of which were at least six inches in width. The wall of one of the store rooms was severely damaged and the other had completely toppled into rubble. There were several cracks running across the floor, and the nuclear-hardened hatch that allowed access to the outside world appeared to be hopelessly jammed. Dust and debris was everywhere.

The greatest damage to the shelter, however, was the roof; several layers of concrete had fallen from most of the ceiling, leaving a rough, stony texture precariously supported by bent reenforcement bars. There was one place in particular, where a successive layer of concrete had begun to sag and was in danger of collapse. The state of the shelter, however, was of no particular concern to Chellaina; she was busy tending to her husband's injuries.

The General was still in the same position that he acquired during the accident; Chellaina had made no effort to move him and, frankly, doubted that she would even have the strength to do so, should the need arise. She had prepared a pillow, made from old military uniforms, but was reluctant to slide it under his head until she could determine the exact extent of his injuries.

Chellaina was somewhat disappointed by the state of the drugs that had been stored in her medical case for nearly a century; all of them were grossly outdated and some of them had long since congealed into a jelly-like substance. The intravenous field drugs she had hoped to use, which in many cases could literally force a patient into one state of consciousness or another, had hardened and crystallized. Only the simplest of compounds, such as cleansing alcohol, was in a usable state. Chellaina used the alcohol to clean Fenton's wound as she spoke with a gentle tear in her eye.

"I don't know if you can hear me, Fenny—I just don't know."

It had been quite some time since the disaster and the blood at the surface of the wound had already hardened, trapping dust and small grains of concrete that begged to invite infection. She cleaned as much of the dirt out as she could, then drew a quick breath when she uncovered a tiny patch of bare skull in the center of the wound.

"It doesn't look very good, Fenny."

She turned to her medical case, which was opened nearby, then set down the alcohol and sponge. She reached for her laser scalpel, but stopped short of picking it up.

"Oh, dear. It's been so long."

Her weathered eyes carefully looked across the vast array of instruments and supplies that filled her case as the unending sound of the emergency radio buzzed in the background. A subtle hint of relief came to her face as her eyes landed upon a field X-ray kit. She reached for the small pack, which was about the size of a large pocket calculator.

"I remember this."

She carefully opened the pack, which contained a film carrier and a small X-ray gun about the size of a matchbook. She picked up each item and thoroughly examined them as, piece by piece, it all started coming back to her.

It did not take long for Chellaina to remember how to use the field X-ray kit; she had used it countless times in her youth to look for broken bones, lodged bullets, and carnivorous robotic insects. She set the pack down in her case, then, with an uneasy degree of confidence, turned to Fenton with the film carrier and gun in hand.

"This won't hurt, Fenny, I'm just going to take your picture."

She held the film carrier against the back of The General's neck, being sure to cover the base of the skull, then positioned the X-ray gun in front of his throat. Using the kit required a certain knack; the gun had to be positioned exactly parallel to the film carrier before the gun would fire. She spent several minutes trying to get the proper alignment between the two devices when, finally, a ready light on the gun came on. Chellaina pushed a button on the gun; there was a short hum, then a tiny motor on the film carrier pushed out a 3 X 5 sheet of self-developing film.

Chellaina removed the exposed film from the carrier which, as yet, did not have a picture on it, and set it down in her case.

"I hope it's still good after all these years."

With some degree of confidence built up, Chellaina decided to get an X-ray of The General's skull while the neck X-ray was developing.

Fenton's head was lying in a precarious position; it was tilted downward somewhat because of the bulky helmet mounting collar on his spacesuit. The awkward position, however, worked to his wife's advantage; she had just enough room to slide the film carrier under his head without disturbing what might prove to be a broken neck or a fractured skull. After some fiddling with the gun position, Chellaina got the ready light, fired the gun, and the film carrier ejected an undeveloped X-ray.

"There," she spoke to her unconscious husband in a soft, gentle voice, "That wasn't so bad—was it."

She set the undeveloped film down in her case, then picked up the neck X-ray, which was almost fully developed. A tear trickled down her cheek as a fragile smile came to her face. All the vertebras in his neck seemed to be in place and none of them were cracked. One of the vertebras, however, was much darker than the others; her smile grew as her eyes focused on the artificial vertebra. She slowly shook her head.

"I forgot all about that, Fenny." She drew a light, happy sniffle as she ran her hand over the photograph, "I did such good work back then."

She took a moment to recall as much detail about that eighteen-hour operation as possible, though most of those memories were hidden by the ages. After admiring the talent and well-earned reputation of her youth, she set down the photograph then picked up the X-ray of The General's skull.

Chellaina studied the X-ray for quite some time as she searched for hair-line cracks in her patient's skull. Like the neck, there was no sign of any fractures.

"It's just like they say, Fenny; hard-headed generals don't die easy."

She set the X-ray down in her case, then picked up the make-shift pillow that she had prepared earlier. She spoke gently to Fenton as she carefully lifted his head and slid the pillow underneath him.

"You're doing good so far, Fenny. You can have your pillow now."

She positioned his head as comfortably as possible, then kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

"I sure hope you can hear me, Fenny—I need someone to talk to." She paused to glance at the life support equipment, whose receiver was still buzzing and hissing with the same, unintelligible signal. After listening to the strange sound for a moment or two, she returned her attention to Fenton.

"I've done good, Fenny." She nodded her assurance, "You would be proud of me."

She patted him gently on the cheek, then turned her attention to the wound on the side of his head.

After examining the wound for quite some time, Chellaina decided that there was little alternative other than closing it surgically. She thought about how long it had been since she used a scalpel; she swallowed hard, then turned her attention to her medical case.

Chellaina felt uneasy as she slowly picked up the laser scalpel. She carefully examined the pen-like device and its assortment of controls; it was the kind of device that could be as deadly as it was life-saving. She wondered if it still worked, and if her aged, feeble hands could still hold it steady.

It was all coming back to her; she looked at the X-ray of the skull, then set a small dial on the back of the laser to limit the depth of the cut to about an eighth of an inch. She slid a tiny switch on the side of the scalpel, then a faint, narrow beam of green light projected out of the end.

"Good—the alignment beam still works."

Chellaina gathered up a scrap of her hanging, tattered clothes, then brought the scalpel next to the material. After positioning the alignment beam, she pressed a trigger on the side of the device; the faint, green beam suddenly changed to an intense red as the cloth began to smoke ever-so-slightly.

Chellaina tested the scalpel, and her skills, by carving a small smiley face in the scrap of material. Several tiny patches of cloth fell away as she formed the eyes and mouth of the smiley face. When she was done, she had a surprisingly accurate rendition of the age-old icon. She smiled as her confidence grew; she thought that, perhaps her hobby of crocheting helped keep her hands nimble enough to use a scalpel. She turned her attention to The General and his wound.

"I hope you can hear me, Fenny, but I hope you can't feel anything; my anesthetics went bad and I don't have anything for pain. You'll just have to be strong."

She leaned over the wound, then carefully aligned the faint, green beam on the jagged, crushed edges of the wound. She drew a deep breath and held it, then pressed the trigger.

The damaged flesh sizzled and smoked somewhat as Chellaina carefully drew the bright red beam over the mangled area of flesh. Bit by bit, small pieces of useless, dead flesh fell away from the wound, exposing just a little more of the skull underneath. About half-way through the procedure, Chellaina released the trigger, took another deep breath, then resumed the cut.

It hardly took any time to rid the wound of dead flesh, though it seemed like an eternity to Chellaina. When the last cut was made, she turned off her scalpel, then carefully inspected her work.

"Almost done, Fenny."

Chellaina smiled and nodded her approval when she saw that the edges of the wound were marked by sharp, clean cuts, and that all the unhealthy flesh had been removed. She guessed that the wound could be properly closed with about four or five stitches.

She set the scalpel down in her case, then picked up a pair of surgical gloves and a small sterilized package containing suture and an assortment of needles. She donned the gloves, opened the package of suture, then returned her attention to the wound.

The shelter was quiet, except for the buzzing of the emergency radio, as Chellaina carefully closed the wound. The first stitch proved to be the most difficult; it wasn't her best work, but it would certainly suffice. By the time she completed the second stitch, she had regained some of her familiarity with the art and was much more pleased with its appearance. She continued with the third and fourth stitch.

Abruptly, the monotonous buzz of the emergency radio ceased; all was quiet except for the subtle hum of the reactor. Chellaina paused for a brief moment to glance at the life support system.

"Oh, dear. I hope it didn't quit."

She saw no smoke coming from the machine, or any other obvious signs of danger; she returned her attention to the fifth and final stitch.

The final stitch went rather smoothly; Chellaina cut the last piece of suture then set it and the needle in her case. She removed her surgical gloves, let out a sigh of relief, then turned to her husband. She laid a frail hand on the side of his face as she gently spoke to him.

"That's all I can do for you, Fenny." She shook her head, "No matter how advanced medicine gets, we still can't fix a bump on the head."

She bent down and gave him a gentle kiss.

"Now it all depends on you and the Almighty."

Suddenly, and without warning, the emergency radio began to emit a harsh series of squeals and moans. Chellaina drew a quick breath as she snapped her head toward the life support system and its radio; she had never heard anything so strange and ominous in all her life. An uneasiness crept over her as she listened to the strange series of sounds for nearly a minute. Then, almost as suddenly as it started, it came to an abrupt end.

She looked down at her fallen hero, "I think something's wrong with the—"

The sound returned. Again, Chellaina looked to the life support system. An uneasiness crept across her face as she listened; the sound was very similar to the sound she had heard a moment or two earlier, but it seemed to be more distant and marked by a different tonal quality. Shortly thereafter, silence returned, only to be broken again by the original sound; almost as if it were some kind of conversation.

Chellaina drew a quick breath and brought an uneasy hand up to her mouth as she listened to the exchange. The more she listened, the more it seemed like a conversation in a foreign language—except the sounds were nothing like anything a human could produce.

"Fenny," she whispered, "Something is wrong—very wrong." Her frightened eyes briefly glanced at the radio, then returned to Fenton. "Please wake up, Fenny—I hear strange voices!"

A third voice briefly came into the arena; it sounded similar to the first two voices, but was slightly marred by the sound of noisy equipment in the background. The third voice was short-lived, then the channel returned to an exchange between the first two voices. The strange, unearthly series of sounds persisted indefinitely.

Chellaina's fear drove her closer to The General's unconscious body. She held close to her fallen hero as she spoke in a frightened whisper.

"I don't think they're people like us, Fenny. Something wicked is about... Please wake up."

The strange voices continued as the miserable, lonely hours passed at a painfully slow pace. Chellaina sat there among the ruins, clutching her husband's unconscious body as she listened to each and every unintelligible word. She hoped and prayed that Fenton would wake up soon and tell her that nothing was wrong—that they would be alright. Though, in the chambers of her own mind, she was dead certain that something very wicked had taken place—and that nothing in their quiet little world of Theti would ever be the same again.

Chapter 10, Personal

It had been nearly a full day since RQ-733 penetrated the time barrier and began its long, distant journey to Capella. Without adequate computers to guide it, the mighty Star Saber simply coasted under its own relentless inertia on a heading that Krey haphazardly guessed at by aiming for the star, which, from their viewpoint, had come to resemble a small sun.

Krey was still asleep, tethered to a ratty, broken-down chair as he wrestled with the fading remnants of an uncomfortable, sleepless night. He had given up his bed to Cassie, though it was a sense of chivalry that prompted him to do it, rather than respect for the rude, unsociable stranger. Many harsh words had been traded between the two exiles since they entered the time continuum and, as of bedtime, they were barely on speaking terms.

Krey awoke from his uneasy slumber to the sound of banging or hammering coming from somewhere in the ship. He rubbed the sleep from his groggy, bloodshot eyes then, with a feeble sense of awareness, looked around the bridge for the source of the noise.

"Cassie?"

The sound of banging metal continued to echo throughout the ship.

"Cassie?"

Krey untied his tether, then reached for a nearby rope; it was then that he discovered a harsh, brutal pounding in his head, which was, undoubtedly, the legacy of draining too many canisters of Milwaukee Brew. His quick start down the rope suddenly slowed as he reached for his head.

"Ooh!"

He paused for a moment to wallow in his self-inflicted misery, then resumed his journey down the rope.

"Cassie? Where the hell—"

Krey finally put two and two together when he realized that Cassie was not on the bridge—and that the constant banging was coming from the hatch, which had the tendency to stick from time-to-time.

"Damn woman," he muttered.

Cassie was drifting precariously in the dim corridor just outside the bridge. The metal case that she had brought from Unli was drifting aimlessly nearby as she banged on the door with a piece of scrap metal, which she found floating somewhere in the wreckage. She paused for just a moment to catch her breath.

"What does it take to wake this jerk up?" she muttered.

After a brief reprieve, she resumed her relentless task of hammering away at the hatch.

The loud, irritating noise of the scrap metal slamming against the hatch persisted for a minute or two, then Cassie finally heard Krey fumbling around with the latch from the inside, though she hit the door another time or two just for good measure.

The hatch finally opened to reveal Krey on the other side, who was holding his aching head in agony.

"It's about time," Cassie snapped.

"Shut up—haven't you made enough noise?"

Cassie hurled the piece of scrap metal down the corridor, which rang with repeated metallic echoes as it bounced from wall to wall. She turned a heartless grin to Krey as she watched him cringe to each and every hollow clank of the corridor.

"Head hurt?" she asked with a smug grin.

Krey let out a sigh of disgust; he was not about to oblige her with a response.

"Thought so." She grabbed her case, then started to make her way through the hatch.

Krey glanced down at the case briefly, then moved aside as Cassie entered the bridge.

"You shouldn't leave the bridge by yourself," he grumbled as he secured the hatch behind Cassie. "I bet you didn't even take a tube of Leak Stop with you."

"I did so!"

She reached into a pocket and pulled out a fresh tube of the basic survival goo. "I had to get my things—and I wasn't about to wait around until you came out of your coma."

Krey turned around and started to make his way to the refrigerator.

"Eat shit, you stupid..." His muttering became less and less audible as the distance between him and Cassie grew. Cassie strained an ear to hear what he was saying, but she was unable to make any sense out of it. She turned her head in a huff, and started toward the rug-like partition.

"I simply can't tolerated another day of your boring, macho ramblings—do you have anything around here to read?"

"Read this..." Krey made a lewd gesture by grabbing his crotch, then he, and his miserable hangover, opened the refrigerator and surveyed the beer stores. After deciding that the staple supplies would hold out for at least two more days, he reached in and pulled out another canister of famous Milwaukee Brew.

"Hair of the dog," he muttered, then he slammed the refrigerator and grabbed the rope that lead to the controls. "I'm going to see if I need to make a course correction. Just stay back here—that would suit me fine."

Cassie did not reply; she simply waited for Krey to leave so she could open her case in privacy and check its contents. She carefully peered out from behind the partition and looked down the rope. Satisfied that Krey was well on his way to the controls, she turned her attention to the case.

The previous day had been trying on both refugees, but more so for Cassie; she was not used to dealing with any one particular person for such an extended period of time. The sour, trying look on her face quickly changed to modest delight as she took the Model 7 out of her pocket and plugged it into a slot on the case. Her smile grew with anticipation.

She entered a short access code into the Model 7, which was followed by the sound of hissing air as the pressure inside the case equalized with the pressure of the bridge. A moment or two later, the lid of the case popped open as a bright, child-like smile came to Cassie's face.

Krey was still grumbling as he carefully positioned his bulky, hung-over body into the pilot's seat.

"Stupid witch," He strapped himself in, then dug the beer canister out of the pocket on his pant leg. The sleep was hardly clear from his eyes as he lifted the canister and took the first drink of the day.

"Ain't it the way," he muttered, "It's always the lookers who—"

He stopped in mid sentence as his distant gaze focused out the window on nothing in particular. A brief moment later, he turned his attention to the rear of the bridge to see if Cassie had kept her distance. After assuring himself that he had an adequate degree of privacy, he turned toward the front, then pulled a set of keys out of his pocket.

Krey looked back one more time, making sure that he could keep his private life private, then unlocked a metal drawer, which was mounted underneath a console to the left of the pilot's seat. He slowly pulled the drawer open, then paused to take another drink from his beer.

A small, 3-inch Teddy Bear came drifting up out of the metal drawer. Krey quickly lowered his beer and snatched the fuzzy, stuffed bear from the air. He glanced back briefly, then turned his attention to the stuffed animal.

"If only she would have held me as close as she held you." He winked at the Teddy Bear, then returned it to the drawer.

The ever-present can of Milwaukee Brew came up to Krey's lips one more time before he braved the contents of the drawer. He lowered the beer then, with a slow, uneasy hand, he reached for the only other item in the drawer; a letter.

There was a heavy, distant sigh as Krey took the thin plastic sheet out of the drawer. The letter, which was several years old, was addressed to his home at Le Monnier, a city on Earth's moon; the return address was from somewhere on Theti.

Krey looked at the letter for quite some time before building up the courage to press the `Open' icon; the display on the plastic sheet changed to reveal the cold, hard text of the letter.

My darling Krey,

I haven't stopped thinking about you since the day I left. I enjoyed our ad-libbed voyage aboard RQ-733, the dinner, the view, and the intimacy. I never enjoyed anything as much as the three weeks we spent together. I'll never forget you.

I must apologize for the way I left. I know it must have been hard for you when you woke up the next morning and found me gone. I suppose I should have at least left a note—but I didn't know what to say. I've thought about it carefully since then, I feel that I should give you that overdue explanation in a letter.

Let me assure you that it was nothing you intentionally did or said. I have no complaints about the way you treated me, you always made me feel like a lady. Please understand, Krey, that this is as difficult for me to write as it is for you to read.

To be blunt, you have a problem; it's the same problem that my father had. We watched our father drink himself into an artificial liver, into bankruptcy, and ultimately, into an early grave. It was a difficult time in my life—watching my father kill himself, watching him spend the grocery money on booze, and listening to him argue with my mother. After he died, I swore that I would never live with an alcoholic again.

I'm not trying to say that I see you as an alcoholic—that judgment lies on your shoulders. But, seeing you drunk three nights in a row and watching you pass out reminded me too much of the struggle with my father. I'm sorry, Krey, but I just can't endure that any more.

Still, I think of you often and, sometimes, I wish that I had never left. If you ever decide to give up your Milwaukee Brew, come look me up. I'll be right here, at the address on this letter. Please—

I love you, I miss you, and I pray for you,

Delaina

Krey drew an uneasy breath as he pressed the `close' icon. He glanced out the window at Capella, then looked down at the return address.

Cassie had finished checking the contents of her case and was quietly searching Krey's storage lockers for something to read. She had already examined three lockers and found nothing that resembled reading material, other than an emergency egress checklist. She quietly closed the locker, then nervously glanced toward the front of the bridge before moving on to the next one.

The forth locker contained a myriad of old, dusty junk. There was a space helmet with a broken faceplate, several gloves, a wrench or two, and an old, tattered bag, which was about the size of a bowling bag. Cassie slowly unzipped the bag, then made another nervous glance toward the front before rummaging through its contents.

The bag appeared to be filled mostly with clothes, which were so old and ill-kept that they actually crumbled when Cassie tried to pull them out. She had absolutely no interest in the clothes; she was hoping that there might be a piece of jewelry underneath, or something else that she might claim as a prize.

The bag appeared to be stuffed with someone's personal effects, such as; men's clothes, a very old shaving kit, and a small plastic envelope containing letters. Cassie reached for the letters, thinking that she could amuse herself with them later, when she discovered something peculiar.

There, underneath the letters, was an odd looking device. Cassie furrowed her brow; it was square and appeared to be made entirely of very old paper. Her excitement grew as she pulled it free of the bag; anything made of paper was considered a valuable antique.

Suddenly, Cassie recognized the object; it was a book—a bound, paper book like the ones in museums. She glanced up toward the front of the bridge one more time, then carefully opened the cover. Inside, on a brown, brittle page, was a hand-written title that read, `Personal diary, property of Major Fenton S. Raver, UNSF.'

Cassie wore a devious, triumphant grin as she slowly closed the antique. She realized that Krey had no idea that the diary existed; the crumbling clothes on top of it had not been undisturbed for quite some time. As far as she was concerned, the antique had suddenly become her rightful property; all she had to do was claim that she brought it with her in her case. It would be the easiest theft of her entire life.

Cassie quietly closed the locker, then slipped off to an isolated corner to read; few people had the luxury of browsing through a bound, paper book.

Chellaina, like Cassie, was also killing time by reading. She had already read several weapons manuals, and was working on an operator's manual for a spacesuit, which she cheerfully read to her fallen hero.

"...Rotate locking collar, see figure 27.3, clockwise until Helmet Ajar light, located on Inside Helmet Display, goes off..."

She was comfortably seated next to Fenton's unconscious body and wearing her old military uniform, which proved to be much more practical than her tattered, silky clothes. She had also tended to her own wounds; such as the bruise on her leg and the cuts on her knees, which were the result of crawling over the rubble. Although her bandages were old and dingy, they were at least some kind of protection against the dust and dirt of the crumbling disaster shelter.

It had been over a day since the emergency radio first spewed out the strange voices, which had been continuing non-stop without a break. Chellaina still didn't know what to think of the eerie sounds; they made her extremely uneasy and she did her best to ignore them. Still, from time-to-time, she would find herself listening to the exchange and taking note of which voices she heard and when.

At that particular moment, however, Chellaina had no interest in the voices; she was trying to ignore them by focusing her attention on reading to Fenton.

"...Connect Wrist Position Sensor cable to the seven pin electrical connector located inside the sleeve."

Chellaina paused to listen to a peculiar voice, which started coming through the emergency radio. The voice was like any of the others, with the exception of being marked by a constant ever-present rumble in the background. It had become a common occurrence and Chellaina came to realize that it was part of a sequence, which had been repeated over and over since the voices first appeared.

Chellaina took note of the time; it had been twenty minutes since she last heard the rumbling on the radio. That seemed to be consistent with most of the other intervals between rumblings, though sometimes it would come five minutes early, or as much as fifteen minutes late. After listening to the strange rumbling on the radio for a minute or two, she returned to the manual, and to her endless task of reading to Fenton.

"Attach glove to sleeve, see figure 27.4, then rotate wrist locking collar clockwise until Right Glove Ajar light, on Inside Helmet Display, goes off. Repeat above procedure for left—"

Chellaina stopped in mid-sentence when she noticed that the rumble from the receiver became more pronounced. She could tell that it sounded somewhat different than usual, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it. She listened for a moment or two; it seemed to be getting louder.

Suddenly, several small pieces of concrete fell from the ceiling, followed by gentle trails of dust. Chellaina quickly realized that the rumbling not only came from the radio—it also came from the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

Chellaina dropped the manual in fear as the rumbling grew to frightening proportions. She leaned over The General to cover his head as more and more pieces of concrete came smashing to the floor. The rumbling quickly escalated, knocking larger and larger pieces loose from the crippled ceiling when, suddenly—it stopped.

Chellaina sat there in silence; her nervous eyes slowly panned across the crippled ceiling, "I don't like this, Fenny."

The receiver went quiet for a moment or two, then the strange, eerie voices resumed their endless chatter. Time seemed to stand still during the two or three minutes that followed. Chellaina listened carefully to the voices as she nervously glanced around the shelter; something, somehow, seemed to be amiss—she was sure of it.

Chellaina snapped her head toward the nuclear-hardened hatch; she could have sworn that she heard something coming from the staircase just beyond it. She crouched closer to The General.

"Please wake up, Fenny," she whispered, "Something evil is—"

There it was again! Yes, something was moving on the staircase!

Chellaina picked up a remote control device, then turned down the volume on the emergency radio. She listened carefully to the subtle sounds of heavy, clumsy movement just beyond the hatch.

"What is it, Fenny?"

She drew a quick breath when she heard a series of scraping sounds, which were rhythmically interrupted by a series of clunks, as if someone or something were dragging a large piece of debris up and out of the staircase. Chellaina wondered; was it a rescue party, or was it some kind of unspeakable nightmare?

Her worst fears were soon confirmed; she heard the muffled sound of strange voices just beyond the door. She gasped with her eyes fixed solidly on the hatch; her heart felt like it was beating in her throat—the voices were just like the voices she had heard on the emergency radio! She realized that whatever was on the radio, was now on the other side of the hatch.

Suddenly, the latch began to rattle back and forth, as if someone outside were trying to get in.

"Wake up, Fenny," she whispered as she shook his shoulder, "You must wake up!"

The fumbling at the latch ceased, but was immediately followed by the sound of something metallic slamming against the nuclear-hardened hatch. The sound drove chills down Chellaina's spine; she hobbled over the rubble toward The General's feet as fast as her aging body would allow. The metallic pounding at the hatch persisted as Chellaina struggled to free The General's .40 caliber pistol from his boot. The pounding was tremendous; she was certain that the hatch would cave in at any moment, followed by some hideous monster of unthinkable proportions.

Chellaina's hands trembled wildly as she pulled the pistol free of its holster. It took both unsteady hands to raise the heavy iron and point it nervously at the door. Both of her slender, feeble thumbs reached for the hammer of the gun and struggled to pull it back; the pounding, slamming blows to the door had escalated to massive, ramming shocks. Finally, the heavy hammer seated with a click—the pistol was cocked and ready.

The abusive blows to the door came to an abrupt halt. Chellaina sat there on the ground, trembling as she covered the door with the large-caliber sidearm; she shuttered to think of what the powerful recoil would do to her frail body, should pulling the trigger become necessary.

Once again, she heard the strange voices discussing something on the other side of the hatch. Frightened, horrified tears poured down Chellaina's cheeks as she kept the trembling barrel of the gun pointed at the door. A moment or two later, she heard a small pop, followed by a hissing, roaring noise. Less than a heartbeat later, the latch began to glow red with heat. It was immediately followed by a shower of sparks, which came pouring out from a tiny gap where the handle met the hatch.

The shelter became filled with the smell of burnt, flaming metal as the shower of sparks grew in intensity. Chellaina began to weep out loud, though she faithfully kept the trembling weapon pointed at the door.

The shower of sparks came to a sudden halt; Chellaina knew that the dreaded moment was at hand. She could hear her heart pounding in her chest as she nervously clutched the trigger; her eyes were fixed on the burnt, glowing latch. She heard the strange voices again, followed by the sound of heavy movement. She was sure that the hatch would burst in at any moment.

During the lengthy seconds that followed, Chellaina came to realize that the voices were gradually becoming more faint, more distant. She listened to the bulky, clumsy sound of their movements; they seemed to be ascending the staircase.

The sounds faded into nothing, though Chellaina's aching arms kept the heavy weapon trained relentlessly on the hatch. It was not until two or three weary minutes later when the silence was once again broken; the entire shelter suddenly began to shake and rumble violently.

The hours that followed were filled with strange sounds; rumbling, whining, pounding. Chunks of concrete fell from the ceiling from time to time, and the strange voices continued to plague the receiver. The sound of something moving or working just beyond the hatch returned on several occasions, though no apparent effort had been made to gain access to the shelter. After quite some time, the eerie activity came to a halt, then the violent rumbling, once again, shook the crippled shelter. Several large pieces of concrete fell from the ceiling and Chellaina was certain that the whole shelter would cave in at any moment.

The rumbling gradually subsided into a welcomed, peaceful silence, as if something massive and menacing had moved off into the distance. Chellaina, once again, huddled close to The General's side, though the cocked sidearm was prudently kept within reach. Her shaking, trembling hand gently brushed across The General's cheek.

"Please wake up, Fenny."

She looked up with a frightened tear in her eye as she wondered about the world they had grown to love—was anything left of it?

Chapter 11, Milwaukee Brew

Another bleak day of the voyage had come and gone without incident. The beautiful, breathtaking view of the cosmos was in stark contrast to the dismal, distant mood on the bridge. Krey and Cassie had finally managed to form a d‚tente, of sorts, though it wasn't based on any kind of agreement; Krey simply spent most of his time at the front of the bridge, while Cassie spent most of her time at the rear. For the sake of maintaining sanity, conversation had been kept to a minimum and harsh words had been replaced by hard looks. It was indeed a lonely, miserable flight.

Cassie had been occupied with reading ever since she found The General's diary. She was delighted with her new antique; she enjoyed the novelty of turning the brown, fragile pages and reading the pen-and-ink script. To her, it almost seemed like deciphering hieroglyphics; all the letters were connected and no two A's or O's were written in exactly the same fashion.

What Cassie found most intriguing about the diary, however, was not the paper and ink; it was the brave, heroic deeds of the crew that once served the gallant RQ-733 long before it became a rotted, decaying hulk. Her fascination with the diary, however, went deeper than that; very little had been written about World War Five, and she felt as if she had been granted a taboo peek into the men, machines, battles, and politics surrounding the bloodiest war in human history. The diary even changed her views of RQ-733; in her mind it was no longer a floating junk-heap—it was a proud piece of human history.

Cassie sat in a partially broken-down seat somewhere near the rear of the bridge as her intrigued eyes raced across each and every noble word. She couldn't put the diary down as she read about the ship's proud commander, who, in her eyes, must have been so gallant and pure that his teeth must have surely sparkled.

She turned the page.

It has been nearly a month since the front collapsed. We received word from UN command that every war machine in operation has converged on Menti, and that the outcome of the war now hinges on this dirty, unforgiving battle. The odds are certainly against us, though we have managed to whittle their armada down to 46 ships.

Casualties were high today; we lost twenty-eight men when the phantom took out one of the conventional engines, and lost another three to carnivorous robotic insects. Some progress has been made today in dealing with the phantom. For the first time since the phantom attacks started, we finally have an eye-witness who could identify the ship; it's a modified B-2732 fighter-bomber with what appears to be a time distortion engine hanging out of its bomb bay. This explains the nature of the attacks—in part.

Apparently, the phantom stays hidden in the time continuum, then somehow manages to appear in the real world at an amazingly accurate, point-blank position. The phantom simply appears, dispatches its ordinances, then returns to the cover of the time continuum. We still do not know how the phantom manages to get such an accurate fix on us; it comes out of the time continuum with such precision that it doesn't even have to use its conventional engines for minor adjustments.

The Phantom has already knocked out all six engines on our sister ship, RQ-653, and rendered her powerless. We've dispatched our drones to tow her to a higher, more stable orbit, but the effort is futile. Although RQ-653 is in a decaying orbit, her guns still work and she continues to fight.

The Phantom clearly has us at a disadvantage. We can't chase it into the time continuum because it can make the transition much faster than a lumbering Star Saber, and to pursue it through time would only deprive Menti of our protection.

Our engineers are currently working on an effective means of locating and combating the Phantom. I fear that, unless the Phantom is stopped, we will find ourselves in the same decaying orbit as our sister ship. God help them.

As near as we can assess, there are still at least five carnivorous robotic insects at large somewhere in the ship; technicians are trying to search for them with little success. The crew has become nervous since the last three insects appeared, and understandably so. This newest wave of micro robots are extremely intelligent; they seek out strategic hiding places, some of which are personal and cruel.

One of the insect casualties occurred when a man was putting on his helmet; the robotic insect was hiding beneath the helmet's lining. As soon as the helmet was locked and secured, the carnivorous robot came out of the lining, bored into the man's neck, then tunneled its way out through the chest cavity. The insect broke free of the pressure suit then disappeared down a ventilation duct. According to witnesses, it all happened in the batt of an eye.

That same insect showed up two hours later in a man's boot. The insect penetrated the man's foot, then followed the bone up to the thigh, where it appeared to go dormant. When the chief surgeon tried to remove it, it came to life; killing the chief surgeon and a medical technician. That particular insect is still at large—somewhere.

Since then, several of the damnable, man-eating robots have shown up in helmets, one was discovered under the rim of a toilet—thank God they were discovered before anyone got killed. The robot insects are extremely fast and almost impossible to catch. We've started laying out traps, using helmets and boots as bait, but the insects haven't fallen for it yet. We still have not answered the most perplexing question surrounding the insect problem; how are they finding their way onto the ship?

Cassie drew a nervous hand up to her mouth as she slowly lowered the book. She lifted her uneasy eyes from the diary to survey the numerous nooks and crannies scattered throughout the bridge; any one of which would make an excellent hiding place for one of the hideous, robotic creatures mentioned in the diary. A cold chill ran down her spine; were any of the robotic insects still at large, hiding somewhere in the wreckage? And, if so, could they still be operating after all these years?

Krey sat idle in the pilot's seat as he tilted another canister of Milwaukee Brew. He had forgone lunch in favor of his staple beverage, and his stomach was beginning to get noticeably queasy. He lowered the canister, then gazed at the all too familiar label.

He thought about Delaina and the three weeks they once shared together. As far as he was concerned, she was a gem. She was always bright, cheerful, happy, quick-witted, and fun to be with. She was a nice-looking woman with a provocative set of eyes and a lovely shape. She had a craving for adventure, and could be very creative in zero gravity during those intimate moments that Krey cherished so. He could still vividly remember how exciting she was to the touch.

Krey drew a heavy sigh as he lifted his beer canister one more time. After taking a longer than usual drink, he lowered the canister, then looked at the badger on the label, which had been Milwaukee Brew's trademark for nearly five decades.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a haphazard grin as he spoke to the badger, "I guess you just weren't her type."

He was just about to take another drink when his weary, glossy eyes noticed something peculiar in the distance. He could have sworn that some of the stars were moving or waving in a broad band, which ran the entire length of the windows. He chuckled to himself.

"That's not real," he muttered. Then he raised the canister again.

He took another long, steady drink then, after wiping his mouth on his sleeve, returned his attention to the vast star field in front of him. The queasy, waving motion of the stars persisted.

Krey kept his eyes focused on the strange movement of the stars; it almost seemed as if he were viewing them through the ripples of a pond, or like he was watching the effects of a distorted, fun house mirror. He struggled to focus his eyes—he knew that what he was looking at wasn't real, that it couldn't possibly have been real.

Again, he looked at the badger on the canister, "This is your joke—isn't it?" He made the badger respond with a nod by tilting the can up and down. "Thought so."

When Krey returned his attention to the stars, he noticed that Capella was no longer in its proper position; a course correction was required. Krey grabbed the stick, then thought carefully before directing a course change. He tried to focus on the moving, wavering stars, but the effect only seemed to be getting worse. He finally succumbed to the notion that he was, perhaps, too drunk to fly a spacecraft. He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes.

"Cassie!"

A less than enthused reply came from the rear of the bridge.

"What!"

He drew an uneasy breath, then shouted his reply, "Come take the helm—I don't feel good."

"Small wonder!"

Krey looked out at the stars, then shook his head. He couldn't understand why the stars insisted on waving and weaving. In all the years he had been drinking, he never had such problems with his eyes. He looked down at the canister of Milwaukee Brew, shook his head, then slipped the canister into the pocket on his pant leg. A moment or two later, he heard Cassie coming down the rope.

"I can't see straight anymore," he reluctantly admitted.

He turned around to see Cassie staring out the forward windows; her mouth hung open in disbelief as her leery gaze panned across the vast star field. She spoke in a cold, stark, bone-chilling whisper.

"What the hell is it?"

Krey snapped his head toward the star field, "You mean—it's real?"

"Yes it's real!" Cassie quickly positioned herself into the copilot's seat as Krey stared at the strange anomaly. He shook his head.

"It can't be real—stars can't move like that."

"It's not the stars, stupid." She strapped herself in, then looked out the window; an uneasy concern dominated her voice, "It's something between us and the stars bending the light."

Krey was beginning to show traces of alarm, "Like what!?"

"You're the captain—you tell me!" Cassie's voice also betrayed a subtle degree of fear.

"Come on!" Krey argued, "We're in the same boat here—help us out!"

Cassie took several heavy, awe-filled breaths as her uneasy eyes studied the unprecedented phenomenon.

"How long has it been there?"

Krey swallowed hard, "Ten, fifteen minutes. It's been getting worse."

"At a steady rate?"

Krey nodded as he stared at the phenomenon.

Cassie quickly glanced across her instrument panel, "What's the engine load?"

Krey looked down at the engine instruments, "Up fifteen percent."

"It's a time wake!" Cassie's voice was noticeably shaken.

"Can't be!"

"It is."

Krey shook his head as he watched the massive bend in the time continuum approach, "This ship produces the largest time wake of anything built—and it's nothing like that. I thought I was seeing things."

"You Idiot!" Cassie was near tears, "If you would have said something about it when it first appeared we might have been able to drop out of the time continuum before it got here!"

"But I—"

"It's too late now!" she shouted as she pointed at the menacing wave, "It'll tear us apart!"

The massive Star Saber suddenly heaved hard to the right as Krey and Cassie reached for something to hold onto. Their screaming voices were hardly audible over the twisting, grinding rumble of the dilapidated hull. Numerous loose items were strewn about the bridge and several corroded pipes snapped in half. There was a quick flash somewhere near the rear of the bridge, followed by a short shower of electrical sparks.

The wave rippled down the hull of the star saber, casting small bits of metal out into space. It knocked one of the drone bay doors ajar and loosened several access panels. As the wave washed over the tail section, another one and a half ton's worth of hull broke free and began drifting out into space.

The massive wave cleared the ship and continued on its way. The loud, devastating rumble had been replaced by a series of creeks and moans as the crippled hull gradually settled to a more hospitable environment. Small pieces of debris drifted away from the craft, and a large, bubble-like pool of hydraulic fluid had began to collect somewhere near one of the conventional engine nozzles.

Inside was a similar sight; loose pieces of debris were drifting about the bridge and the smell of burnt electronic equipment filled the air. A thin haze of smoke lingered in the cabin and some of the overhead lights blinked, flickered, then went dead. Krey and Cassie were understandably shaken by the ordeal, though otherwise unscathed.

Krey nervously glanced around the bridge, then looked down at an assortment of flashing lights on his instrument panel.

"Damn! The hydraulic system is out!" He reached up and switched off the pumps, which, in turn, extinguished the warning lights. "I'm sure there was other damage."

He turned to Cassie, "What could have made a wake like that? Some kind of natural phenomenon?"

Cassie shook her head, "No. Time wakes don't occur in nature."

"A ship?"

"Maybe, but if it was, then it must have been bigger than most cities." She pointed toward Krey's instrument panel, "What about the hydraulic system? What was it supporting?"

"The gimbals for the conventional engines." Krey drew an uneasy breath; he realized that the damage could have been avoided if he wouldn't have been drinking all morning.

Cassie raised a leery eyebrow, "You mean, we can't use the conventional engines?"

Krey shook his head, "Not unless you want to fly around in tight circles. Don't worry," he tried to assure her, "maybe I can fix it before we get to—"

He was interrupted by a screaming alarm and flashing light that suddenly came to life on the overhead panel. Krey reached up to silence the alarm.

"What is it?" Cassie asked in an anxious voice.

Krey studied the panel, "It detected a leak in a compartment somewhere."

"Which Compartment?"

Krey pressed several key on the panel's keypad—then his expression suddenly changed to total and utter dread.

"THIS ONE!!"

Cassie froze in disbelief; she could hardly believe that the end of her existence was already upon her. Her plans for the future were quickly replaced by the fading memories of the past, and the uncertainty of what might lie beyond the barrier of death. A harsh, stabbing chill pierced her spine as she grappled with the inevitable; there would be no more safes to crack, no more security systems to breach, no more ships to steal, and no more romantic fantasies to pursue. It would all end here, in a World War Five relic stuck in time somewhere between the infinite stars of space.

"Here!" Krey shouted, "Snap out of it!"

Cassie looked down to see Krey with a handful of Leak Stop. He shoved two of the virgin tubes into her idle hands, then scrambled out of his seat as if his pants were on fire.

"Help me find the leak! Hurry!"

She watched as Krey started gliding across the ceiling in search of the leak. She was scared to death and unsure of what she should do; she hesitated for a moment before following his example. A wild, trembling terror took over her body as she started off across the floor. In her mind, it was a futile gesture; there was over 2,400 square feet of nooks and crannies that had to be searched, scrutinized, and carefully examined. Finding and sealing a leak in a compartment this big would take a core of engineers a week—they only had minutes.

As Krey moved across the ceiling, he began to hear the unmistakable, violent hiss of air escaping. He look in the direction of the noise, then noticed that the thin haze of smoke pointed like an arrow to the edge of the huge, circular viewport.

"It's over here somewhere! Hurry!"

He changed course by grabbing onto a pipe, then skimmed across the ceiling using broken down seats and dilapidated consoles to guide him. Judging from the sharp curvature of the smoke, he guessed that the leak was quite substantial; he could already feel the pressure dropping in his ears.

Cassie also noticed the pressure change; she looked up at Krey and saw him come to an abrupt halt near the edge of the viewport. Suddenly, she realized that there might be a chance of survival; she pushed herself up from the floor and started to make her way to Krey.

Krey's voice echoed through the bridge, "FOUND IT!"

He wildly unscrewed the cap off of a tube of Leak Stop as he sized up the crack; it was a good one. The fracture was located next to the metal frame that held in the huge viewport in place; it was at least an eighth of an inch wide and nearly a foot long with air roaring out of it at an alarming rate. Krey tried applying a bead of the survival goo over the gash, but the rushing air immediately blew the Leak Stop through the crack and out into space. He shook his head as he abandoned the effort, "This shit ain't going to get it."

Cassie arrived at the viewport just in time to hear the bad news. She already had the cap off of a tube of Leak Stop and was fully prepared to combat the hissing menace, when her brief surge of hope suddenly faded.

"Are we going to die?"

Krey glanced into her terrified eyes as he tore his shirt open at the chest. "Not if I can help it." He quickly removed his shirt then tucked it under an arm. "Watch this."

Krey worked at a frantic rated as he tore the bottom off of a tube of Leak Stop, then started laying down a thick, inch-wide base of the muck over the crack. Most of the goo ended up on each side of the fracture and did little to seal the gash, and anything that covered the crack was simply blown out into space. The cabin pressure was getting uncomfortably low and the pain in their ears was escalating.

"You're wasting it!"

"Quiet!" Krey shouted, "Get ready with your tube!"

He finished laying down a thick base of Leak Stop, then grabbed his shirt and stretched a section of the material over the crack like a patch. The sound of rushing air dropped by a noticeable amount, though it continued to escape through the cloth.

"I'll hold it—you seal it!"

Cassie realized what Krey had in mind; he was using his shirt as a crude foundation to support the sticky sealant until it could set. She quickly applied a thick bead on the material over the crack. The cabin pressure pushed the goo into the cloth, but its thick consistency and the cloth's tiny mesh slowed it up considerably. A fragile smile came to her face as the terrifying hiss of air gradually diminished to nothing.

"Put on another layer! Hurry!"

Cassie quickly followed Krey's directions and immediately began to apply a second bead, though she didn't think it was entirely necessary. The make-shift patch seemed to be holding; she was impressed with Krey's crude, yet effective solution.

She took a deep breath of relief as she finished the second bead. "I thought we were dead." She looked up at Krey through a fragile smile of relief, "You saved us!"

Krey, however, did not share her enthusiasm; he wore a scowl as he watched the patch and waited for it to set.

"I did nothing of the sort," he retorted as he released the patch.

Cassie furrowed her brow in confusion, "You did—you were very clever."

"I was very stupid!" He reached into the pocket on his pant leg and pulled out the canister of Milwaukee Brew—then hurled it across the bridge with all his might. The canister ruptured as it slammed into the hatch at the rear of the bridge; beer spewed out everywhere as the canister spun and whistled to a plume of foam.

Krey turned his back on Cassie and started toward the flight controls long before the canister had a chance to settle, "Go ahead, rub it in."

"I didn't mean it that way, Krey!"

There was no response.

Cassie just floated idle next to the viewport as she watched Krey make his way to the flight controls. As near as she could tell, Krey's anger was directed at himself. She did not understand; to her, being angry with one's self was a logical impossibility. She glanced at the beer canister and puzzled over Krey's behavior; what did he stand to gain by being angry with himself? She found the question to be as confusing as it was intriguing.

Chapter 12, Crumbling Fortress

It had been more than a day since Chellaina heard the last of the strange voices. The emergency receiver remained silent and still, though the life support system continued to hum as it relentlessly recycled life into the confined air of the shelter. Although the strange voices had brought an uneasy feeling of dread to Chellaina, they were at least an abstract form of company. Once again, she found herself alone next to Fenton, who had not moved or stirred in nearly three days.

The long, lonely hours were torture for an idle mind. Chellaina often found herself gazing up at the ceiling, as if she were trying to see through the concrete and dirt that separated her from the world above. She wondered about the sun-lit world above; was it still in one piece? Why did the sirens sound? What caused the horrifying rumble that devastated the disaster shelter? What was behind the strange voices?

Chellaina was distracted from her thoughts when something moved among the nearby rubble. She drew a quick, startled breath as she looked down at the debris next to Fenton; foremost in her mind was the fear that something heinous had found its way into the shelter and was creeping across the ruble toward her and her fallen hero. Her nervous eyes frantically searched the bits of dust and concrete for the source of the movement.

After carefully scrutinizing the all too familiar sight, she realized that something was amiss. A moment or two later, she finally discovered what was different—Fenton's hand was in a different position!

"Fenny!" She shook him, "Fenny! Wake up Fenny!"

Shear delight spread across her weathered face as The General moaned ever-so-quietly. She shook him again.

"Wake up Fenny! You must wake up!"

Again, his hand moved—followed by another moan.

Chellaina frantically attacked her medical case in search of the smelling salts; she knew that Fenton might slip back into deep unconsciousness unless he was awaken immediately. After a quick and frenzied search, she managed to locate her smelling salts—only to discover that they had been damaged by the ages like the rest of her drugs.

A worried tear began to form in her eye.

"Chelly?"

The sound of Fenton's weak, raspy voice was more than Chellaina's strained emotions could bear; the tears of worry changed to tears of joy as she turned to face her fallen hero. Fenton's aged eyes finally open at a squint as he awoke to face the living world once more.

"I'm here, Fenny!" Chellaina draped herself over Fenton as she cuddled him gently and kissed his cheek. "I'm right here by you! Oh, thank God—I thought this day would never come!"

Fenton began to breathe heavier and fuller; he opened his eyes wider and groaned as he faced the stiffness in his body.

"Do you hurt anywhere, Fenny?"

Fenton took several more deep breaths before replying, "My head."

"You had a nasty bump—you were out for days. Do you hurt anywhere else?"

"My shoulder hurts... I think it's just stiff."

"Good." Chellaina rose to a sitting position, then encouraged Fenton to do the same. "Can you sit up for me?"

With a series of moans, groans, and complaints, The General finally pushed his stiff body up from the debris-covered floor. Loose, sandy remains of concrete poured off of his spacesuit as he struggled to reach a sitting position.

"A lot happened while you were out—let me tell you!"

The General briefly glanced around the remains of the disaster shelter, then his weary eyes fell upon Chellaina. He took a deep breath, then smiled.

"You look lovely in your uniform."

"Thank you, Fenny. It's so good to hear your voice again."

"How long have I been out?"

"Three days," she emphasized with a nod. "I had to sew your head up."

Fenton raised a hand toward the wound on his head, "It feels tight."

Chellaina nodded, "It will, Fenny." She brought her hands together and offered a bright smile as her sparkling eyes studied each and every fine wrinkle in Fenton's face. She had seen him in better form many times before, but she could never remember being so delighted by the simple sight of his movements.

"It's so good to see you up and about!"

Fenton returned the smile, then looked around the shelter again, this time paying a little more attention to detail. He noticed that the life support system had been set up; he gestured to the equipment with an approving nod.

"You've done well, Chelly—I'm proud of you."

Chellaina's reply was given with an unassuming smile, "It was hard work—I'm surprised I managed."

The General leaned forward and gave his wife a gentle kiss on the cheek; his voice was gentle, and sincere, "You're a gem, Chelly. What man could possibly ask more out of life?"

Chellaina said nothing; she simply smiled in a girlish fashion.

"Have you heard any word about what happened?"

Chellaina shook her head, "No. The only thing I heard was strange voices, but they stopped a day ago."

The General furrowed his brow, "Strange voices? What kind of strange voices? What did they say?"

"I don't know—I don't think they were people like us. I wish you could have heard them."

The General pointed to the life support equipment. "Did they come over the emergency channel?"

Chellaina nodded.

"We can play them back; there's an automatic recorder attached to the receiver."

It was then that The General's eyes fell on the .40 caliber sidearm, which was still cocked and lying on the floor. A look of deep concern came across his face as he reached for the weapon. He slowly picked up the sidearm, then glanced at Chellaina, "Why the pistol?"

Chellaina spoke with a heightened diction as The General carefully uncocked the weapon, "Something evil tried to break in. They pounded away at the door, then they tried to burn their way in. God, Fenny, I thought we were done for!"

"Something Evil?" The General asked as he returned the pistol to the holster on his boot.

Chellaina nodded emphatically, "I don't think they were people like us. There was this rumble, then the strange voices came to the door—"

The General interrupted with an upheld hand, "Let's take this a step at a time. Start at the beginning and tell me about everything that happened since the roof fell in."

The cabin pressure aboard the Star Saber was beginning to recover as its aged life support system struggled to make up the loss. Most of the smoke had already been removed from the air, though the smell of burnt electronic equipment still remained. The ship continued on its wayward course as Krey sulked in the pilot's seat; his disappointment with himself was clearly evident on his face as he relentlessly stared out at the stars.

"Krey?"

Krey glanced back at Cassie, who was approaching the copilot's seat; he returned his attention to the stars.

"What?" His voice was cold and distant.

"Are you alright?"

There was a noticeable pause before Krey replied.

"What do you care?"

Cassie studied the lines on Krey's face as she positioned herself into the copilot's seat. With all her intelligence, she still did not understand the motivation behind Krey's strange behavior. She had assessed him as egotistical, irresponsible, and arrogant; she did not expect him to be at odds with himself. After she finished strapping herself in, she looked out at the stars, then shrugged her shoulders.

"I just asked—that's all." She did her best to keep her curiosity of Krey's mood out of her voice.

The silent d‚tente persisted for some time with each contender mindlessly gazing out the window. As the minutes slowly ticked by, Cassie found herself questioning her own behavior as well. She thought about Krey's question; what does she care? The more she thought about it, the more it bothered her; why does she care? She spent quite some time puzzling over it before she finally noticed that Capella was in the wrong place; for the entire journey it had been seven and a half degrees to the right of the nose—now it was five degrees to the left of the nose.

Concern crept across Cassie's face as she looked to Krey. She noticed that he was looking directly at the star; why wasn't he making a course correction? She tried to think of the most tactful way to bring the subject up for discussion, though tact was not one of her strong points.

"You better make a course correction before it's too late." She realized, too late, that her tactful comment sounded extremely condescending.

Krey closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if he were highly irritated, but when he opened them, his mood seemed to change somewhat. He drew a heavy sigh, then turned to face Cassie.

"Look, ah..." His eyes swept across the floor as he searched for the words. "I'm—ah—sorry."

"Sorry? What do you mean? Sorry about—"

Cassie was silenced with an upheld hand. There was another lengthy pause as Krey struggled to say what he felt must be said.

"I didn't expect things to work out this way. I know we don't get along—and that has nothing to do with it—but, ah... When we started this trip, I was certain that this ship would hold together—that I could get you to Theti without any problems. After all, you held up your end of the bargain; you came through with the fuel."

He swallowed hard, then motioned to Capella, "I know we're off course—we're going to miss Capella by almost a full light-year." He shook his head as he lowered his eyes, "I can't make a course correction; the time wake took out the flight controls all together."

He emphasized his point by moving the stick back and forth several times. The craft did not respond.

"I think the computer link between the flight controls and the time distortion engine is burnt-out." He released the stick, then returned his attention to Capella. "We can't change the shape of the distortion, we can't control the ship, and we're going straight to hell as soon as the supplies run out. By that time we'll be about 210 light-years from Earth—dead-center in the middle of nowhere. And all because I was drinking when I should have been alert and ready to react."

Krey drew an uneasy breath as stared at the stars.

Cassie had never seen such a deep look of remorse and regret in anyone's face before. It was a look or a feeling that seemed to leach deep into the depths of her rigid being. She felt a subtle trace of a pain, unlike any other she had ever known.

They sat there in silence for quite some time; Krey staring out the window, and Cassie staring at Krey. There was so much that Cassie did not understand. She knew computers, science, and physics in exquisite detail, yet she was a stranger to the human emotions that had often intrigued her when she read about them in romance novels.

In order to protect her secret of Tripolean Syndrome, Cassie had diligently built a cold, impenetrable wall of isolation around her; it was like a fortress that surrounded her feelings. Suddenly, in deep space somewhere between Earth and Theti, she found herself looking out through the first faint crack in that crumbling fortress; what she saw was a taboo that seemed to beckon like a closed door or a locked safe. She felt like easing Krey's burden somehow, though she had no idea of why, or even how to go about it.

"Um..." Cassie lowered her eyes to the floor, then muttered in a less-than-audible tone, "Maybe I have problems too."

Krey looked to Cassie; it was apparent that he didn't hear her. "What did you say?"

Cassie supported a weak smile when she realized that her words went unheard, "I said, maybe we can fix the computer link."

Krey shook his head in arrogance, "Not a chance. I can fix anything mechanical, but computers and electronics are a mystery to me. We're stuck here, plain and simple." He returned his attention to the stars, then continued in a bitter tone. "So, just get used to the idea."

Cassie's brief moment of compassion quickly faded with Krey's arrogance; she let out a sigh of disgust, then replied in a condescending tone.

"Did it ever occur to you, captain, that I might happen to know a thing or two about computers?"

It was apparent by Krey's reaction that he had not even come close to considering that possibility. He turned to her with a look that stood somewhere between shock and surprise, "You do?"

Cassie rolled her eyes.

"No shit!?" Krey asked.

"No shit." She shook her head in disgust, "You are so quick—sharp as a laser beam."

"Enough already!" Krey snapped. "How the hell was I suppose to know that you—"

Cassie interrupted as she pointed to a computer console, which was mounted to the right of the copilot's seat, "Does this console still work, Einstein?"

Krey's response was flat and unamused, "It did last time I used it."

Cassie pulled her Model 7 out of a pocket, then reached down to insert it into an auxiliary slot on the console. She was just about to plug it in when she stopped short; she turned to Krey with a smug grin, which was beaming on her face like a beacon. She spoke slowly, clearly, and with a triumphant certainty that comes with having the upper hand.

"This is going to cost you."

Krey furrowed his brow in disbelief, "What do you mean!?"

Cassie's smile grew; she batted her eyes once or twice just to edge him on, "A deal."

Krey's look of confusion deepened, "A deal!? What the hell are you talking about—a deal!? We're in the same boat here, how can you sit there and say—"

"Fine, fix your own damn computer," she put the Model 7 back into her shirt pocket. "I don't really care about dying anyway."

Krey rolled his eyes; he knew that she was not as indifferent about dying as she tried to portray, "OK, what kind of deal?"

"If I can patch this system together and achieve a course change..." She paused for effect. "...Then you have to agree not to drink any beer for the remainder of the trip."

Krey let out a sigh of disgust. "Alright!" he snapped, "Quit screwing around and get this thing fixed before it's too late."

Cassie's triumphant smile grew to near-biblical proportions, "Ay-eye, captain." She gave him a mocking salute, then reached into her pocket for the Model 7.

All was quiet in the disaster shelter as Fenton carefully scrutinized the burnt latch on the nuclear-hardened hatch. Chellaina was standing nearby; she maintained her balance by supporting herself with a hand pressed against the cracked, dilapidated wall. She anxiously waited and watched as The General diligently studied the latch.

"Hmm..." The General shifted positions and closed one eye as he tried to get a better look deep inside the narrow crack between the handle and the nuclear-hardened hatch. The disaster shelter was deathly silent for some time, then The General glanced up at his wife. "You say that sparks came out of this crack?"

Chellaina nodded, "Yes—it was scary."

Fenton returned his attention to the latch.

"Did they almost cut through, Fenny?"

Fenton did not reply as he examined the latch. After struggling to learn the secrets hidden deep within the crack, he rose to a standing position, then shook his head.

"I don't think they were trying to cut through—it looks like they deliberately sealed us in."

"What do you mean?"

"The latch is fused; all the moving parts are melted together." He shook his head to emphasize his point, "We can't open the door—the bolt is welded in place."

"What will we do?"

"I don't know." The General turned his attention to other components of the door. He began to examine the hinges, the nuclear-hardened frame, and the surrounding concrete. "We have explosives, but we don't dare use them in here—it would bring the ceiling down."

"You have a laser rifle," Chellaina suggested, "You could cut through it."

The General shook his head, "I could maybe cut a few small holes in it, but there wouldn't be enough in the laser's power pack to cut a hole big enough to do any good."

The General brought an uneasy hand up to his mouth as he thought about the problem. After studying the problem for some time, he reluctantly shook his head, then looked to Chellaina.

"I don't think we can get out this way." He walked over to Chellaina then offered her a hand, "Let's see if we can raise anyone on the radio."

Chellaina appeared to be somewhat uneasy as The General started to help her toward he life support unit, "But, what if we get those things with the strange voices?"

The General shook his head, "I don't know... We have to do something."

Chellaina thought about The General's words as they slowly made their way toward the life support unit through the clutter of debris. She tried to look at their problem as optimistically as possible, "Maybe we can get our friends at Elderly Support Services on the radio—they would come and help us."

The General nodded, though his expression didn't display a vast degree of hope, "Maybe."

class="ChapterHeading">Chapter 13, Certified Genius

The huge, crumbling Star Saber continued on its wayward course for the middle of nowhere. Krey nervously glanced out the forward windows at Capella; it had already drifted another four degrees to the left. He knew that they had to make a course correction soon, or face a slow, horrifying death in the empty void of space. That thought continued to torment him as he returned his attention to Cassie and her efforts to fix the flight controls.

Cassie had already connected her Model 7 to the ship's console and was busy entering a series of commands in order to determine the extent of the damage caused by the time wake. Krey struggled to see over her shoulder as he impatiently waited for the results. They were both well aware of what was at stake.

"Can you do anything for it?" Krey asked anxiously.

"Quiet."

The bridge returned to silence, except for the sound of clicking key switches as Cassie continued working on the intricate system. The computer console displayed screen after screen of complex computer codes, each of which were virtually Greek to Krey. After a moment or two of pressing keys, Cassie paused to study the screen.

"Well?"

"Shut up. Let me think."

Cassie examined the data on the screen for some time, then resumed the task of entering commands at the keyboard. She worked at a hurried pace, though it was not quite hurried enough for Krey's liking; he let out a disgruntled moan as he impatiently waited for a verdict.

After entering a lengthy series of commands into the keyboard, Cassie, once again, paused to study the intricate data displayed on the screen. She brought her hand up to her mouth as her eyes scrutinized the codes.

"Hmm..."

"Hmm?" Krey asked, "What do you mean, Hmm?"

Cassie did not reply. She studied the screen for some time, nodded, then resumed work at the keyboard.

Krey took note of Cassie's nod; a relieved smile came to his face, which was brought on by the assumption that she could do something to remedy their dilemma.

"What do you see?" Krey asked. "Something good?"

"Nope, bad."

Krey's smile immediately diminished to worry. He wrinkled his brow in confusion, "Then, why were you nodding?"

"Because you were right."

Krey's look of confusion deepened, "I was right? Right about what?"

Cassie finished entering a series of commands before replying, "The computer link between the flight controls and the time distortion engine is shot."

"Can you fix it?"

Cassie shook her head, "Not without proper tools, software, spare parts, and about five days without some idiot asking me stupid questions every two minutes."

"Then, we're screwed?"

"Not yet."

Krey was clearly having problems following the conversation, "But, I thought you said you couldn't fix it."

Cassie slammed a frustrated hand down on the console, "I can't! Will you shut up for just two minutes and let me finish!"

Krey nervously settled back as Cassie resumed her efforts at the console.

Again, Cassie entered a lengthy series of commands at the keyboard. When she was finished, she sat back to study the complex matrix of codes.

"Hmm..."

"Will you knock it off and tell me what's going on here?" Krey lurched from his seat and pulled his flight harness taut as he struggled to get a descent view of the screen—as if he hoped to spot the encrypted message somewhere in the tangled matrix of codes.

Cassie let out a sigh of disgust, "OK—if you must know. The computer link between the flight controls and engine is burnt-out; it apparently took out the stick interface with it."

"I see."

"I doubt it." Cassie paused long enough for her comment to sink in. "Anyway, as near as I can tell, the computer link severed communications with the engine interface."

"That's bad, huh?"

"No, it's good."

"Good?"

"Yes, it means that the communication lines to the engine are unhampered and available; I might be able to use the Model 7 to tell the engine what to do with itself."

"You can!?"

"I don't know!!" Cassie retorted, "I haven't tested the engine interface yet!"

Krey lowered his brow, "Well, what's the hold-up?"

Cassie let out a sigh of disgust, "Some idiot with a big mouth—that's the hold-up!"

"Oh."

"Now, sit back—shut up—and let me finish!"

Krey reluctantly settled back in his chair as he anxiously waited for Cassie to resume her work; Cassie waited until she was certain that she could continue without interruption. Satisfied that Krey was going to keep his mouth shut, at least for the moment, she resumed her task of testing the engine interface.

Krey nervously stirred in his seat like a kid waiting to have a tooth pulled. His anxiety grew with each and every nerve-racking click of the keyboard; would they make it to Theti, or would they drift forever in space? Would the results of the test be life and liberty, or would it be doom and despair? He nervously glanced out the window at Capella, which had moved a few more degrees to the left since the last time he checked it.

Cassie stopped entering commands, then patiently waited for the results to scroll up on the screen. It only took a moment or two for her to spot the specific series of codes that she was looking for.

"Bingo."

"Bingo!!" Krey shouted. Almost immediately, his expression dimmed to something less certain. "Uh, is that good or bad?"

"It's good." Cassie glanced out the forward windows, "What's your guess; eighteen degrees to port?"

Krey looked at their wayward destination, then nodded, "Something like that." He turned to Cassie with hope and anticipation clearly displayed on his face, "Will it work?"

"Hang on." Cassie entered several more commands at the keyboard, then the huge, decaying hull began to creek and moan under the strain of an asymmetrical time distortion. The Star Saber was essentially falling to the left as it began to make a huge arc in space. Krey and Cassie swayed to the right somewhat, though the reaction was due solely to the hull's rotation; the hard inertia of the course change was virtually negated by the time distortion, which pulled evenly on every molecule of the ship.

Krey watched with excitement as the stars slowly began to move to the right; he held up a triumphant fist, "Perfect!"

Cassie also wore a proud smile as she watched the star field shift across the windows. The leftward rotation of the craft continued for some time, then gradually began to settle as Capella edged closer to its appropriate position of seven and a half degrees to the right of the nose. Finally, the creaking and the leftward rotation of the ship came to a halt as their destination, once again, rested in its proper position.

Krey was pleased with the course correction; he could have hardly done better himself using the controls—if they would have been working. He looked at Cassie, who was still gazing out the window with a triumphant smile beaming on her face. He reached over and offered congratulations in the form of a pat on the shoulder, "Good job, Cassie—you saved our lives!"

Cassie's proud smile grew, "Thanks—it was nothing."

"Where did you learn how to do that kind of stuff? Do you have a master's degree in computers or something?"

Cassie's proud smile suddenly diminished to an eerie uneasiness as her paranoia of losing her secret began to creep up on her. Her initial fear was unfounded; Krey would have accepted any answer without question, and had no idea that a condition such as Tripolean Syndrome even existed. However, Cassie's sudden change in mood alerted him to the fact that something was amiss. Krey's expression changed to something that resembled intrigue; Cassie's expression grew more uneasy.

The awkward silence persisted for some time, then Cassie finally shrugged her shoulders in an attempt to shirk off any suspicion about being a genius, "I just read books n' stuff about computers."

She turned her attention to the computer console in hopes of thwarting any further conversation.

Krey was noticeably confused as Cassie began entering more commands at the console; he couldn't understand what had caused her to go through such a sudden mood swing. His intent was innocent enough; he only wanted to offer praise and congratulations, the last thing he wanted to do was make her feel uneasy. He thought that he might have inadvertently said something that offended her. There was a lengthy, awkward pause before he finally unfastened his flight harness and approached her seat.

"Is something wrong, Cassie?"

He placed a hand on her shoulder as he tried to find a comfortable position next to her seat.

Cassie shook her head, "No. Nothing's wrong; I'm just testing the rest of the systems on the ship—so we know what works and what doesn't."

"Good idea. Ah—but that wasn't exactly what I meant. I—"

Cassie interrupted, "Are you aware of the fact that the life support system is on it's last legs?"

Krey's expression changed somewhat as his thoughts shifted from Cassie to the ship. He lowered his brow, "It is?"

Cassie nodded, "Yes. The compressor is weak, the photosynthesis chamber is partially clogged, and its computer shows a parity error."

"Will it make it to Theti?"

Cassie shrugged her shoulders, "Maybe."

Krey motioned to the computer screen, "What else doesn't work?"

Cassie was relieved; her attempt to change the subject was beginning to bear fruit. The paranoia of betraying her secret eased somewhat as she turned her attention to the keyboard and the ship's intricate computer architecture. She was pleased to see that Krey had also turned his attention to the computer screen and the secrets hidden among the codes; she knew it would only be a matter of minutes before Krey completely forgot about the fact that his question had brought her distress.

"Apparently, the computer system in this ship is set up as a web of hundreds of individual computers communicating with each other over a network. But most of the computers are either missing, malfunctioning, or unable to communicate with the others."

There was a pause as Cassie entered more commands at the keyboard. Krey watched the screen intently, though he did turn his attention to Cassie from time-to-time to admire her skills.

Krey shook his head, "I can swing a wrench just fine, but when it comes to this kind of shit, I'm lost."

Cassie did her best to keep the discussion focused on RQ-733 and its ailments. "The hydraulic system is leaking out of the gimbals for conventional engine number two. I can close off that part of the system from the keyboard and get the rest of the hydraulic system back in operation."

"Good. Then we should be able to use conventional engine number three when we reach orbit—am I right?"

Cassie nodded. Krey smiled proudly; he figured that out all by himself.

"But," Cassie warned, "The stick interface is still bad; we'd have to fly it using the keyboard."

Krey was noticeably disappointed; flying the ship was his job, and he knew nothing about computers. He realized that his macho pastime of flying the huge hulk would now rest on Cassie's shoulders. He didn't particularly like the idea, but there was little he could do about it. After thinking about it, he decided that it served him right; he shouldn't have been drinking in the first place.

Cassie continued to enter commands at the keyboard as Krey idly watched the endless, mysterious codes slowly crawl up the screen. The dull, boring process continued for some time then, suddenly, Cassie stopped and stared at the screen in disbelief. Her expression gave Krey cause for concern.

"I don't believe it," Cassie muttered.

"What? You don't believe what?"

Cassie chuckled, then entered several more commands. "This is weird."

"What's weird?"

"According to my Model 7, there's another navigation computer on board."

"Can't be," Krey insisted, "I sold it to pay a fine."

Cassie nodded her assurance, "There is! It's a hot spare. I'm going to test it." She wore an ear-to ear smile as she turned her attention to the keyboard. "I don't believe this!"

"What's a hot spare?" Krey asked.

"It's a complete, redundant system that's always up and running, but stays off line—like an emergency spare that can be switched on line in case the main navigation system fails. According to my computer, it's located in an electronic utility area somewhere above the engine room."

Krey shook his head, "Can't be!"

"Strange but true." She paused to look up at the computer screen. "Yup. It's been tracking our position ever since we left the mooring orbit—it has an accurate fix on where we are, and should be fully capable of flying the ship. All I have to do is switch it on line."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Krey said in a skeptical tone.

"Watch this." Cassie entered a few more commands at the keyboard, then a large portion of the dark, dormant displays in front of the pilot's seat suddenly lit-up as the century-old navigation system came on line.

Krey looked at the pilot's console in complete and total awe. A moment or two later, the implications of what Cassie had accomplished finally sank in; RQ-733 could, once again, be flown automatically by computers. Krey quickly moved to the pilot's seat as his astonished eyes wandered over the displays, controls, and indicators that had been dark and dormant for years. A bold grin came to his face, which somewhat resembled the smile of a gladiator at his moment of victory.

"Hot damn! Would you look at this!"

Cassie smiled proudly. "Go ahead," she encouraged, "Try laying in a course."

Krey strapped himself into the pilot's seat, then spent a moment or two reviewing the vast array of controls and indicators, which he had not used in years. He reached up and flipped several switches, then pressed a number of keys on a small keypad. One of the display screens changed to show star charts and commercial shipping routs.

Krey's smile grew, "The charts and everything are still in place!" He examined the display for a moment or two, then began pressing keys on a keypad as he laid in a course for Theti. "You're a genius—a certified genius!"

After Krey finished laying in the course, the huge hull of RQ-733 began to creak and moan as the navigation computers made a minor course adjustment. Krey turned his smile to Cassie, but his smile quickly dimmed when he noticed that his comment had, once again, brought her distress. Krey finally came to the misguided conclusion that, perhaps Cassie had suffered abuse from her peers for being remarkably intelligent, and that she just as soon avoid any confrontations regarding her intellectual abilities.

Krey decided that perhaps it would be best to change the subject. After all, he was grateful that Cassie had managed to save them from a slow death in space, and the last thing he wanted to do was bring her undue distress for having the ability to rescue them.

"Ah—I guess there's not much left to do up here; the ship will fly itself." He glanced down at his newly-found instruments, "We'll be in orbit around Theti in about nine hours." He looked up at Cassie, "Got any ideas on how we could kill that much time?"

Cassie shrugged her shoulders, "We should probably get some sleep before we reach Theti."

Krey nodded.

Cassie still appeared to be somewhat uneasy; she motioned toward the computer console. "Um—I have a puzzle in my computer that I might work on for a while before I go to bed."

Again, Krey nodded. He pointed toward the rear of the bridge, "OK. I'll probably stretch out on the bunk and read a comic."

They affirmed each other's plans with a short, awkward round of head nodding, then Krey unfastened his flight harness and started for the rear of the bridge.

Cassie waited until Krey was several feet down the rope before she turned her attention to the computer console. She began by entering a series of commands into her Model 7 to call up a copy of the strange software implant, which she had discovered in the UN mainframe just before they left Unli. The implant came to mind when she was working with the Model 7 to effect a course change; once it was brought to mind, it rekindled her curiosity about who might have installed the implant, and why.

Cassie had spent several hours studying and analyzing the strange implant. Some segments of the code used standard techniques to manipulate the powerful mainframe, while other segments were clearly unorthodox. She noticed that most of the implant centered around collecting data, rather than manipulating data, which led Cassie to believe that the purpose of the implant was predominately espionage.

There were, however, several aspects of the implant that continued to puzzle Cassie. One of which was the text tables that were used to generate messages; the text contained in the tables was not in English, nor was it any other language that Cassie could readily recognize. Another point that puzzled Cassie was communication; if the implant was for espionage, how was it relaying the pilfered data to its author? She found no evidence of any standard communications techniques, nor was the pilfered data stored anywhere for subsequent retrieval by its author. Instead, the pilfered data seemed to be channeled into a strange routine, which did some kind of elaborate data conversion, as if it were being prepared for transmission, but no transmission seemed to be taking place. The mystery routine was terminated in a dead-end—it made no sense.

Cassie rubbed her tired eyes, then shut off the computer as she settled back in the copilot's seat. She still did not know who created the implant, or how the implant was communicating with its author. Cassie had managed to analyze, re-route, and reconfigure the Star Saber's entire elaborate computer network in fifteen or twenty minutes, yet she could not make sense out of the relatively compact implant that was lurking the UN mainframe. After several lengthy hours of analyzing code, all she was able to determine was that the implant was some kind of espionage tool, and that whoever wrote it was a far greater genius than her. For some reason, that thought frightened her.

Chapter 14, Sea of Destruction

The view from the forward windows of RQ-733 had undergone a marked change during the final hours of that exiled flight; Capella had already grown in size to resemble a full-fledged sun and the shattered world of Theti was just barley visible in the distance. The weary crew, however, did not notice the pronounced change; they had taken advantage of what little idle time remained and bedded down in hopes of getting some sleep before establishing orbit.

For Krey, however, the hope of getting any sleep was quickly eroding as he tossed and turned near the chair he had been tethered to for nearly two hours. There were plenty of reasons for Krey's lack of slumber; the least of which was the fact that Capella was shining through the forward windows like the sun on a hot desert plain.

Krey had planned on looking up his old flame, Delaina, when they reached Theti but, for some reason, he found difficulty getting Cassie out of his mind. He always had respect for those who were privileged enough to think like a genius and, despite her nasty disposition, he found himself being drawn to her. She was a stunning woman, a goddess by some standards, intelligent, independent, and seemed to have at least some appetite for the kind of adventure that he craved.

Krey rolled himself over in hopes of finding a more comfortable position, which proved fruitless since any position in zero gravity was essentially the same as all others. As he struggled to sleep, he thought about the possibility of starting a meaningful relationship with Cassie; it brought a smile to his face. His mood, however, quickly dimmed when he realized that too many harsh words had been traded between them. While it was true that they had become at least somewhat civilized toward each other, there was still the unchangeable past—as well as a substantial gulf between his personality and hers. Despite the obstacles and differences, he still found himself being attracted to her in a rather odd sort of way.

Krey rolled over again, though he somehow knew that it would make little difference to his tired, restless body. On that particular night, he happened to be sober; by bedtime he was usually in a numb, semicomatose state and sleeping was absolutely no problem.

Beer was also on Krey's mind that night. He thought about the time wake and how he had placed their lives in danger by drinking all morning. He thought about the letter from Delaina, he thought about his promise to Cassie—then he thought about the cute, fuzzy badgers printed on each and every canister of Milwaukee Brew. His mouth began to water.

Krey popped up his head and looked over toward the refrigerator. They were in there; at least twenty four of the friendly, smiling badgers; each one of the little beggers had four hundred milliliters of smooth, cool, frosty Milwaukee Brew—just for the taking. Krey licked his lips as he thought about the prospect; what would one lousy beer hurt?

Krey could almost hear the little badgers calling his name, begging him to come and drink their famous Milwaukee Brew. He cautiously glanced over to the bunk; Cassie was sound asleep and had not stirred in hours. He slowly, and quietly, untied his tether, then glanced at Cassie one more time.

Satisfied that Cassie was asleep, and that he could pull this thing off without recourse, he quietly, and carefully, made his way to the rope that lead all the way back to the refrigerator filled with beer, beer, beer. He could almost taste it already; a cool, sudsy `Brew' would cap him off nicely for the night.

Hand over hand, Krey carefully made his way to the refrigerator, pausing every so often to glance at Cassie. True, she was a genius, but Krey was confident that he had the necessary stealth to pull it off; he could grab a beer—maybe two—then drink them without her ever knowing.

When Krey reached the end of the rope, he slowly maneuvered around the refrigerator, being careful to make as little noise as possible. He reached down for the handle of the refrigerator, then cautiously glanced at Cassie; she still had not moved. Krey looked down at the refrigerator, then licked his lips one more time as he thought about the twenty-four dancing, smiling badgers and their cool, frothy Brew.

"Don't even think about it—captain!"

Krey let out a disgruntled moan as he took his hand off of the refrigerator. He glanced at Cassie, who had spoken without moving so much as a muscle, then reluctantly decided that he should honor his original promise; no beer for the remainder of the flight. Disheartened, as well as somewhat disappointed with himself, he reached for the rope then started back to his restless place next to the dilapidated seat.

The dirty, crumbling surroundings of the disaster shelter seemed to fit the failing optimism of Theti's sole survivors. Fenton and Chellaina had spent several persistent hours at the radio in a futile attempt to summon help; the receiver had been equally persistent in remaining silent. It was apparent by their uneasy, worry-filled faces that hopes for a rescue were quickly fading.

Despite their dim view of the future, The General relentlessly continued the futile task of reaching out to no-one. He switched frequencies on the transmitter, then keyed the microphone.

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is General Fenton S. Raver seeking emergency assistance. Is anyone out there? Please respond."

Both Fenton and Chellaina listened carefully to the silent receiver. After fifteen or twenty seconds passed, The General, again, keyed his microphone.

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is—"

He was silenced when Chellaina gently placed her hand on his. The General looked at Chellaina's fragile, uneasy smile, then lowered the microphone.

Chellaina's voice was light and gentle, yet filled with despair, "There's no-one left, Fenny. There's no-one out there to talk to."

The General did his best to sound positive and assuring for Chellaina's sake, though he too was beginning to think that the peaceful world of Theti no longer existed.

"Now—we don't know that for sure, Chelly."

Chellaina's gentle, convincing tone persisted, "Try again later, Fenny. Please."

The General reluctantly nodded, then stowed the microphone in its proper place at the equipment's control panel. After drawing a heavy breath, he turned to Chellaina; a look of distress was clearly evident on his face.

"I've been trying to put this together..." He shook his head, "I can't figure out what happened."

Chellaina shared The General's look of concern, "Maybe there's a war going on. Maybe you were right and the security council was wrong. Maybe the UN should have rebuilt the Space Force."

The General shook his head, "Even if there was a war, this mess still doesn't make sense." He gestured toward the crumbling ruins of the surrounding disaster shelter. "This kind of damage could only be caused by a direct nuclear hit, or maybe by a large spacecraft cratering into our back yard—but that would only explain the destruction here." He gestured with the fingertips of his open palms pointing toward the floor.

"What do you mean, Fenny?" There was an uneasy pause as Chellaina's eyes swept across the floor. She looked up at The General, "Do you think other places on Theti were hit?"

The General reinforced his position with a slow, shallow nod.

"Why?"

"Because there should be some kind of reply from the radio; if not from the ground, then at least from space."

"Hmm..." The disturbing look on Chellaina's face deepened.

The General continued, "Even if the whole planet were somehow destroyed, there should still be orbiting spacecraft."

"Maybe it was antimatter," Chellaina suggested, "that could destroy a planet and everything in orbit."

The General shook his head, "Then we wouldn't be here—we would have been annihilated into energy. The planet still has to be in one piece; if we were somehow surviving on a fragment of Theti, then we would have felt a change in gravity."

Chellaina nodded in agreement; The General continued, "What bothers me more than that is the fact that we're going on our fourth day... Where is the rest of the realm? Why haven't emergency vessels and rescue ships converged on Theti?"

Chellaina's eyes widened with fear as a terrifying thought came to mind, "Are you saying that the whole realm might be gone?"

The General shook his head, "I don't see how." He let out a sigh of despair, "It just doesn't make any sense at all."

It had been an extremely restless night for Krey. After tossing and turning for hours, he finally decided to get up and watch the approach to Theti from the comfort of the pilot's seat. He had never been to Theti before and had never seen it first hand, though the dismal, brown world certainly didn't live up to pictures he had seen of it in various magazines and news reports. He was surprised by how deceiving pictures could be.

Krey glanced down at the instruments and noticed that they had something on the order of fifteen minutes before the ship's computers would automatically bring the Star Saber out of the time continuum and establish an orbit around Theti. He thought that it would be prudent to wake Cassie up before the transition—just in case a mishap were to occur. He had already heard her stirring about at the rear of the bridge and decided that now was as good a time as any to wake her.

"Cassie!"

He waited, but there was no reply.

"Cassie! We'll be in orbit soon."

Again, there was no reply. Krey simply assumed that Cassie was still asleep. He unbuckled his flight harness, then started down the rope that led to the rear of the bridge.

As Krey approached the makeshift bunk, he realized that Cassie was not in bed. He stopped, then carefully looked around the bridge.

"Cassie!"

After some searching, he spotted her near the rear of the bridge; she was not moving and almost appeared to be in some kind of trance or hypnotic state. She hovered motionless near the refrigerator with her eyes gazing at an arbitrary point on the wall. Krey immediately realized that something was amiss; he hurried down the rope.

"Cassie!"

When Krey reached the refrigerator, Cassie slowly held up a hand to stop his advance. A look of confusion came over him.

"What's wrong, Cassie?"

Cassie's response was given in a cold, frightened whisper.

"Look."

An uneasiness crept over Krey as he turned his eyes in the direction that Cassie was looking. He carefully studied the wall that her eyes seemed to be fixed on, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"What?" he whispered.

"Don't you see it?"

Again, Krey turned his eyes to the wall; after a moment or two, they widened with disbelief.

"What is it?" he whispered.

There, clinging to the wall by an air duct, was a World War Five carnivorous robotic insect. It was only about two inches long and hardly more than an inch wide, but it looked formidable never-the-less. It was a shiny, metallic black with an overall appearance of a large ant. It was supported by six needle-like legs, each of which terminated in miniature grippers, and its head was dominated by a large pair of shear-like mandibles. In between the mandibles was a retractable, conical-shaped auger, which was specifically designed to bore through human flesh. It sat motionless, for the most part, moving only its antennas and occasionally refocusing its miniature cameras as it studied the leery onlookers.

"Its a carnivorous robotic insect," Cassie's whisper was marred by shear terror.

"A what-the-hell?"

"Sh..." Cassie begged, "It sees us." She carefully reached for Krey, then slowly drew herself toward the protection of his body. Her horrified eyes stayed locked on the micro robot as visions of The General's accounts haunted her imagination. Krey noticed that Cassie was shaking with fear; he didn't know exactly what the device was, or what it was capable of doing, but Cassie's fear of it certainly seemed to creep into him as well.

The leery crew watched the artificial creature in silence for quite some time. At one point it took several steps to the side, which appeared to be for the sole purpose of getting a better vantage point of its potential victims. Then, without warning, the damnable device disappeared down the air duct in the batt of an eye.

Krey and Cassie could hear the robot's tiny legs scurrying down the vast network of air passages as it retreated deep into the bowels of the ship. They just drifted there in place, staring at the air duct until well after the metallic echo of its scurrying feet diminished to nothing.

Krey's voice was marred by concern, or perhaps even alarm, "What the hell was that?"

Cassie swallowed hard, "Its a carnivorous robotic insect."

"Never heard of it."

"It's a World War Five weapon. Those robots were designed to kill people by boring through them."

Krey cringed at the thought. "What do you mean, `Bore through them'?"

Cassie never took her eyes off of the air duct; her voice was clearly shaken, "It was a weapon planted by the opposition. Those retched things would case the crew—they'd hide in boots, helmets, under toilet seats—anywhere where they could find an opportunity to penetrate a body. They'd bore through one side of a person, come out the other, then disappear down the plumbing and wait for a chance to do it all over again."

Krey's uneasy eyes looked up at the air duct, "No shit?"

Cassie nodded; her voice echoed with certainty, "No shit."

"Do you think it knows the war is over?"

Cassie shook her head, "I doubt it—I think it was casing us for a kill."

The vigil at the air duct was suddenly interrupted by a series of beeps coming from the pilot's console. Krey's eyes widened as he recalled the reason that he came to get Cassie in the first place.

"We're ready to establish orbit—we better go up to the front. I want you in the copilot's seat in case something goes wrong."

"What about the insect?"

Krey tossed up his hands in a helpless gesture, "I don't know. I guess we'll just have to deal with it later. Right now, the transition back to the real world is more important."

Cassie nodded, "Good, we'll establish orbit, then take the shuttle down to the planet. I'll go on about my business—and you can worry about what to do with this death trap." She shook her head to emphasize her position, "I don't ever intend to come back on board."

"I was hoping you'd see fit to stay on. Come on, we'll be in orbit soon."

Cassie detected the disappointment in Krey's voice; she watched with intrigue as he turned and started down the rope toward the flight controls. Krey's response made her feel warm inside, as well as somewhat uneasy. She had never allowed herself to get close to anyone, and the thought that someone actually cared about her made her feel like—like a normal woman.

An uneasy thought came to Cassie as she followed behind Krey; could she be missing the golden opportunity of her life? She had read about relationships and whatnot in numerous stolen romance novels, and often wished that she could pursue such a relationship. True, Krey was a little on the dense side, somewhat irresponsible, arrogant—but he had several good points as well. He always managed to keep a cool head during an emergency, he was resourceful, bold, good-looking, and—most importantly—he seemed to move her in some kind of way that she just couldn't describe.

Still, there was her secret of Tripolean Syndrome to protect; any kind of relationship was just simply out of the question. Cassie let out a distant, disheartened sigh as she realized that it would be best to stick to her original plan; there would be no romance for Cassella R. Hempton. Besides, she was not about to stay any longer than necessary in a ship with a man-eating robot at large.

When Krey reached the end of the rope, he quickly positioned himself in the pilot's seat, then strapped himself in; his voice still reflected his disappointment as he glanced down at the instruments.

"Good—still have three minutes left before the transition."

Cassie was immediately behind him. A disturbing look came to her face as she studied the dull, brown planet looming ominously in the distance, "That's not Theti!"

Krey looked up at the planet, "It's not?" He glanced down at his instruments, "The computer thinks it is."

Cassie shook her head as she positioned herself in the copilot's seat, "No, Theti is green."

"Green?"

Cassie nodded as she strapped herself in, "Yes, green. I've been to Theti, and that's not it."

"Well, we can't be too far off," he pointed to Capella, "That's definitely Capella."

Cassie nodded in agreement, "Yes... The computer must have locked on to the wrong planet." There was an uneasy pause as she studied the situation, "But—the distance from Capella seems about right for Theti."

The discussion was interrupted by a series of beeps from the pilot's console. Krey looked down at his instruments, "Too late to do anything about it now—hang on!"

The Star Saber's ancient, dilapidated hull began to creak and moan as the time distortion engines started to wind down. The eerie creaking of the hull escalated, then a low, hollow rumble set in as the distortion around the Star Saber began to loosen. Krey and Cassie anxiously watched the dense star field beyond the forward windows as, second by second, the stars appeared to move farther and farther into the distance.

"Any odds on whether or not she'll break-up?" Krey shouted.

Cassie did not reply; she just clutched the armrests and anxiously waited for RQ-733 to finish its transition back to the real world. Her fear began to ease somewhat as the universe appeared to return to its proper size. Gradually, the expansion began to slow, the rumbling stopped, then the shifting, moaning hull began to settle down.

High above the dismal brown world, among scattered ruins of satellites and smashed remnants of space vehicles, was the hazy, ghosty image of the mighty Star Saber. The image became clearer and more pronounced as the ship gradually left the time continuum and slowly materialized in the real world. Within seconds, the infamous RQ-733 was once again solid and real as it entered a lop-sided orbit around the shattered ruins of Theti.

Cassie let out a sigh of relief as she relaxed her grip on the armrests. She looked to Krey, "Any damage?"

Krey glanced up at the overhead panel, "No... Not yet anyway."

"Good—let's leave before the insect comes back."

Krey turned his attention to the forward windows, then a sudden look of horror swept across his face.

"What the hell!?"

Cassie also turned her attention to the terrifying sight. There, drifting dangerously close to the Star Saber, was the partial remains of a large spaceliner. The spaceliner appeared to have been torn in half; several lifeless bodies were still strapped to its seats and various pieces of cadavers and luggage drifted aimlessly in the hollow, empty shell of its hull. It was surrounded by a drifting collection of tattered metal, fluids that had collected into several large balls, and various pieces of human bodies, which were frozen in the empty vacuum of space.

There was a cold, ominous tone to Krey's voice, "My God!"

Cassie shook her head as tears clouded her eyes, "I don't like this!"

Krey's horrified eyes frantically surveyed the darkness above the planet, "Look! There's more." He pointed off into the distance where another large, crippled spacecraft drifted aimlessly among the ruins, which littered various orbits, "And there too!"

Cassie struggled to get a good look at the planet's surface, "Maybe this is Theti." She shook her head, "I can't tell for sure. I don't like this Krey—I want to leave!"

"What the hell happened here?" Krey's voice was shaken as his nervous eyes surveyed the drifting sea of destruction. "Is everyone dead?"

Their attention was drawn from the atrocities beyond the forward windows when an alarm and flashing light came to life on the infamous overhead panel. Krey looked up at the panel in disgust, "Now what!"

"Where's the damage this time?"

"Hold on..." Krey studied the panel's indication, then wrinkled his brow in confusion. "No damage..." He pressed several keys on the panel's keypad, then his eyes widened with surprise, "We're receiving an emergency beacon!"

"What?" There was a slight pause, then Cassie quickly turned her attention to the computer keyboard and began entering commands. After a moment or two, she glanced up at the screen, "It's being generated by a piece of World War Five equipment!"

"World War Five equipment? That's odd. Is it an automatic signal?"

"Just a minute..." Cassie entered several more commands at the keyboard, then drew an excited breath, "No, it was manually activated." She turned to Krey, "There's survivors down there!"

Chapter 15, Clearance for a Kill

The General and Chellaina were losing hope in the dingy prison that, as they believed, would soon become their grave. They had been talking of their glory of the past, the fruitful life they had lead, and the beautiful world that Theti once was. As the dark hours passed, the conversation turned to the larger subject of the human realm and what might have become of it.

The General sadly shook his head as his eyes gazed at nothing in particular, "What became of the realm I saved so long ago?"

"We don't know that the whole realm is gone." Chellaina tried to sound as convincing as possible.

"I know," The General admitted, "I hope not. Not for me—I lived my life—but for the young, spiky people, who haven't had a chance to make their marks in the realm yet. They're the ones who inherit the realm."

The General turned to his wife, "I can't save the realm again, Chelly. I'm too old. Hell, someone has to come and save us." He returned his gaze to the crumbling concrete wall, "Saving the realm is for the young and spiky—it's their job—it's their realm. Old people like us, well, we aren't of much use—we just sit back and watch."

"Now, Fenny," Chellaina's voice was clearly scolding, "You remember what our friends at Elderly Support Services said about that kind of talk."

Before Fenton had a chance to reply, a third voice entered the conversation; it came from the receiver.

"This is Krey Altson, tail number RQ-733, responding to an emergency beacon. Is anyone down there? Over."

The General turned toward the emergency equipment, "Did he say `RQ-733'?"

Chellaina's voice was somewhat hesitant, "I think so."

The General shook his head in doubt, "Couldn't be."

"This is Krey Altson, tail number RQ-733 responding to your emergency signal. Is anyone still alive? Please respond."

Suddenly, The General realized the seriousness of the opportunity at hand. He struggled to gain his feet, then hurried to the emergency radio as fast as his aging body would allow.

Aboard the Star Saber, Krey keyed his microphone as he made one last attempt to contact survivors at the other end of the emergency beacon.

"This is Krey Altson, tail number RQ-733, responding to your emergency transmission. Is anyone there?"

He waited a moment or two for a reply, then shook his head.

"I don't think there's anyone left."

Cassie nodded in agreement, "Let's get out of here." She looked out the forward windows at the vast destruction surrounding Theti, "This place gives me the creeps."

Suddenly, an elderly man's voice came through an overhead speaker.

"This is General Fenton S. Raver of the United Nations Space Force..." There was a lengthy, awkward pause of nothing but dead carrier. "...What did you say your tail number was, Mister Altson?"

An uneasy look crept over Krey's face; he knew that RQ-733 had a bad reputation on Earth and its moon, but he hardly expected that reputation to be as far-reaching as Theti. The fact that the survivor claimed to be a representative of the United Nations was also somewhat unsettling; they were still in possession of a stolen UN service tug.

The sound of The General's voice brought a completely different mood to Cassie. She recognized the name and quickly associated it with the bold, gallant hero, who she had been reading about in the pilfered diary. A look of delight came over her when she realized that she might be able to meet this daring, valiant knight in his spotless, shining armor as he passed through on his way to yet another victory. In her mind's eye, she could already see The General righting the horrifying atrocity that loomed over Theti like a death shroud. The evil-doers would soon meet their match; The General would surly crush them at the point of his mighty lance.

"Are you there, Mister Altson?"

Krey looked to Cassie, "What do we do now? We got a UN representative on the radio and a stolen service tug in the drone bay." He shook his head emphatically; his voice approached alarm, "We're screwed—your stolen tug is going to cook our goose! Their going to haul us off and lock us away for—"

"Don't get excited!" Cassie snapped. "You don't even know who you're talking to—he's not a UN representative."

"He is so!" Krey argued, "He's commander somebody-or-other of the United Nations—he said so!"

Cassie rolled her eyes and shook her head, "He said he was General Fenton S. Raver of the United Nations Space Force."

"Mister Altson!? Are you there RQ-733?"

Krey folded his arms in an arrogant fashion, "Well, it certainly sounds UN-ish to me."

"It's an honorary title, you dip-shit! There's no such thing as a United Nations Space Force!"

Krey's look of arrogance quickly diminished, "Oh."

"He's a famous World War Five hero—you know—the statue in the Common."

Krey made a futile attempt at recovering some dignity; he tried to sound nonchalant and educated, "Oh, him."

"Yes, him," Cassie retorted, "And, if I'm not mistaken, he was also the commander of this ship—back during the war."

Krey shook his head in doubt, "Right. The only survivor on this planet just happens to be some old, dusty general who flew this ship."

Cassie let out a futile sigh of disgust, then shook her head.

"We are in need of assistance, RQ-733. For God's sake, please respond!"

Krey picked up the microphone, "My apologies—we had a minor problem to iron out here on the bridge. Ah... you say you require assistance?"

"Yes. We're trapped in a disaster shelter and need someone to get us out. Can you assist us?"

"Us?" Krey asked, "How many are with you?"

"Just my wife and I. Can you help?"

"Standby..."

The dingy disaster shelter was deathly quiet as Fenton and Chellaina waited for a reply. The General wore an anxious smile as he thought about the ship that once took him to victory. He turned his excited smile to Chellaina.

"I remember what my ship looked like when it went to salvage," he shook his head, "It wasn't spaceworthy. I bet the UN finally took my advice and refurbished her."

Chellaina skeptically lowered her brow, "Then, why didn't we hear about it?"

"Probably one of those top secret projects—you know."

A look of serious contemplation came over Chellaina as she slowly nodded to the possibility. "Maybe. I saw it when they towed it off. No offense, Fenny, but it was junk; it was full of holes, smoking, warped—"

"That's what I mean," The General interrupted, "They had to refurbish her!" His glowing eyes turned toward the emergency receiver as visions of sparkling Star Sabers danced in his head.

"She's up there, Chelly. During our time of need, she's up there—sparkling like a newborn star. The Sikorsky Star Saber is the most formidable war machine ever built, yet she was best suited for mercy missions. We saved the refugees on Menti, now, a hundred years later, she's here to save the refugees of Theti." His aged, reverent eyes lifted toward the ceiling, as if he could see the mighty Star Saber right through the concrete and dirt that covered their heads. "There's twelve hundred young, spiky warriors up there—the best the United Nations has to offer. The realm is in good hands, Chelly."

He turned to look at his wife, "Thank God the UN saw fit to refurbish her."

"Are you there, General?"

The General frantically grabbed for the microphone, then took a moment to acquire a more authoritative, professional manner of speech.

"Yes, Mister Altson." It was apparent by his assertive tone of voice that he was proud to be speaking to the new commander of RQ-733.

"We're going to send a service tug to pick you and your wife up. Ah... Did you say you were trapped in a disaster shelter?"

"Yes. The latch on the door is fused; it's nuclear-hardened steel, similar to the steel on your hull. Do you have anything that can cut it?"

There was a noticeable delay before Krey replied.

"Yes I do. Ah... How do you know what kind of steel our hull is made of?"

A bold smile came to The General's face as he proudly replied, "I was the commander of RQ-733 during World War Five." He nodded in an assured fashion, "She's a hell of a ship!"

There was a hint of a chuckle preceding Krey's reply, "It's a small realm."

Both Fenton and Chellaina could clearly hear a woman's voice in the background, "Told ya! He's a hero—a certified hero!"

Chellaina smiled and laid a proud hand on The General's shoulder as Krey continued with his transmission.

"Keep this channel open, General. We expect to be at your location within the hour—we'll let you know when we have a positive ETA. Krey Altson, RQ-733, over and out."

Within the span of fifteen or twenty minutes, Krey had carried a rather formidable cutting torch, along with a small collection of tools, to the hatch that led to the leaky service compartment and the stolen UN tug. After a lengthy discussion, the crew agreed that Krey would go down to the planet to free the survivors, while Cassie stayed behind to operate the computers and manage the automated aspects of the flight. Cassie was not the least bit pleased with the prospect of staying behind in a ship with a man-eating robot at large, but she had little choice; Krey's expertise was working with steel, hers was working with computers.

Krey turned his attention to a small control panel, where he pressed several keys on a small keypad. Within seconds, the leaky service compartment began to creek and moan as air hissed in to replace the pressure that had escaped into space through the pesky, persistent leak. A moment or two later, the creaking, grinding bulkheads stopped complaining, then Krey opened the hatch and gathered his equipment.

As Krey pulled his equipment into the service compartment, he could hear the subtle hiss of air as it escaped through the relentless leak. He chuckled at the thought of how it had frightened Cassie when she first came on board; he could only imagine what kind of impression it made. Once he had his equipment inside the service bay, he closed the inward hatch, then turned his attention to the hatch that led to the service tug. The sound of hissing air persisted.

The aged Star Saber had a rather large repertoire of peculiar sounds, all of which Krey was thoroughly familiar with. He had long since become used to the creaking of the hull, the vibrations of the engines, and the hissing of air as it escaped into space; there were few sounds in the Star Saber that worried him—with the exception of one.

Shortly after Krey opened the hatch to the service tug, he distinctly heard the metallic, needle-like clamor of tiny robotic feet as they scurried down an overhead pipe. He had only heard that sound once before; in the bridge when he and Cassie spotted the carnivorous robotic insect. He stopped what he was doing, then his uneasy eyes looked up at the pipe as the scurrying menace hurried off to God-knows-where.

Krey furrowed his brow in confusion; in all the years that he had been in possession of the Star Saber he never heard nor seen any sign of the miniature World War Five weapon. He wondered why it had suddenly become active after such a long period of dormancy, as well as why it was showing up with alarming frequency. Those thoughts continued to haunt him as he resumed the task of loading his equipment into the stolen service tug.

The robotic insect continued down the pipe at an alarming rate; its tiny legs raced along so smoothly and effortlessly that its miniature body almost seemed to float down the 3-inch metal tubing. As it descended deep into the core of the Star Saber, its microscopic cameras scrutinized the walls of the little tunnel in search of any changes that might represent a threat by the opposition. It was cleverly designed and as skilled at defending itself as it was at consuming human life.

Within a matter of seconds, the killer robot reached a junction in the plumbing, where another robotic insect was patiently waiting for its arrival.

The two robotic insects cautiously approached each other as each set of microscopic cameras scrutinized the other. Satisfied that the other appeared to be genuine, they carefully positioned themselves, then established communications over a thin, hair-like laser beam. Once the formality of checking each other's security codes was out of the way, they began to transfer reconnaissance data.

One of the robotic insects reported the time and location where it had seen the male crew member entering the service compartment; the other reported the location and activities of the female crew member. It was the general consensus among the robotic insect population that the female who spent most of her time in the copilot's seat would be an easy and appropriate target; she spent most of her time in the same place, and she seemed to perform most of the mission-essential computer work.

RQ-733 was filled with a vast labyrinth consisting of miles of ductwork, conduits, and tubing—all of which formed an ideal habitat for the tiny artificial creatures. The vicious little robots had the maze of plumbing thoroughly mapped out nearly a century ago and, after emerging from their long period of dormancy, only needed to check for any changes that might have occurred due to age, modification, or battle damage. They had been working tenaciously since they received their electronic wake-up call and most of the preliminary reconnaissance work had already been completed. They had finished the first phase of their operation—and were ready to move on to the next phase.

After a scant three seconds of communications, the insect's lasers went dark, then the tiny robots parted company and proceed on their way. One of them withdrew to the core of the Star Saber, the other started toward the bridge with clearance for a kill.

Krey wore a proud smile as he strapped himself into the pilot's seat of the service tug. The service tug had a more advanced set of controls than his Star Saber, and all of them happened to be in perfect working order; a stark contrast to the controls aboard RQ-733. Since their encounter with the time wake, he had not had the chance to pilot a craft; his duties aboard the Star Saber had become limited to monitoring instruments and sealing leaks. Considering Krey's sense of adventure and interest in space vehicles, it was not surprising that he was anxiously looking forward to the short flight to the planet's surface.

Once Krey had strapped himself in, he donned a pair of headsets, then pressed a button on the control stick to key the transmitter.

"Hello. You there Cassie?"

His reply came over the speaker in his headset.

"This is Cassella Hempton, tail number RQ-733. Damnit, Krey, use proper protocol."

Krey's expression became somewhat indignant, "What for? There's no one out here except for you and me. Besides, I'm not about to transmit this tail number—even if I could remember what it was."

"It's ST-1136."

"Fine," Krey snapped, "Why don't you tell everyone that it's stolen as well! Look, I'm in position—would it be too much trouble to release me?"

His reply came in the form of a heavy metallic click as the Star Saber released the service tug from the docking port.

Krey's voice carried a noticeable degree of irritation, "Thank You!"

"Your ETA is nineteen minutes. Ah, be careful down there, Krey. It could be dangerous, so, no heroics, huh?"

Krey voice became a little more civilized, "Yeah. Krey Altson, ST-1136, over and out."

He shook his head in disbelief, then muttered to himself, "Crazy woman."

Krey flipped several switches on the instrument panel; the attitude engines hissed for a moment or two, then the service tug began to descend from the Star Saber.

He continued to mutter to himself as the service tug dropped away from the Star Saber, "First she gives me a hard time, then she tells me to be careful. What the hell does she want anyway?"

Once the service tug was clear of the Star Saber, Krey grabbed the control stick, then flipped a switch on the instrument panel. His body hit the back of the seat with a thud as the main engines roared to life. He shook his head in disgust, "Women!"

Cassie watched the computer screen for a moment or two to make sure that the tug was on course and that everything was going according to plan. Once she was satisfied that everything was alright, she reached for The General's diary, then shook her head.

"I don't get it," she muttered as she opened the antique, "Try to help him out, show him I care, and he gets bent out of shape."

She let out a sigh of disgust, "Men!"

Chapter 16, Tainted Treasures

The short flight to the planet's surface proved to be far more horrifying than Krey had imagined. He had been looking forward to the opportunity of piloting the late-model craft, but that simple pleasure was over-shadowed by the cold, eerie sights of Theti's demise. He saw numerous spaceliners and space busses that had been ripped open with their precious cargos of passengers spilled to the inhospitable rigors of space. Bodies of men, women, children, young, and old, floated aimlessly in the cold, empty darkness among crushed, scattered ruins of human-built devices. Death and destruction was so vast and widespread that Krey almost felt like a heartless intruder who was maliciously trespassing on the most sacred of graves. The silent, nameless souls that surrounded him relentlessly etched at his sanity; he felt great contempt for whatever hand had forged such despair, as well as overwhelming pity for those who had met their untimely demise.

Krey did not have a chance to think about personal matters during the rapid-fire events that had taken place since they reached Theti, but that quickly changed during the lonely, desolate flight to the planet's surface. He thought about the letter from Delaina, which had been sent from somewhere on Theti; he knew that she was undoubtedly dead. He wondered about the relationship they started so long ago; he wondered if Delaina might still be alive if he had not driven her to the distant world of Theti with his drinking problem.

For quite some time, Krey wallowed in agony and self-pity as he took it upon himself to shoulder the burden and responsibility for Delaina's death. During the lengthy years that somehow slipped through his hands, he nurtured the misguided notion that when he quit drinking, he would look-up Delaina—and she would be waiting for him with a bright, cheerful smile. A tear formed in his eye as he thought about the irresponsible stupidity of such a notion. At the age of 24, Krey finally realized that people can't be shelved like a canister of beer, then taken down later when the whim suits him.

Krey was extremely hard on himself as he thought about the kind of person he had become, or at least the kind of person that he saw himself as in the wake of Delaina's demise. He realized that he had been extremely irresponsible in the past—and he was determined not to let that irresponsibility haunt him into the future. He was, after all, the captain and commander of the only space vehicle above a devastated world in dire need; he had to be responsible. That thought haunted him, and frightened him, as he flew the lonely service tug through the empty sea of drifting dead.

The bridge of the Star Saber had also taken on a lonely, eerie stillness in the shadow of the drifting dead. Cassie was sitting in the copilot's seat, in order to monitor the computer console, though she did her best to ignore the atrocities beyond the forward windows by focusing her attention on The General's diary. She finally had ample opportunity to read the treasured antique, and was hoping to finish it before the World War Five hero came on board.

Page by page, Cassie followed the gruesome battle and the hero who fought against insurmountable odds in an effort to push the war to a clear and decisive conclusion:

No commander in human history could have directed a finer breed of men and women than this hallowed crew of RQ-733. They fight tenaciously, with no regard for their own lives or safety in their effort to free the human realm from the Forth Order's cruel concept of redemption by death for non-believers. A crew like this brings a commander great pride, as well as great pain.

Case in point: Today I received a report that someone in the starboard gunnery section had actually managed to destroy a carnivorous robotic insect, and that there might be enough remnants of the damnable thing left to analyze. For a fleeting moment, we had hopes of mounting an offensive against the insect population, though that hope was fleeting at best.

The report also mentioned an associated injury to the soldier who stopped the robotic insect, and that the soldier was requesting relief in order to seek medical attention. I checked the command console and noticed that the starboard particle beam was not dispatching its ordinance at the usual rate; it was sporadic and intermittent. I felt incredibly proud of this unnamed soldier who refused to leave the gun without relief—I wanted to meet him myself. I pulled a man off of the navigation station to relieve the soldier, then the two of us headed for the starboard gun.

I remember my words clearly; I foolishly said, `I'm going to pin a metal on that man's chest'. When we reached the gun, I discovered that `that man' was actually a woman—a heroin and a soldier of the absolute highest caliber. Her right leg was severed just above the knee; she was bleeding, weak, and barely conscious—yet she continued to dispatch her ordinances. There are few sights that will bring tears to eyes that have seen nothing but death and destruction, but the sight of Sgt. Alice Hollerman clinging to her post at the edge of death certainly brought tears to mine.

As we took Sgt. Hollerman from her gun, we learned that a carnivorous robotic insect entered her right shin; she intercepted the insect somewhere about the thigh with a large caliber sidearm, which completely dismembered the limb. She tied off the wound, called for help on the ship's intercom, then faithfully returned to her gun.

Sgt. Alice Hollerman died in my arms on the way to the medical section; I felt so helpless and weak in the shadow of such a courageous soldier. Her last words were, "At least I can be judged by the God of my choosing." If this diary survives me, I want it known that Sgt. Alice Hollerman should be awarded the highest honor that the UN has to offer; she has my full recommendation for the United Nations Metal of Heroics and Valor.

I pray that God smiles on these brave men and women on their journey to the hereafter. They have stood their ground to the death, fighting for nothing more than each other's right to worship whichever God they honor. They are much more than damn-good soldiers—they are saints.

Tears filled Cassie's eyes as she looked up from the reverently aged pages. She glanced out the forward windows at the drifting wreckage and silent bodies looming ominously in the distance. She thought of how the sight was so uncannily similar to the scenes The General had described in his diary. She was somehow certain that, once again, The General would right the horrible wrongs that had been committed against his precious human realm.

She turned the page, then continued with The General's account.

Casualties were extremely high again today; we lost 124 men and women when the Phantom struck the mess hall. The damnable vessel appeared not more than fifty yards from the hull just outside the mess hall at the peak of morning chow. It would seem that the Phantom not only knows our exact position, but also knows our ship's layout as well as our personnel schedule. Because of this, I am beginning to suspect that a spy is on board, which might also explain how the robotic insects are finding their way onto our ship.

We too have managed to inflict casualties, despite the fact that we had to modify operations; Star Saber's are most effective in tandem, but we've been forced to fight the Forth Order single-handed since RQ-653 went down. Spurred by the anger of the attack on the mess hall, our gunners managed to take out sixteen vessels in a single day, leaving the scales tilted in our favor. As near as we can assess, there are only two Forth Order vessels left; one is an unidentified craft, which is trying to stay hidden on the other side of the planet by maintaining an opposite orbit, the other is the Phantom.

Our munitions experts have deployed several missiles to seek out the vessel on the other side of the planet; it should meet its end within the hour. Destroying the Phantom, however, will not be so simple. We only have a fragment of our original engineering crew, and they are desperately working on the problem of locating the elusive craft that stays hidden in the time continuum. They tell me that they now have a workable theory, but its implementation will take some time. Our original crew of 1,200 has been reduced to 36—we have very little time.

Cassie turned the page, only to find it empty. She flipped through several more blank pages, then came to the realization that she had read The General's last entry.

The General's account of history struck deep into the very core of Cassie's being. She looked out the window at the shattered remains of Theti as thoughts of World War Five haunted her. She somehow wished that she were a part of that great war, yet she was glad that she had been spared the pain, suffering, and death, which had relentlessly plagued the previous crew of that rusted, crumbling Star Saber.

Cassie let out a heavy sigh as she reached for her metal case, which had become the preferred hiding place for the pilfered antique. She slowly opened the case, then carefully placed the diary among its contents.

Normally, Cassie treasured the opportunity to gloat over the toys in her case—but the experience of their long, exiled flight aboard RQ-733 had changed all that. What was once her pride and joy had suddenly become a source of uneasiness and fear; her expression became noticeably troubled and distant as her worried eyes gazed across her tainted treasures.

When Cassie first came aboard RQ-733, she had no idea that the home-made electronic gadgets in her case would have an adverse impact on the overall safety of the dilapidated Star Saber. She didn't realize, until well after the damage was done, that her case—on that particular ship—was very much akin to Pandora's box. She realized that when the case was first opened, several days earlier at the rear of the bridge, she had inadvertently unleashed a menace that might easily seal her fate, as well as anyone else who happened to take refuge aboard the aged Star Saber.

Cassie also realized that, like Pandora's box, she could not right the wrong by simply closing the lid; the damage was done—and it would stay that way. With slow, disheartened movements, she closed her case, though it would do nothing to avert the disaster that might be waiting for them in the days to come.

"This is Krey Altson, tail number ST-1136, are you there Cassie?"

Cassie quickly stowed her case next to the copilot's seat, then picked up the microphone.

"This is Cassella Hempton, tail number RQ-733. Yes, Krey, I'm here."

"I think I'm approaching the landing area but—ah—I'm not sure. Everything's leveled—there's huge, busted trees scattered everywhere like toothpicks. There aren't any landmarks left and the topography doesn't even match the charts in the navigation system. The nav system can't get me any closer than this and I don't have enough fuel to put up a search. Can you direct me to the shelter from your vantage point?"

"I think so. Standby..."

Cassie immediately turned her attention to the computer console, then entered a series of commands to home in on the emergency beacon. Within a matter of seconds, the computer calculated the difference between the tug's position and the emergency beacon. Cassie reached for the microphone as the navigation data scrolled up on the screen.

"It's about three kilometers bearing three-one-four. You should be getting the course information on your command screen."

There was a slight delay preceding Krey's reply.

"Yes. Yes, I have it! I don't know if I'll be able to land—there's busted trees scattered everywhere! I haven't seen anything that looks like a clearing anywhere on the planet! Shit—I don't know what could'ev done this—I ain't seen nothing like it before!"

"You're coming up to your mark, Krey—five seconds."

"I copy. I'm going to do a fly-by. Hold it!... I don't believe it; there's a clearing down there—it's the only one I've seen since I entered the atmosphere."

"Is it big enough to land?"

Again, there was a slight pause before Krey replied.

"I donno—I'm going to circle back. I kind'a doubt it. I don't think I can land this thing without setting all these busted trees on fire."

"Be careful, Krey. Take your time!"

Cassie nervously waited in the empty, creaking hulk as Krey circled back to the landing site. She shuddered to think of what might become of her, should something happen to Krey. Although she was fully capable of flying RQ-733 on her own, Krey's expertise were needed to cope with frequent emergencies as well as the temperamental nature of the aged Star Saber. There was also the matter of the service tug; without it she was trapped in the massive, crumbling death trap until another spacecraft happened along. She knew that chances of such an encounter were remote; the Star Saber and service tug appeared to be the only operating space vehicles in the entire solar system.

"We've got problems, Cassie! I don't think we're alone here!"

Cassie lowered her brow as a look of dread swept across her face, "What are you saying!?"

"I'm approaching the clearing at a hover and, ah... It isn't natural—I think it was built specifically to accommodate a space vehicle."

"Are you sure?"

"Dead certain. It looks like all the trees n' shit have been scrapped aside, and dirt's been piled up around the clearing like a crude blast fence; probably to keep the trees from catching fire. There's burn marks, Cassie—a spacecraft landed here not too long ago."

Cassie's nervous eyes carefully surveyed the distant, drifting wreckage in search of the mysterious vehicle. She kept her eyes focused on the blackness beyond the forward windows as she keyed the microphone.

"How long ago?"

"Don't know. Maybe hours—maybe days."

Cassie's look of confusion deepened, "If it was a rescue mission, why didn't they pick up the survivors?"

"I know," Krey's voice was clearly uneasy, "I don't like it. I'm going in."

"Be careful, Krey. Take a portable with you!"

"Copy. ST-1136 out."

Cassie hung up the microphone, then turned to the computer console with plans to scan the radio frequencies for any activity. She realized that something down at the planet's surface was not exactly kosher; if someone went through the trouble of creating a landing zone, then why didn't they pick up the survivors? As near as she could figure, either something scared the would-be rescuers off, or the landing area was created by the invading force for tactic or strategic purposes. Either way, it meant that the invading force, or a component thereof, might still be looming somewhere among the vast wreckage surrounding Theti.

The clearing that Krey described was indeed an immaculate engineering job. The landing area measured nearly two hundred feet across and was crudely paved with highly compressed dirt. The dirt ridge surrounding the clearing was also tightly packed and nicely angled to deflect any thrust up and away from the endless acres of dried, splintered Bao logs just beyond the landing area.

Some of the hardwood logs that littered Theti's surface were a hardy twenty-five feet in diameter, yet they laid broken and splintered like toothpicks. It was a daunting sight; the crushed remains of that planet-wide forest formed a carpet of debris nearly one hundred feet thick, which disappeared into the flat, distant horizon.

Krey could hardly believe the sight as he carefully lowered the service tug to the surface of the devastated planet. His mouth hung open at a crack as his grief-filled eyes surveyed the unprecedented sight. His voice was marred by a cold, ominous whisper.

"What the hell did this?"

The view of the vast field of destruction was short-lived; the service tug soon settled below the surface of Theti's ruins, and the craft's thrust, which was deflected upward by the dirt ridge, gradually grew in height to obstruct the ungodly sight. A moment or two later, the craft touched the ground, then the engines quickly wound down.

Krey idly sat in the pilot's seat for a brief moment as he thought about the disturbing sights he had seen on the planet's surface, as well as those surrounding Theti. It all seemed too horrifying to be real, yet it was far too vivid to be anything else. He let out an uneasy sigh, then unbuckled his flight harness.

Cassie was still monitoring the radio bands for any signs of communications or telemetry data that might have been transmitted by another ship. She was working diligently at the computer console in the still silence of the creaking wreck, when her eyes suddenly lifted to the sound of a subtle, quiet, unusual-sounding click, which came from somewhere underneath the computer console.

Underneath the console, in the tiny, miniature world of cables, brackets, and tubing, a small World War Five menace waited for an opportunity to carry out its assigned task. A carnivorous robotic insect was perched upside down underneath the console; its tiny legs slowly, and quietly, gained ground millimeter by millimeter as it methodically approached Cassie's unprotected lap.

The artificial creature drew another careful step or two, then opened its mandibles as its tiny cameras sized up the target zone. The robotic insects were well aware of the internal structure of the human being; they knew which parts were soft and fleshy, which parts were protected by bone, as well as where the vital organs were located. They were also aware of the difference between genders as well as how the bone structure and organ placement varied from man to woman.

The particular insect that was stalking Cassie had selected a penetration point somewhere in her lower abdomen just above the bony part of the pelvis. It positioned its mandibles for an attack, then crouched down on all six legs in preparation to make the zero gravity leap into Cassie's body. It hesitated, however, when the target area began to move unexpectedly.

When it became apparent that the victim was getting out of the seat, the robotic insect changed its stance in preparation to withdraw, should retreat become necessary. Suddenly, the insect realized that the victim was lowering herself to inspect the underside of the console; it quickly retreated to the cover of several large computer cables.

A brief instant later, Cassie's face appeared below the console. She carefully scrutinized what little she could see of the numerous nooks and crannies, though she kept her face at a prudent distance.

"I know you're down here—rotten bastard!"

She was not as certain about the facts as her voice portrayed. She was, however, familiar with artificial intelligence techniques and knew that if an insect was lurking about, in all likelihood, it would succumb to her bluff and retreat to analyze the nature of the missed strike. This approach had both advantages and disadvantages; while it was true that it would buy Cassie some time, it would also leave the robotic insects armed with yet another lesson learned—making future attacks more difficult to avoid.

The robotic insect caved in to Cassie's bluff; it slowly, and quietly retreated up the computer cables, then sought refuge inside the console.

A moment or two later, Cassie drew a quick, startled breath as she heard the unmistakable sound of the robot's tiny feet scurrying through an electrical conduit somewhere under the floor. She rose from her position at the console, then sighted down the noise of the retreating robot as it followed the conduit to the rear of the bridge. Cassie's face was filled with shear terror as she listened to the sound of the tiny menace fade somewhere beyond the rear of the bridge; she realized, without any doubt, that the killer robots had singled her out as a target.

Chapter 17, The Bait

The service tug stood motionless in the deathly stillness of the unlikely clearing. The surface of Theti, which was once thriving with the chatter of krellos, birds, and other wildlife, had become so ominously silent that the sound of a single footstep could have been heard for quite some distance. The sun was hot, the skies were clear, and the air hung stagnate and heavy over Theti's endless tons of scattered debris.

The eerie silence was momentarily broken as a cargo door on the side of the service tug swung down to form a loading ramp. Krey stood at the top of the ramp burdened with 125 pounds of assorted equipment. A high-tech torch was perched on his back like a backpack, a large satchel of tools hung from his shoulder, and a small, portable communications device was nervously clenched in his hand.

Krey started down the ramp at a cautious pace until an uncanny, almost apocalyptic feeling slowed him to a dead halt just short of stepping onto the ground. An eerie sense of dread or doom seemed to hang in the muggy, stagnant air of that devastated planet; Krey felt somewhat akin to a fly landing on a web, or like a moth being lured to a flame. His hardy sense of adventure quickly faded as he surveyed the strange, unearthly clearing; it was nothing like what he had expected.

From Krey's new vantage point, he could see that the clearing was far from being a make-shift landing field; it looked more like a major construction project that would have taken a teem of civil engineers months to complete. The ground was smooth like pavement; it appeared to be perfectly level and lacked so much as the tiniest irregularity or depression—despite the fact that another vehicle had already landed there. The dirt ridges surrounding the landing field were also flawlessly uniform and impressively designed; their smooth, 80-foot slopes became progressively steeper toward the top as they approached a near-vertical grade. Krey had serious doubts about being able to climb them—with or without the burden of his equipment. He realized that just beyond those ridges were countless acres of debris stacked to a height of one hundred feet or more; under it, somewhere, was the entrance to the disaster shelter.

With a certain degree of reservation, Krey carefully stepped onto the tightly-compressed dirt of the clearing; it was unnaturally solid, like concrete or asphalt, yet it appeared to be nothing more than native dirt. He kicked at the hard surface several times, but was unable to raise any dust or loosen so much as a single grain. Krey wondered if the slopes that towered around the clearing had been fabricated in the same fashion. He carefully lowered his burden to the ground, then nervously surveyed the surrounding clearing.

It was then that Krey noticed a rectangular, doorway-sized tunnel, which was built into the face of the ridge. Something seemed to be peculiar about the unlikely tunnel; it beckoned like an opened vault—or like an entrance to a roach motel. To Krey, it almost seemed as if it was designed with the specific intent of luring someone in. An uneasiness crept over him when he realized that, like it or not, the tunnel was the only way out of the landing field.

Krey decided to get a closer look at the strange opening from a safe distance. He lifted the portable communications device up to his eye, as if it were a camcorder, then looked into an electronic viewfinder at one end while he pointed the camera lens toward the tunnel. After fiddling around with the controls for a moment or two, he zoomed in on the eerie threshold.

With a much closer perspective, Krey could see that the tunnel was perfectly rectangular with inside surfaces that appeared to be as flat and true as the rest of the clearing. He could also see that the tunnel made a sharp turn to the left somewhere just beyond the opening. The fact that the tunnel didn't appear to be lined with anything led Krey to believe that the ridge, like the landing field, was constructed out of the same tightly compressed dirt as the pavement of the landing field.

Krey drew an uneasy breath as he lowered the portable. He felt as if he had mistakenly landed, in a macabre kind of way, on a strange alien world that had somehow escaped from the pages of a science fiction novel. After a moment or two of hesitation, he did the inevitable; he started walking toward the awaiting tunnel.

The experience of Cassie's close scrape with the robotic insect left her somewhat unwilling to sit at her computer console in a proper, lady-like fashion; she was sitting on the backrest of the copilot's seat as her uneasy eyes gazed at the massive graveyard beyond the forward windows. She thought about the millions annihilated in concentration camps during World War Two and the billions massacred during World War Five; she remembered reading about the horrible atrocities committed during those massacres, and the humanitarian relief efforts that followed.

Cassie realized that the rest of the human realm had probably not yet heard of the massacre at Theti—otherwise the orbits above the planet would have been filled with emergency vehicles. That thought alone grated at her as she idly gazed at the wreckage beyond the windows of the Star Saber; where was the United Nations during this unprecedented time of need?

The more she thought about it, the more it tormented her. Because of her experiences with illegal implants, she had a very accurate picture of how the UN mainframe—as well as the UN itself—responded to emergencies. She wondered how the demise of Theti fell through the mainframe's series of checks and balances. She ran every possible scenario through her head; wouldn't the UN be alerted to the fact that routine transmissions between Theti and the UN were no-longer taking place? What about the lack of space traffic coming from Theti? As far as that went, what about the lack of space traffic going to Theti?

Cassie thought about the circumstances surrounding Theti's demise with unprecedented concentration. How could anyone or anything reap such havoc without raising an eyebrow from the rest of the human civilizations? It seemed impossible and inconceivable; every detail of life was tracked, to one degree or another, by computers of various sorts. No-one could have possibly committed such a heinous act without drawing attention—no matter how diligently they tried to cover it up.

Cassie furrowed her brow as she thought about the problem of covering up an atrocity such as Theti. It seemed impossible on the surface, until she started looking at the problem as if she, herself, were charged with the task of hiding such vast destruction from the rest of the human realm. Almost immediately, she came up with several possibilities.

One of the first thoughts that came to Cassie was the possibility of exploiting her illegal implant in the UN mainframe to divert suspicious information, or to simulate seemingly normal conditions. She took the thought deeper; she realized that she could use her implant to deny clearance for any space vehicles traveling to Theti—based on data that fictitiously paints a picture of congested space routes. Another alternative would be to intercept all space traffic between Theti and the rest of the realm; every flight plan filed, sooner or later, reaches the UN mainframe.

Suddenly, it hit her; before she had ever met Krey, she checked on the status of RQ-733 and discovered that Krey had not filed a flight plan! As a result, neither the UN mainframe, nor any of its illegal implants knew that RQ-733 had departed for Theti. Cassie realized that their haphazard exodus was probably the only flight leaving UN jurisdiction that was not properly reported to the UN mainframe; it was also the only flight to arrive at Theti since its demise. She began to wonder if Krey's irresponsible lack of a flight plan might have actually bought them safe passage to the devastated world of Theti; she wondered if they too would have met their demise along the way if the UN mainframe had known about their flight.

Cassie snapped her head toward her Model 7, which was still plugged into the computer console; it contained a copy of the strange, unrecognizable implant that she stumbled across just before leaving Unli. She realized that the implant could have been used to mask everything from the absence of goods being delivered to and from Theti, to simulating fictitious reports of personal communications. Each and every scenario she came up with could be, to one degree or another, covered-up by her implant—at least for a week or so.

A wild excitement came over Cassie as she turned to the computer, though she prudently kept her legs out from under the console for fear of insects. Within a matter of seconds, she ordered the Model 7 to display a copy of the strange implant, and was just about to begin analysis of its code when, suddenly, the alarm on the overhead panel came to life.

"Now, what?"

Cassie reached up to the overhead panel, then pressed several keys on its keypad in an effort to determine the extent of the malfunction. A moment or two later, Cassie realized what, exactly, had gone wrong; her expression suddenly changed to dread.

"Oh, no!"

Krey had already entered the tunnel and was cautiously making his way through the strange, unearthly passageway. Just as he had expected, the ridge, and the tunnel, had been constructed using the same, compressed dirt technique as the landing field; it was as solid as concrete. The tunnel was also immaculately clean, though it became dark, sinister, and creepy once he passed the first bend just beyond the entrance.

Krey was using the light on the portable's camera like a flashlight as he carefully, and cautiously, edged his way down the long, curved passage. He guessed that he had already walked something on the order of one hundred feet since the first bend, which proved to be the only sharp turn in the tunnel. The rest of the tunnel was bent in a gradual curve, which followed the curvature of the ridge.

It had been quite some time since Krey lost sight of the first bend and, as far as the camera's light would reveal, the curve continued uninterrupted. Krey wondered where it would lead; it certainly didn't loop all the way around in a complete circle because there had been no sign, as yet, that it joined up with the entrance. Besides, what would be the point of building such an elaborate tunnel, only to have it lead to essentially nowhere? Krey's best guess was that it ultimately led to the outside of the ridge, or that it terminated in some kind of a macabre trap.

That thought drove shivers down Krey's spine as he carefully inched his way down the tunnel. Hardly three or four steps later, he came into view of what appeared to be an abrupt dead end. He took several more cautious steps, then stopped to get a better view of the passage ahead by looking through the camera.

The camera on the portable proved to be much more sensitive than his eyes; after zooming in on the dead end, he realized that the tunnel made a sharp, possibly shear drop just before the end. His suspicions of the tunnel terminating in a trap suddenly heightened. He lowered the portable, then carefully continued down the eerie passage.

As Krey approached the end of the tunnel, he realized that it was not a shear drop at all; the compressed, pavement-like floor of the tunnel gave way to a long set of stairs, which led to a stout, nuclear-hardened hatch at the bottom. The staircase and hatch was, by far, much older than the rest of the tunnel, and seemed to have been constructed of more conventional materials, such as concrete and steel.

Krey stood at the top of the stairs as he scrutinized the sight. There was a thin layer of dust on the aged, cracked steps, which was in stark contrast to the immaculate cleanliness of the tunnel. The concrete walls at either side of the staircase were cracked in numerous places, as if they had been under great stress at one time or another. The hatch at the bottom of the stairs also had its share of battle scars; there were several burn marks around the latch, as well as other tooling marks scattered haphazardly across its face. Krey lowered his brow in confusion; could this be the disaster shelter that he was looking for?

As Krey began the slow, cautious descent down the stairs, he noticed a series of strange tracks imprinted in the thick dust. An uneasiness crept over him as he crouched down to examine the unusual imprints. The impressions in the dust were apparently made by some kind of boot, though it was nothing like a boot that could have fit a human foot. The overall length of the Y-shaped track was something on the order of ten inches. The heel area was about two inches wide, which narrowed to less than an inch at the arch, then widened as the track split into two toe-like appendages. One of the toes was noticeably larger than the other, and the overall track had a slight curve which arched away from the smaller toe. He also noticed that each imprint was paired with a similar track of opposite curvature.

"Hmm..."

Krey nervously rose to his feet, then pointed the portable's camera at the unusual imprints. After taking several seconds to record a picture on the portable's videopack, he lowered the camera, then carefully stepped around the tracks as he cautiously resumed his descent to the hatch.

When Krey reached the hatch, he immediately trained his light on the burned latch. A look of confusion came over him as he examined the deep burn marks, which were apparently the result of an extremely hot torch. The burn marks were certainly deep enough that the torch could have cut through the hatch with a little persistence; why didn't they finish the job? Upon closer examination, he realized that the purpose of the cut was to fuse the latch in a closed position. He lowered his brow in confusion, then passed the light over the tooling marks, which were scattered across the face of the hatch. His voice broke in a cold, uneasy whisper.

"My God!"

He came to the sudden realization that the strange tooling marks were not tooling marks at all; they were actually a series of short, worm-like crystals unlike anything he had ever seen. The clear crystals were curved, semicircular shafts, which had been deposited on the hatch in what appeared to be a random fashion. Krey looked across the hatch in disbelief; there were about three dozen of the crystals deposited on the face of the hatch with many of them bridging the gap between the hatch and the frame.

He was just about to reach up and examine one of the crystals when he was suddenly startled.

"This is Cassella Hempton, RQ-733, are you there, Krey?"

Krey nearly jumped out of his skin, then let out a sigh of relief when he realized that the noise was nothing more than Cassie's voice coming in over the portable. He took a moment to gather his composure, then lifted the portable to the side of his head as if it were a walkie-talkie.

"Yeah, I'm here—you scared the crap out of me!"

"We have big problems up here, Krey—you better come back."

"What kind of problems?"

"I just got an alarm on the life support system; it stopped recycling air."

Krey let out a disgruntled moan, "It's probably just clogged. I'll clean it out when I get back." His voice quickly took on a more ominous tone, "This place is weird, Cassie; I'm at the end of a long, dark tunnel, there's all these wormy little crystals hangin' around, and I found a footprint that looks like something out of a monster movie."

He patiently waited for Cassie's reply to his startling news.

"No, it's not clogged! According to the computer the compressor is seized up—you better get up here and fix it!" There was a short, uneasy pause filled with nothing but dead carrier. "What do you mean?... Monsters?"

An uneasy look came over Krey, "Seized up? Shit... I don't know if I can fix it. We don't have a spare compressor and I don't think the one in the service tug will fit."

There was dead silence as Krey concentrated on the compressor problem. He often took great pride in his resourcefulness and ability to fix almost anything under the most adverse conditions, but trying to repair a seize-up compressor without proper parts was like trying to cook without heat.

"Are you still there, Krey?... Where are you?... What do you mean, `wormy little crystals'?"

Krey looked at the hatch; the fittings on it closely resembled the fittings aboard RQ-733. Hope came to his face as he lifted the portable to his ear.

"We might be in luck, Cassie. Did you say the survivor's emergency beacon was a World War Five vintage?"

"It was."

"I think I'm standing right in front of the hatch to their shelter; the fittings on it are just like those on my ship—the same vintage. Chances are that their life support system is also the same vintage—their compressor just might fit!"

"Good—grab it and get up here."

"I can't," Krey retorted, "I've been trying to tell you—something weird is going on here!"

Concern covered The General's face as he nervously listened with his ear against the hatch. Chellaina, as usual, was not far away.

"What are they saying," she whispered.

The General shook his head, "Don't know... Sounds like some kind of argument."

"Are they people like us?"

There was an uneasy pause, "Don't know. I think so... Should I bang on the hatch?"

"No! What if it's them?"

Once again, Krey was using the portable like a camcorder as he sent live pictures of the strange crystals up to Cassie. He had already described the strange nature of the landing field, tunnel, and footprints, and had already presented his theory on what he thought might be going on.

"I think you're right, Krey. It's a trap—and the survivors are the bait."

Krey turned off the camera, then held the portable up to his ear, "Have you seen anything like it before?"

"No. It doesn't look like human technology."

"If not human, then what?"

"I don't know. My guess would be; as soon as you crack one of those crystals—you've stepped on the trip wire."

Krey studied the door for a moment or two. "I might be able to cut around them with a torch."

"I don't know—they might be heat-sensitive. Think about it; they build a convenient landing pad that only allows access to the survivors—if indeed that is their shelter—then they weld the door shut so it can only be opened with a torch. It would seem likely that the crystals are heat-sensitive. That might be why it's at the end of such a long tunnel; to keep the heat of engine thrust off of the crystals when someone lands or takes off."

"What will happen if we deliberately trip this thing? Will the tunnel collapse? Will the tug blow up?"

"Who knows. I doubt that the tunnel will collapse; if so it would have probable already happened... same for the tug. I don't know what will happen if we trip it, but we need that compressor or we're all dead; I'll suffocate up here, the survivors will die in the shelter, and you'll be stranded on a dead star system. Is there any way you could tunnel around the door?"

Krey took a moment to examine one of the devastating cracks in the concrete wall, "No. The concrete looks to be at least a foot thick—probably more. I think the only way in is cutting through the door. Damn thing's built like a vault."

"Listen, Krey, there's basically two ways to steal something from a vault; stealth or brute force. With stealth you can take your time, but you have to know the alarm system in great detail. With brute force you do a crash and dash; have everything ready at the onslaught, smash anything that gets in your way, move quickly, and hope for the best."

Krey's voice was clearly uneasy, "Which method would you recommend?"

"We don't know enough about the crystals to bypass them, which brings us to the problem of the compressor. How long will it take you to remove it?"

The General had been listening to the muffled exchange for quite some time, though he was unable to make out any words through the thick steel hatch.

"They must be people, Fenny, because I could hear those strange voices real loud—not muffled like this."

"Sh..." The General insisted with the wave of a hand. He listened in silence for a moment or two, then a look of disappointment came over him as he moved away from the hatch.

"I think they left." He shook his head to emphasize his point, "I don't hear anything anymore."

There was silence for a moment or two, then the receiver on the life support equipment suddenly came to life.

"This is Cassella Hempton, tail number RQ-733, are you there, General Raver?"

A relieved smile came to The General's face as he hurried to the radio as fast as his aging body would allow. There was clearly a note of pride to his voice as he picked up the microphone and replied, "Yes, RQ-733, we're here."

"We've found your shelter—at least we think so."

The General nodded to Chellaina as he replied, "Yes, we heard your crew outside the hatch."

"Good. Krey went back to the tug to get some tools, he should be returning in ten minutes or so to cut you out of there with a torch—you and your wife should stay away from the hatch."

Chellaina drew a quick, excited breath as a bright, cheerful smile graced her tenderly aged face; tears of joy began to trickle down her cheeks, "We're going to be saved, Fenny!"

The General offered Chellaina a proud, assuring nod, then keyed the microphone, "I knew you would come through for us, RQ-733—you always have before."

"Listen, General, ah... The hatch to your shelter has been booby-trapped; we have no choice—we'll have to cut the trip wire. You and your wife should be ready to move as soon as the hatch opens."

A look of concern dominated The General's face, "Booby trapped? Are we at war or something?"

"We haven't heard any official word on it yet, but it certainly looks that way from here. Also, we're short a compressor for the life support system, so Krey will have to cannibalize yours. Is it accessible?"

"No. It's buried under the rubble—this whole place is just about ready to cave in. We've been using the portable system for air."

"You have a portable life support system!?"

"Yes; nuclear powered, self propelled... It could run a whole ship."

"Perfect! Can you have it ready to move in ten minutes?"

Chapter 18, Sifting Through the Ruins

Krey had wasted no time when he gathered the necessary equipment and hauled it to the shelter at a dead run. By the time he scrambled down the stairs with a 95-pound tri-ox torch on his back and a satchel of tools over his shoulder, he was extremely winded and his legs had begun to ache. As he lowered his burden to the ground, it occurred to him that he probably should have saved a little more of his strength for the getaway; the critical timing would begin as soon as he put the torch to the steel.

Krey took a brief moment to examine the strange worm-like crystals that had been deposited on the door; they still appeared to be intact, though Krey was not entirely sure that they had not yet reacted to his presence. The thought of what might happen when the trap was triggered continued to haunt him. He drew an uneasy breath, then reached for the torch, which was bundled in a pack on the ground.

Krey's tri-ox torch more closely resembled body armor, rather than a torch. The pack basically consisted of two armor shells; one covered the front of the upper torso and head, the other covered the back. Three tanks of liquid fuel were mounted on the back piece of armor, along with the necessary electronics packages, regulators, compressors, and pumps that were needed to support a tri-ox torch.

Krey removed the front piece of armor and a large accessory bag from the bulk of the pack, then set them to the side. The thought of Cassie breathing stale air in the crumbling Star Saber urged him to escalate his pace as he lifted the back piece of armor, along with the bulk of the torch, up to his back. As soon as the torch was properly strapped in place, he paused to catch his breath, then picked up the portable.

"I'm almost ready, Cassie."

It took a moment or two for Cassie to reply.

"This is Cassella Hempton, RQ-733. I talked to The General; he said they have a portable life support system—you don't have to remove the compressor."

A look of disgust came across Krey's face as he looked down at the heavy satchel of tools, which he had just finished hauling to the shelter.

"How portable is it?"

"It's self propelled. The General says it runs on two tracks, like a lunar dozer, and that its controls are similar to the controls on a lunar dozer. Do you know what he's talking about?"

"Yeah—I've run a lunar dozer before. How fast does it go? Does it just creep along or what?"

"I don't know exactly, but The General says it moves faster than them at their age. He says it's big enough for them to ride out on. They'll be ready—all you have to do is get in, then drive the equipment out."

Chellaina steadied herself against the edge of the life support unit as she nervously watched The General struggle to load the life-pack of his pressure suit onto the top of the emergency equipment; her voice appeared to be somewhat uneasy.

"I don't think that's necessary, Fenny. I'm sure they have plenty of pressure suits."

The General nodded as he wrestled with the life-support package, "I know." He was still wearing the bulk of his pressure suit and already had most of the accessories, such as helmet and gloves, secured to the equipment. "This is my uniform—it's the only keepsake I'll have left from the war, once we leave."

There was a pause in the conversation as The General finally managed to position the pack on the equipment. He spoke in somewhat of a disheartened voice as he started to secure the load, "In ten minutes the United Nations is going to come crashing through that door. Whatever we have ready when they break in is all we'll be able to keep. We'll have to abandon everything else. I at least wanted to take my uniform."

Chellaina thought about The General's words for a moment or two.

"Maybe we should take my medical case too."

The General nodded as he finished securing his life-support pack, "I also want to take my laser rifle." He turned, then started for the ruins of the store room at his best possible shuffle.

Krey had already finished donning the body armor, which made him look somewhat like an ill-designed robot resurrected from the dawn of motion pictures. His entire upper torso and head were enclosed in a ridged metal case, which had absolutely no provisions for head movement and was completely void of any windows, viewing lenses, or respiration vents. It was, however, not without character; one day during a drunken stupor, Krey had painted a silly, cross-eyed face with an O-shaped mouth on the front of the head. Sometime later, he had added a bow tie, buttons, and lapels to the front of the torso. He often playfully referred to the dummy-like armor as `Hot Franky'.

The rest of the body armor was a little more movable, though considerably less colorful. The armored sleeves and gloves were equipped with cumbersome, movable joints, which allowed restricted mobility, and a heavy mesh-like metal skirt hung down to just below the knee. Krey lowered himself to somewhat of a squat, kneeling position, which allowed him to protect his legs under the metal skirt, as he hurried to complete the final preparations.

Operating a tri-ox torch was no small job, and one that few could master. Krey, however, had become somewhat of an expert at using the liquid-fueled torch due to frequent repairs on RQ-733. The high-temperature alloy used on Krey's Star Saber was identical to the high-temperature alloy used on the hatch, which required an incredible amount of heat to change its physical characteristics. As a result, a liquid-fueled torch was one of the few tools that could bend, cut, weld, or melt the exotic metal.

A tri-ox torch could cut almost anything—including its own tips. Although the cutting tips were cryogenically cooled, they still had the tendency to melt down at the rate of one every two minutes or so. To remedy that problem, the head of the torch was equipped with a rotary magazine which automatically replaced the cutting tip when directed to do so by the operator.

Krey was inside the armor watching several display screens, which were mounted directly in front of his face in lieu of a window. Two of the screens displayed pictures from the infrared cameras, which were mounted on the armor, while a third screen displayed pictures from a visible-light camera. The forth screen was used to monitor computer data such as fuel pressure, cutting tip temperature, armor temperature, and torch thrust. At that particular moment, Krey was watching the visible light display as he awkwardly struggled to position a semi-robotic brace, which would assist him in holding the tip steady against the thrust of the flame. One end of the brace was attached to the head of the torch, the other was planted firmly against the face of a step.

Once the brace was in place, Krey took a moment to catch his breath, then keyed the armor's transmitter, "I'm ready, Cassie. I'm going to light the torch."

"Good luck. Remember, get in and out as fast as you can."

"No problem. Standby..."

Krey rolled a fresh cutting tip into place, then started the cooling systems for the armor and cutting tip.

Less than a heart-beat later, a small explosion echoed through the tunnel, followed by the fierce roar of a liquid-fueled flame. The entire end of the stairway was immediately engulfed in eye-piercing light as white-hot flames raced across the face of the hatch.

Krey carefully studied the display screens inside the armor as he struggled to hold the tip in place against the thrust of the flame. The infrared displays were his primary concern; they shown how the heat was distributed in the metal, which allowed Krey to maintain optimum flame position for the most expedient cut. Within fifteen to twenty seconds, he could see that molten metal had begun to spatter off the face of the hatch. He knew, from experience, that it would take at least another minute to cut a small hole completely through the hatch; after which, the process would become a little more expedient.

Operating a tri-ox torch required concentration, as well as undivided attention; Krey was too busy with the torch to notice that the strange, worm-like crystals on the face of the hatch had changed to a milky color—and that several of them had already cracked.

Far from the roar of the tri-ox torch, in space high above the opposite side of the devastated planet, an ungodly, ghostly image was beginning to take shape. The cracked crystals had summoned a huge, V-shaped spacecraft, which had begun to drop out of its hiding place somewhere in the time continuum.

As the transition neared its completion, the bleak detail of the unearthly craft became much more apparent. The craft was nearly half the size of RQ-733, sleek, and impressively streamlined. It was bright yellow in color with overall proportions that were similar to those of a large boomerang. The craft was almost completely featureless, with the exception of a large docking fitting at the point of the `V', and several vents or exhaust ports at the ends of the `V'.

The exotic craft was not actually in an orbit; it was expending energy to maintain a rigidly stable position over the planet as the orbiting debris of crushed space vehicles and dead bodies passed by for its inspection. The unidentified vehicle was no stranger to the horrible ruins of Theti, nor was it sympathetic toward the sight; it had been above Theti when the ruins were forged, and had been lurking there ever since the rest of the armada moved on.

Krey had already managed to cut a small starter hole in the hatch, and was beginning to draw the torch around the latch in a tight arc. He had hardly cut more than an inch or so when he noticed that the first tip had already begun to melt. According to the infrared displays, the flame was spreading and the heat being transferred to the steel had become much less concentrated.

Krey muted the deafening roar of the torch, then rolled a fresh cutting tip in place. It was then that he noticed Cassie's panicked voice coming over the radio.

"...the time continuum. Damnit, Krey—answer me!"

Krey keyed his transmitter, "I couldn't her you; the torch was running. What's the problem?" He immediately relit the torch, then pulled the flame back to an idle in hopes of keeping the metal from losing too much of its heat.

"I said; something just dropped out of the time continuum!"

"A rescue ship?"

"No. It's not a conventional ship; it's not in orbit."

Krey lowered his brow in confusion as he tried to maintain some kind of heat on the metal, "What do you mean; `it's not in orbit'?"

"It's expending energy to hover stationary somewhere on the far side of the planet. All the debris is drifting past it, as if it's looking for something. I think it's sifting through the ruins."

"You sure it's not a rescue ship?"

Cassie's voice was firm and assertive, "Positive. I think it's a response to the trip wire."

Krey glanced up at his visible light display, then an eerie chill ran down his spine, "You might be right... Most of the crystals are cracked. Where are you?"

"I just passed over your location. According to my calculations, I should be passing within a thousand meters of the craft in about twenty five minutes."

"What do you think it's looking for?"

Cassie's voice became somewhat indignant, "Me, Stupid!... If you set a trap using survivors as bait, wouldn't you want to take out any orbiting support vehicles before you assaulted the surface?"

There was a short, uneasy pause, "I'll hurry as fast as I can, maybe we can rendezvous before you get there—then we'll make a run for it through the time continuum."

"Not a chance! Even if you took off now, we'd be rendezvousing in plain sight of this thing—who knows what would happen!"

"Hmm... How are you set for air?"

"I've got an hour and a half before I have to start worrying."

Krey noticed that the metal on the hatch had begun to cool more than he would have preferred; he turned up the torch, then shouted, "I have to finish this while it's hot. I can't hear you, but I'm pretty sure you can hear me. RQ-733 looks like junk. Just fire an attitude motor and put it in a slow tumble—like drifting junk..."

An unexpected smile came to Cassie's face as she listened to Krey's idea over the cockpit speaker.

"...Shut down all non-essential systems, and stay away from the glass. There's enough gaping holes in her to look like junk, all you have to do is play the part. In the mean time, figure out what would be the optimum departure time for us, and program the service tug accordingly; we don't want to lift off and spend three orbits trying to catch you. Krey Altson, over and out."

Cassie nodded proudly, then switched off the communications system.

"Sorry I called you stupid."

Cassie turned her attention to the computer console, then quickly entered a series of commands, which were immediately followed by the subtle hiss of an attitude motor. Less than a second later, the huge, dilapidated hull began to creek and moan as the nose of RQ-733 began to slowly pitch downward.

The slow, gentle tumble of the ancient battle cruiser produced a subtle, artificial gravity, which was caused by the constant centrifugal force of the tumbling craft. Cassie had to hold onto the back of the seat in order to keep from drifting into the forward windows, though she still refused to sit with her legs under the console for fear of insects. An optimistic smile came to her face as she looked at the scattered debris rolling pass the forward windows. On that particular occasion, she found the creaking of the hull to be a comforting sound; she knew if this junk-heap didn't pass as space refuse—nothing would.

The inside of the disaster shelter had become extremely hot and uncomfortable as a result of Krey's efforts. The General and Chellaina had taken refuge behind the life-support equipment in hopes of sheltering themselves from the three-foot plume of fire, which had been roaring from the hatch for quite some time.

"Will they be done soon?" Chellaina shouted. Her face was streaked with soot and sweat.

The General nodded his reply, "I think so."

Outside, Krey was still struggling to cut through the nuclear-hardened hatch, and had finally come to within a half-inch or so of completion. He was hoping that he could finish the job without using another tip, but the flame, once again, had begun to spread uncontrollably. Reluctantly, he shut down the torch, then directed the head to change tips.

"Are you there, Cassie?"

He listened to the silent receiver for a moment or two.

"Are you there? Come in RQ-733."

When it became apparent that no reply was forthcoming, he relit the torch, then proceeded with the cut.

The fact that Krey did not get a reply brought great concern; he realized that she was probably just maintaining radio silence, though other possibilities continued to haunt him. During the last quarter-inch of the cut, Krey entertained the possibility that RQ-733 had been destroyed by the rogue ship—and Cassie along with it. He wondered what he would find at the landing field; was the service tug still there, or would he find something far more sinister waiting in its place?

Krey was distracted from his worries when the latch, along with a heavy chunk of metal, fell to the ground with a thud. He immediately shut off the torch, then stowed the head and brace on a hook at the side of his armor. After allowing the metal to cool for just a second or two, he reached for the hatch with an armored glove, then gave it several quick, sharp jerks.

Inside the shelter, The General and Chellaina rose to the unprecedented sound of the hatch swinging open. They anxiously watched as an ominous armor-clad, painted-face figure stepped through the smoldering threshold into the shelter.

Chellaina looked straight into the cross-eyed, awe-filled face of Hot Franky—then began screaming.

"AHHH! IT'S THEM!!... IT'S THEM!!!"

Krey quickly reached for the catch on the side of his armor, then swung the front armor shell to the side where it latched open with a click.

"It's me, Krey! I'm here to rescue you!"

Krey started for the stranded couple at a trot, though his pace was heavily burdened by the weight of the torch and armor on his back.

"Where's your uniform?" The General asked.

Krey ignored the question in the interest of speed; he pointed to the portable life support unit.

"Is this the equipment?"

The General nodded, "I hope you don't mind—we loaded it up with some of our things."

"Get on, hurry!"

"I'll need a leg-up." The General turned toward the equipment, then lifted a boot.

Krey quickly interlocked his fingers, then bent down near The General's boot. With slow, yet persistent movements, The General placed his foot in Krey's hands, then proceeded with the precariously difficult task of climbing onto the top of the life support unit.

There was an unmistakable tone of relief in Chellaina's voice, "Thank you for saving us, young man. We thought we'd never get out of here."

"Don't thank me yet," Krey was helping The General get settled on top of the equipment, "It's still a long way to RQ-733."

The General managed to find a reasonable place to sit, which was somewhere at the front of the equipment with his legs hanging over the edge. Krey immediately turned his attention to Chellaina. Although he was already burdened with a heavy torch, he still managed to find the strength to wisp Chellaina off her feet and set her on top of the equipment with her legs dangling off to the side.

"Are we at war?" Chellaina asked through a frightened frown.

"I don't know—where are the controls for this thing?"

"Back there." The General pointed toward the rear of the unit where an open access panel revealed a wide variety of controls and indicators.

Krey hurried toward the rear of the equipment, then quickly came to a halt as he studied the controls. After a moment or two of head scratching, he looked to The General.

"I thought you said these controls were similar to a lunar-dozer?"

"They are," The General replied in an assured voice, "Just flip the Locomotion switch to Transport."

Krey quickly located the locomotion switch, which was in the Maneuver position. When he flipped it to the Transport position, a short, shelf-like perch slid out from under the unit, followed by two handholds, which came out from the upper rear edge of the unit. Krey recognized the handholds and their associated twist throttles; each throttle independently controlled one of the two tracks under the unit.

An unexpected smile came to Krey's face, "That's more like it."

Krey grabbed onto the handholds, then stepped onto the perch.

"Hang on!" Krey turned one of the throttles backward and the other one forward as he angled the life support unit toward the door. As he rolled the throttles forward to move toward the door, he noticed The General's laser rifle among the possessions that were tied to the top of the equipment.

"What's this?... A laser rifle?"

"Yes," The General replied, "I hope you don't mind."

"Perfect," Krey muttered.

Chellaina and The General were understandably shocked as they passed through the smoking threshold of the disaster shelter; their eyes gazed up at the dark, eerie tunnel in disbelief. Neither one of them spoke until Krey stopped to pick up his satchel of tools, which were laying on the ground at the bottom of the stairs.

"What happened to our house, Fenny?"

The General shook his head, then turned to Krey, who was just stepping back on the perch with a satchel of tools over his shoulder, "What happened here?"

"I don't know." Krey rolled the throttles forward, then the life-support unit began to crawl up the staircase. "We can't make sense out of any of this."

Chapter 19, Tricana

The air aboard the Star Saber had become much too stale for Cassie's liking, though she still had something in the neighborhood of an hour before reverting to panic. She was sitting in front of an old computer console, which was located beneath the half-opened iris of the huge viewport. All the internal lighting and nonessential systems had been shut down in order to mimic space junk, though several systems had to remain on line despite the circumstances. The navigation computer was one such system; it had to stay active in order to continually track the Star Saber's position and keep critical navigation data updated. The antimatter reactor for the time distortion engine was another system that couldn't be shut down; it had to remain at an idle in order to produce power for the navigation computers.

As the dilapidated craft tumbled end over end, light from Capella slowly swept across the floor in endless repetitive patterns, which seemed to bring a sick, nauseous feeling to Cassie that deepened with each persistent pass. The relentless motion of the tumbling Star Saber also added to Cassie's discomfort, as well as the constantly changing view of dead, dismembered bodies drifting aimlessly through space.

Cassie did her best to ignore the horrifying sight lurking beyond the hull of the Star Saber, though the silent presence of Theti's countless dead was impossible to deny. The sickening sights, thinning air, and growing nausea was a constant distraction from Cassie's work, yet she continued with persistence—as if the entire human realm were clinging to existence solely by her efforts.

Cassie had switched the old computer console on line and was diligently analyzing data from the Star Saber's navigation system. Specifically, she was interested in the mammoth time wake, which overtook the Star Saber several days earlier. She discovered that, although the navigation system was not on line at the time the wake occurred, the system had taken the initiative to track the unprecedented phenomenon for a short distance. The position and speed of the time wake, during the encounter, was still in the system's memory; Cassie was doing her best to project that data in hopes of determining where the wake came from—as well as where it was going. The preliminary indications were frightening.

At the time it had occurred, the time wake was a complete mystery; time wakes do not occur in nature and, as Krey had mentioned, no ship ever built produced a time wake any larger than that of the Star Saber. However, after the rogue ship with its unorthodox flight path appeared out of the time continuum, Cassie realized that perhaps the time wake might have been produced by a ship—a ship that could not have been built with human technology... An alien ship.

The assumption that the time wake was produced by an alien vessel was indeed presumptuous. Science—centuries ago—had ruled out the possibility of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe. Any notion that alien beings could tread across the human realm—in any form whatsoever—was reserved strictly for science fiction writers; it was considered an iron-clad impossibility.

It was, therefore, ironic that Cassie's assumption of an alien vessel happened to fit the standard set of equations to the teeth. After biasing the equations with exaggerated distortion, time, and drive factors—which would be unattainable with human technology—the notion that the time wake could have been produced by a spacecraft made perfect mathematical sense. In Cassie's mind, it was quickly becoming the only logical explanation for the mammoth wake.

An uneasy sense of dread came over Cassie as her calculations approached conclusion. Using an extremely sophisticated version of calculous, she had already managed to trace the source of the time wake back to Theti; the time of its departure closely coincided with her estimate of when the destruction had reached completion. That in itself was frightening enough; to realize that three and a half billion human beings were deliberately annihilated by who-knows-what. But the preliminary projections of where the time wake would eventually end up proved to be even more horrifying; it appeared to be heading toward the more heavily-populated planets of the frontier. Cassie had begun to suspect that the fall of Theti might be repeated elsewhere in the realm, though she needed more time to deliver specifics.

Across forty-two light years of empty, unforgiving space, in the constellation of Canis Minor, was a hot, yellow-white star named Procyon. It was a close neighbor of Earth's sun; only a scant ten light-years separated the two—though Earth's sun was by no means its closest star. Procyon was part of a binary star system; it shared an opposing orbit with another star, a white dwarf known simply as Procyon's Companion.

Procyon's Companion, like all white dwarfs, was incredibly massive, extremely hot, and surprisingly dim; its surface temperature was over twice that of Procyon, yet Procyon was more than two hundred times as bright. The most unique characteristic of Procyon's Companion, however, was its size verses mass; it was just slightly larger than the diameter of Earth, yet boasted a mass of one and a half times as great as Earth's sun. Procyon's Companion was so incredibly dense that one teaspoonful of its core material would have a mass equivalent to fifty tons. As a result, Procyon's Companion had the most pull of anything in Procyon's solar system; Procyon itself appeared to orbit around its companion, while the white dwarf just wobbled in place.

Procyon and its companion were only the core of the solar system; they were surrounded by eighteen planets, six comets, and two asteroid belts—all of which interacted in odd, irregular orbits due to the constant, shifting motion of Procyon against its white dwarf companion. Because of the strange gravitational tides of Procyon's solar system, most of its planets were largely uninhabitable. There were three planets that, from time to time, would exhibit livable characteristics, but their irregular orbits would soon take them too close or too far from the suns to be livable year-round.

One of those not-quite-livable planets was the infamous world of Menti, which harbored an artificial ring composed of wrecked war machines, shrapnell, blood, and bodies. Menti had become a de facto monument, of sorts, to the men and women who died in the bloodiest battle of World War Five. It was the world over which The General and his Star Saber struggled for victory—as well as the world that inspired the final obsolescence of human war.

Of all eighteen planets in Procyon's solar system, there was only one that was habitable year-round; Tricana. Tricana was the third frontier planet to be colonized and one of the most heavily populated, which was surprising considering its climate. Unlike Theti, which had absolutely no seasons, Tricana was blessed with not less than six distinctly different seasons, each of which were spread out sporadically over its 524-day year. The wide diversity of its seasons was due to the constant interaction between various heavenly bodies in the solar system, as well as the wobbling rhythm of its two suns.

It was the peak of Tricana's desert season; a time of year when most people avoided the searing double suns by pursuing indoor activities. Daytime temperatures often reached 125ø, while the nights were graced by a cool 100ø reprieve. The desert season, which was relatively short, was by far the hottest season of the year; it was a stark contrast to Tricana's winter, which the residents playfully referred to as `The Ice Age'.

Tricana's 33-hour day was just coming to a close in the sprawling metropolis of Ethen. It was an evening like any other; the shops were closed, younger crowds had begun to collect in indoor recreation centers, and dinner was on the table in most homes. One of Ethen's younger couples, Harris and Deli, were just getting ready to spend a quiet evening at home.

Deli, like so many times before, was watching the double sunset from a picture window, which was situated on the west side of their quiet high-rise apartment. Procyon had already dropped behind the horizon and graced the distant skyline with diverse shades of red, orange, and violet—despite the fact that its dim companion was still visible in the sky. Watching the sunset had always been a ritual for Deli; she often reserved that time of the day for herself. As such, Harris usually spent that particular time of the day catching up on local news.

Harris was sprawled out on a wide, stuffed chair in front of a paper-thin television screen, which was laminated to the wall like wallpaper. He hastily flipped through numerous news stations, using the remote control, then stopped when he found a sporting event that caught his interest. He was just about to set down the remote control and watch the contest when, suddenly, the picture began to tear and twist. A moment or two later, the picture completely degraded to a ratty interference pattern, which was marked with a persistent, unnerving buzz.

"What crap!"

Harris furrowed his brow in disgust, then flipped through several more channels—only to discover the same interference pattern across the entire band. He carefully studied the strange, tattered pattern on the screen in an attempt to determine what might have caused it. After scrutinizing the screen for some time, he shouted to Deli.

"Honey! Did we pay the television bill?"

Before Deli had a chance to answer, the ominous shriek of disaster sirens shattered the tranquil peace of the city.

Krey's muscles were beginning to ache under the weight of his tools and tri-ox torch as they hurried down the long, curved tunnel that led to the landing field. He was immeasurably grateful that he didn't have to run all the way back to the service tug with them, though just hanging onto the perch with the load on his back seemed to be enough to wear him down. They had traversed most of the tunnel and were just slowing down to make the tight, 90 ø turn before heading out into the clearing. He hoped that the service tug was still there—and intact.

"Careful!" The General warned.

Krey rolled back the throttles to a crawl as they cautiously approached the corner. He carefully inched his way toward the edge where daylight was shining in, then stopped altogether just short of the corner. He spoke quietly to The General.

"Lean over and tell me what you see."

The General gave Krey an uneasy look, then turned toward the edge of the 90ø bend, which was hardly more than a foot in front of the equipment. The General steadied himself with a hand pressed against the edge of the tunnel, then carefully peered out into the opening. He studied the scene for a moment or two, then slowly withdrew.

"Well?" Krey asked.

"There's a UN service tug out there... on a pad made of this stuff," he placed his fingertips on the side of the tunnel to show Krey what he was talking about.

"Anything else?"

The General shook his head, "Nothing—no trees—nothing."

Krey nodded, then carefully rolled the throttles forward.

They turned the tight corner, headed out of the tunnel, then finally found themselves in daylight as they made their way into the clearing. Krey pushed the throttles all the way to the forward stops in an effort to make an expedient dash for the service tug. The self-propelled equipment gradually picked up speed to something around twenty miles an hour; it was an adequate speed, though Krey would have preferred something at least twice as fast.

Chellaina looked up at the sprawling blue sky in disbelief, "Where are the Bao trees?... The Krellos?"

"Gone," Krey's voice was cold and blunt, "Flattened like toothpicks."

"For how far?" The General asked.

"Planet-wide... Hold on."

Krey turned toward the waiting tug, then started up the cargo ramp. "The destruction goes into space as well. I'm warning you—it's not a pretty sight."

Chellaina and Fenton exchanged uneasy glances.

Cassie finished loading the final sequence of her equations into the computer, then glanced at her watch as the system began the calculations. She realized that she still had something on the order of fifteen minutes before her distant encounter with the strange vehicle, which had mysteriously appeared from somewhere in the time continuum. She looked out the forward windows to see if the craft had come into view, though she couldn't make out anything other than wreckage and drifting bodies. It did not take long for her to grow weary of the sight.

Cassie turned her nervous eyes from the atrocities outside, to the dimly-lit confines of the ancient bridge. An eerie, creepy felling rippled down her back as she carefully scrutinized the abundant shadows for tiny, crawling robots that were programmed to stalk her. She took several slow, deep breaths in the failing air as she listened to sounds of the creaking hull; she tried to separate them from any subtle, insect-like clicks that might be coming from the shadows. Although she was unable to hear any of the robotic adversaries prowling about, her imagination faithfully painted pictures of dozens of carnivorous devices lurking in the darkness... watching... waiting...

A loud beep from the computer console sent a surge of fear through Cassie, which quickly diminished when she realized that sound was not caused by robotic intruders. She turned toward the computer screen—then shuddered. The results of her calculations were undeniably clear; the theoretical alien craft that had produced the time wake was heading directly for the frontier planet of Tricana, in the solar system of Procyon.

A look of horror came over Cassie as she stared at the screen; the implications of her calculations could not possibly be coincidence. Considering the vastness of the universe, the human realm was like a grain of sand on a planet-wide beach, and the time wake just happened to be moving from one tiny, populated grain to another. More than that—it was moving from the most remote of the frontier planets, to the next closest.

Cassie was convinced that it was no coincident. She started thinking about the foot print on the planet, the strange crystals on the hatch, and the survivors who appeared to have been deliberately spared as bait. She also thought about the complete lack of response from the rest of the human realm; she came to the realization that the trap baited with survivors was apparently a failsafe—a mechanism to catch any one who might have slipped through the invader's elaborate scheme to cloak their advance. She also thought about the strange implant that was lurking in the UN mainframe.

Cassie's feeling of dread deepened as her thoughts tormented her. Something of unknown origin had deliberately annihilated life on Theti—and Tricana was most certainly next. She had no reason to believe that the destruction would stop at Tricana either—the twin frontier planets of Ogle and Kahn, in the solar system of Sirius was only four light-years from Tricana, and Mother Earth was only eight light-years from that. She thought about the fragility of the human realm; there was no military, no war machines, and no possible means of defense. An invading armada could simply walk across the realm unopposed—and do it in a matter of days.

Cassie glanced at her watch; she had ten minutes before passing within a thousand meters of the strange vessel. She realized that, at a thousand meters, she would only be able to see a small dot at best. The Star Saber's long range cameras weren't working and she lacked so much as a pair of binoculars or a telescope. She desperately wanted to get a good, close look at the thing in order to determine if it was actually an alien vessel, or, with luck, a misinterpreted rescue ship.

Reluctantly, Cassie decided to shut down the computer console. She had hoped to spend some time analyzing the strange implant, which she suspected had something to do with the apparent invasion, but the faint glow of the computer screen could be enough to give her presence away. She turned off the computer display, then nervously looked around the bridge for an adequate place to hide in preparation for the distant encounter. She wondered how many robotic insects were also taking advantage of the darkness.

Cassie had not yet located an appropriate hiding place when a brilliant blue light suddenly shone upon her through the half-opened iris of the viewport. She looked up in terror at a huge, yellow craft looming not more than yards above the viewport. She froze, starring at the craft. There was no doubt in her mind that she was looking at them—the annihilators of the human race. She wondered how long they had been there—watching by the faint blue light of the display screen. For a brief moment, she nurtured the notion that, perhaps they didn't realize that she was a living human being, though the false security of that notion was fleeting at best. These creatures obviously knew the difference between living and dead—a glance out the window would easily confirm that.

Cassie remained frozen, staring into the alien light like a deer staring into headlights. She could feel her heart in her throat. She was afraid to move so much as a muscle for fear that they might make her out as a living human in need of slaughter. At the same time, she was afraid of remaining in plain sight of the ungodly craft for the same reason.

A moment or two later, the alien light panned away from the viewport to a point somewhere on the hull. Cassie didn't have any time to think—she simply reacted. She clamored out of her seat, then darted in the direction of the prevailing artificial gravity, which was in the general direction of the nose. For a brief moment, her fear of the alien craft overshadowed her fear of robotic insects; she clamored for the deceptive safety of a dark cubby-hole under a dilapidated console.

Hardly a pounding heart-beat later, the light returned to the empty seat where Cassie had been sitting. It panned across the floor several times in quick, sporadic sweeps, then it shifted positions to get a better look at the interior of the bridge. Cassie saw the light fall on the makeshift bunk, the crude partition, the refrigerator. She knew that it would only be a matter of time before it got around to searching the front of the bridge.

The constant tumbling motion of the aged Star Saber produced a centrifugal force which, to Cassie, seemed more like a subtle gravity that pulled her toward the nose of the Star Saber. She let herself fall farther into the darkness of the cubby-hole as the light from the alien vessel began to search the mid section of the bridge.

Cassie suddenly realized that the alien craft must be expending energy in order to maintain such an accurately stable position relative to the tumbling Star Saber; it had to be literally chasing the viewport as the Star Saber tumbled end over end. With this thought, came the realization that the alien craft, for some reason, had taken an extremely deep interest in her; it would have been much easier to simply destroy the Star Saber. She sat there, cuddling the insect-infested darkness, wondering why they were searching for her; why didn't they just end it all?

Fear overtook Cassie as the intense blue light of the alien craft stripped her cover of darkness. The hammering rhythm of her heart skipped several beats when she realized that the light didn't continue on its way; the aliens had found her. Cassie looked up at the light in terror, then began to sob with slow, helpless moans.

Chapter 20, Nothing Short of Spectacular

It took quite some time for Fenton and Chellaina to make their way up the 15-foot ladder, which was mounted on the forward bulkhead of the service tug's cargo compartment. It had been a laborious climb for the elderly couple, who struggled to make their way from the cargo deck to the crew compartment at the top of the tug, though the prospect of being rescued gave them the courage to press on. They had just reached the top when Krey poked his head out of the crew hatch.

"We have to hurry!" Krey reached for Chellaina, then started to assist her into the crew compartment, "The tug is programmed to self-launch in five minutes."

Nearly half an hour passed since the strange V-shaped craft appeared next to the Star Saber, though it had been quite some time since Cassie had to endure the close scrutiny of the eerie alien searchlight. She knew that the craft was still in the immediate vicinity, however, because its searchlight would periodically pan across a window, casting a brilliant blue beam through the stale, failing air of the bridge. She could do nothing more than wait in fear in the darkness beneath the console.

Cassie realized that the service tug should be leaving the surface of the planet soon, though she was unable to verify that against her watch because of the darkness. She wondered why the alien craft had not yet attacked. It occurred to her that the craft might be waiting for the service tug to return; the Star Saber hardly presented a threat in its current configuration, tumbling end over end, and no communications with the service tug had, as yet, taken place.

Cassie had considered contacting Krey to warn him about the craft, but after giving the situation further thought, she realized that firing up the communications system would, undoubtedly, provoke the alien craft into an attack. The only other alternative she could think of was to do exactly what she had been doing since the craft appeared; nothing.

Fear and indecision took possession of Cassie. She fought the urge to bolt from her hiding place in a mad dash for the communications console; at the same time, she tried to fight the paralyzing fear that held her in the darkness like a prisoner. She found herself longing for Krey; he always seemed to be able to think clearly in the face of death—he would have known what to do. She thought about the great World War Five Hero down at the planet's surface; if only he were here, the alien craft would surly turn tail and run.

Ultimately, Cassie realized that her wishes and fantasies would not be able to help her, nor would it be able to help those aboard the service tug who would soon find themselves in alien company. The more she thought about it, the more disappointed she became in herself; right or wrong, she had to do something besides lie under the console like a frightened puppy. She decided that, perhaps, she should quietly peer out the forward windows and scrutinize the craft; maybe she could spot a weakness or flaw that could be used to her advantage. She was, however, acutely aware of the vast gulf between her ideas—and her courage.

Cassie's heart hammered in her chest with a panicked, pounding rhythm. Her breathing became erratic, and sweat poured profusely from her brow. She struggled to move, but raw, unbridled fear managed to keep her frozen like a statue. She couldn't recall ever being so utterly terrified. She knew that Krey would have done something by now—the thought of which only renewed her self-disappointment.

Cassie had nearly worked up the courage to venture out from under the console when, suddenly, she heard a subtle click. The alien craft must have perceived it too—the alien searchlight beamed through the forward windows and struck the floor in front of her with full brilliance. There, on the floor not more than two feet from her face, was the gaping jaws of a World War Five carnivorous robotic insect. Almost immediately, the insect's micro cameras turned into the light, then, in the batt of an eye, the killer robot charged for the cover of darkness somewhere within an arm's reach of Cassie.

It was fear of the alien craft that had held Cassie prisoner under the console—but it was a far greater fear of insects that mindlessly launched her into the full, revealing intensity of the alien searchlight. Without a thought, without a purpose, and without a goal, Cassie found herself clinging to the back of a dilapidated seat with her horror-filled eyes starring directly into the beam. The light centered on her, then the huge alien craft slowly jockeyed for a better vantage point as it moved closer to the forward windows. Cassie remained motionless and petrified.

The service tug had finally broken free of Theti's atmosphere as its engines pushed the craft closer to a rendezvous with RQ-733. All on board were comfortably seated in the crew compartment, though the sights out the forward windows were hardly comforting. Few words had been spoken during the that flight through the drifting dead, and there were few words that would have been considered appropriate in the light of such an atrocity.

The aged eyes of Fenton and Chellaina nervously surveyed the drifting carnage and wreckage, which loomed over the once peaceful world of Theti. Chellaina held a frightened hand up to her mouth as a tear streamed out of the corner of her eye and trickled toward her ear under the thrust of the engines. Her face was filled with despair as she looked to Fenton, who was unable to take his eyes off of the sight. His expression was flat, though it carried a trace of revived horror as the ungodly sight dredged up vivid memories of the war.

Krey, too, was not at his best as he stared at the vast graveyard encircling Theti; his face was filled with anger—as well as contempt for the unseen barbarians who devastated that fragile, human world. He could feel his muscles tightening in uncontrolled in rage, along with the marked anxiety that comes with the frustration of nothing to take it out on. A heavy burning feeling churned deep within his being as he muttered contemptuous phrases under his breath.

The young man's hatred became blatantly apparent in both his actions and his voice as he grabbed a microphone and brought it up to his mouth.

"This is Krey Altson, ST-1136. Come in RQ-733."

He waited for a moment, let out an irritated grumble, then keyed the microphone again.

"This is Krey Altson, ST-1136—are you there Cassie?"

It soon became apparent that a reply would not be forthcoming. Krey began to worry that the Star Saber—and Cassie—had met with the same demise as the rest of Theti. He slammed the microphone back down on the hook, then took a moment to calm himself down.

"Probably still maintaining radio silence," he muttered with what little optimism he could gather. After taking several deep breaths, he turned to The General and Chellaina, then did his best to swallow his anger in an attempt to present himself in a fairer light.

"I must apologize..." Krey used the most cordial voice he could muster under the circumstances.

Chellaina turned to look at Krey, though The General continued to stare out the windows. Krey continued.

"You're not exactly catching me at my best. And..." He lowered his head in remorse, then was lost for words.

Chellaina was about to reply when The General spoke, though he didn't take his eyes off of the atrocities beyond the forward windows.

"I've seen death like this before... Over Menti."

Krey looked up at the old man; his voice was cold and hard, like that of a World War Five general.

There was a short, silent reprieve; no-one moved a muscle, no-one spoke. It was Chellaina who finally broke the silence.

"You needn't apologize to us, young man. We're grateful that you came to rescue us."

The General spoke again, staring out the window as if he were oblivious to everyone else.

"Only, Menti wasn't exactly like this." His aged eyes shifted across the wreckage. "I don't know what did this. The ruins over Menti had scars from lasers...particle beams...munitions." He shook his head, not taking his eyes off of the drifting dead. "These ships look like they were just..." he shrugged helplessly, "...just tore open. I don't know."

An eerie feeling began to ripple down Krey's spine as The General continued.

"Most of the dead over Menti—the bodies of the Forth Order anyway—were killed by laser cannons." His eyes became more distant, as if he were recalling the events by some paranormal means. "We'd fire those laser cannons until they smoked and overheated—but we never shut them down. Sometimes the computer would shut them down to keep them from exploding." He shook his head distantly, "But we'd never shut them down. We killed so many people with those laser cannons... So many. When the war was over, the predominant attack orbit looked like this—drifting dead."

There was another uneasy pause before The General continued.

"It's ironic. They took one of the laser cannons off RQ-733, and mounted it on a memorial—there on the surface of Menti. They made a memorial out of the very weapon that killed so many people... Who in their right mind would make a monument out of a weapon?"

After a moment of silence, The General turned to Krey, "How many megawatts are your new lasers?"

Krey remained silent and still as he stared at the old man.

The General appeared to be confused by Krey's eerie lack of response, "How many laser cannons did the UN put on her during the refit?... How many soldiers are aboard her?" There was an unsettling slump in The General's expression. "...Maybe that's classified, huh?"

Krey tightened his lower jaw, then turned to look out the forward windows without uttering so much as a word. He couldn't bring himself to tell the hero that RQ-733 was a rotting, decaying hulk in the hands of exiled convicts, or that the United Nations didn't have so much as a pea shooter for the defense of the human realm. He stared at the drifting dead as the hatred inside him boiled.

Cassie continued to stand motionless in the intense blue light of the alien craft, though she had been, by no means, idle. In the depths of her mind, she had done something that only a Tripolean Syndrome genius could have done; she figured out a way to engage her unarmed ship in combat. She realized that Krey and the survivors were well on their way, and that they would be rendezvousing in less than fifteen minutes. Unless she took some kind of action, the alien vessel would be there to greet them, which would undoubtedly be the end of them as well as her.

Cassie's decision to engage the alien craft was based on logic and probability alone; she had no aptitude for heroism. Her chances of victory were slim, though considerably better than the alternative. The thought that she might have to give her life for the safety of Krey and the survivors sent chills down her spine; she took several deep breaths, then finally managed the courage to start working her way toward the copilot's seat.

The short distance to the copilot's seat proved to be awkward in the tumbling hulk. She was, however, thankful that she had taken Krey's advice in putting the Star Saber into a tumble. Although she was not able to pass herself off as space junk, she had at least mesmerized the aliens long enough to assemble a plan. It was apparent to Cassie that the aliens had no fear of her, and that the curious motion of the ship might have served to trap their curiosity, interest, or amusement. She suspected, however, that that would all end as soon as she stabilized the ship.

Cassie's fear escalated as she cautiously approached the copilot's seat. She kept her eyes fixed on the alien searchlight as she carefully strapped herself in. She briefly glanced away from the alien craft just long enough to locate several switches on the pilot's console next to her. She flipped the switches, then returned her attention to the craft.

The instrument panels suddenly came to life, followed by the escalating sound of the antimatter reactor, which began to rumble throughout the ship. The alien craft clearly perceived the change; it began to slowly back away from the nose of the Star Saber. Cassie realized that the alien ship was undoubtedly preparing for a strike. She turned toward the computer console, then pressed several keys in rapid succession.

There was a short hiss from an attitude engine as the relentless tumble of the aged Star Saber quickly slowed to a halt. Cassie looked up at the alien craft; it had already moved to nearly a hundred yards beyond the nose. Cassie's blood began to race; she was certain that it was trying to gain a safe distance in order to dispatch its weapons. She realized that her life could be all over in the batt of an eye.

The rumble and whine of the antimatter reactor continued to escalate to alarming proportions. As Cassie waited for the reactor to build-up power, she thought about the genius behind the strange implant and the remarkable distortion factors displayed by their time wake; she knew she was dealing with superior intelligence. Question was: could they be suckered?

The rumbling of the antimatter engine had begun to violently shake the deck. Sweat dominated Cassie's forehead, though she made her best attempt to portray a confident, arrogant grin. She didn't know whether the aliens understood the significance of facial expressions, but she was center-stage in the spotlight, and determined to use every means at her disposal to sucker them into a chase. She glanced at a display on the instrument panel, which flashed the message `Danger: Energy Build-up Beyond Safe Limits'. She cracked her knuckles, just as she had seen Krey do so many times before, then reached for a switch on the instrument panel.

Cassie glanced at the reactor power display, which was indicating 172%. Next to it was a flashing light that warned of an overload. She looked back out the window and tried to estimate her distance to the alien craft and the potential gradient that her time wake would produce at that distance. She would have preferred to calculate it on the computer, but under the circumstances, she would just have to estimate. She wondered how solid the alien ship would prove to be.

The sound of the reactors had reached deafening proportions as the power display approached 180%. An overload alarm sounded on the overhead panel; Cassie knew that—win or lose—this was going to be nothing short of spectacular.

The last thought that went through her mind before flipping the switch was: `metal fatigue'.

"Damnit!" Krey shouted as he slammed the microphone on the hook, "Why doesn't she answer?"

There was an unsettling silence in the tense air of the crew compartment. Fenton and Chellaina were clearly ill at ease; they didn't know the angry young man very well and the sight of the vast destruction surrounding them only added to their apprehension. They had, however, been spared the sight of dead bodies for the moment; the area that they were passing through was littered with a noticeably different kind of debris, which was suspiciously lacking in human carnage. Most of the debris was corroded and appeared to be rust-orange in color; all of the scattered pieces were considerably large—and very old.

Krey made a sharp, angry, frustrated gesture toward the forward window.

"Damnit, she should be in view by now!"

The service tug's retro motors fired rather unexpectedly for a couple of seconds, causing everyone in the crew compartment to lurch forward ever so gently. Krey furrowed his brow in confusion as he looked at the instrument panel; Cassie's pre-programmed flight plan had instructed the service tug to establish a position in orbit—as if to dock.

"That's not like her," Krey muttered nervously, "She's never screwed-up a computer program before." Sweat began to build up on his brow as he looked out the forward window in search of the Star Saber. He moved his head nervously from side to side in hopes of seeing around a huge piece of drifting, corroded debris which bore the remnants of a large black letter `Q'. Krey's voice became understandably shaken.

"She wouldn't miss by this much—not Cassie!"

An alarm sounded on an overhead panel, which quickly drew Krey's attention. He reached up to silence the alarm, then read the flashing words out loud.

"Missed Approach: Docking Port Not Found."

"Look!" Chellaina shouted, pointing anxiously at something beyond the forward windows.

Krey looked in the direction that Chellaina was pointing. There, not more than fifty yards off to the left of the nose, next to the piece of debris bearing the remnants of a `Q', was a large, ghosty, smoky image of something precipitating out of the time continuum. Within seconds, a large, rust-orange piece of debris materialized, which also bore markings; an `R' and the other part of the `Q'. Krey realized with horror that the debris look all too familiar—it was the remnants of RQ-733.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" Krey's drawn-out denial of the facts was punctuated by several hammering blows of his fist against the instrument panel, which bent slightly under his abuse. Shortly thereafter, he collapsed over the control sick—and cried.

Chellaina drew herself closer to The General as worry and fear swept across her face; The General put his arm around her in hopes of offering some small degree of comfort. Krey's sobbing became less pronounced, though he kept his face buried in embarrassment; his macho ego wouldn't let him face the elderly couple eye-to-eye.

The General looked out the window at the scattered remains, more of which continued to precipitate out of the time continuum. He looked at the two huge pieces of debris with markings; he could see that they would have fit together perfectly like a jigsaw puzzle. A solemn, war-time expression covered his face as he turned to Krey.

"Was this RQ-733?"

Krey nodded, though he didn't look up, "It was Cassie," he choked.

The General lowered his head for a moment, then looked back out at the drifting wreckage, which was once his stead to victory. He glanced across the debris, trying to imagine what it looked like before the mishap. It was then that his military eyes made an important observation.

"It was torn apart—just like the rest."

Tears filled Chellaina's eyes as she buried her face in The General's shoulder. Krey continued sobbing as quietly as possible. Meanwhile, huge pieces of the proud Star Saber continued to drop out of the time continuum like rain on a summer sidewalk.

END OF SAMPLE

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