Pandora's Star

“I think we should stick to this shaft,” Dudley said. “Let’s find out where it goes before we start plotting the rest.” According to his inertial guidance display, they were already a hundred fifteen meters below level seven of the alien station. They hadn’t managed to get a signal from any of the additional comrelays he’d placed at the cross links above, so they didn’t really know for sure what the topography was. “Oscar, can we carry on?”

“Yeah, keep going. It’s the most interesting aspect of the station we’ve come across.”

Dudley pushed off again. There were enough bumps and irregularities in the aluminum sheath for him to grip and use like a ladder, pulling himself along. He was keen to see where it led now. He had a gut feeling that this was important. It was different from the rest of the station. The aliens must have used it to feed something in, or out. This had a purpose. Once they knew what it was co

He moved forward eagerly, his suit lights sliding over the ancient corrupted metal. Seeking understanding.

“I can’t get them back,” Oscar said. “The comrelays must have glitched. We’re not even getting a carrier wave from either of them.”

“Goddamnit!” Wilson started calling up the contact team status displays onto his console screens. “When did you lose contact?”

“Just as you told us to get them back. I don’t believe this. Those comrelay units can’t fail; they’re nothing but safety circuits.”

A 3D chart of the Watchtower station sprang up, with other team members’ positions illustrated by small green lights. All of them were converging on the beacon.

“Who’s missing?” Wilson asked.

“Verbeke and Bose.”

For one instant, Wilson felt a flash of anger. It just had to be him, didn’t it. Anger was equally quickly replaced by guilt. He’s one of my crew, and he’s suffered equipment failure. “Don’t they have to make their way back if they lose contact?”

“That’s what the manual says. Emmanuelle knows it well enough, even if Dudley is a little shaky on theory. They should be on their way back.”

“How far away are they from a working relay?”

“I don’t know. They set up eighteen units behind them, I’m still getting telemetry from sixteen of them. That puts them about twenty meters away from a working one.”

“Right,” Wilson said tersely. He could imagine it, the two of them a

“Should be back on-line any minute now,” Oscar said.

“A

“Sorry, sir, not yet,” Sandy Lanier reported. “They’re still on course. No signal, not directed at us.”

“Son of a bitch. Right, we need to start shouting. Bump up the power level in the transmission ante

“Aye, sir.”

McClain Gilbert shot out of the carbon composite tu

“Have we got them yet?” he asked Oscar.

“No. Nothing.”

“They should be back in range. For fuck’s sake, Emmanuelle knows what she’s doing. How long now?”

“Fourteen minutes.”

“No way. No way is that a comrelay failure. They’re in trouble.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I do.” He twisted himself around and pushed off the wall, heading for the tu

“What are you doing?” Oscar shouted.

“Helping them.”

“Get back to the shuttle!”

“I’m with you, Mac,” Francis Rawlins said.

Mac was already in the tu

“They’re my team, damnit.”

“Okay.”

“Mac, for Christ’s sake,” Oscar said. “Get back to the shuttle, both of you.”

“Two minutes, Oscar. Come on, man, that ain’t going to make any difference.”

“Jesus.”

“The wall is changing again, look,” Dudley said. He stopped himself, and shone his suit lights on the patch just in front of his helmet. Emmanuelle drifted up beside him.

The tattered aluminum now formed a series of small corrugations. Spaced between them was a yellow ceramic. It had small red markings on it. “That’s interesting.”

“Hey, is that writing?” Emmanuelle asked.

“Could be. What do you think, Oscar?”

“We’re not sure. Make sure you get a clean video of it.”

“Copy that.” Dudley waited a moment. “Geddit? Copy. That.”

“Just video the bloody thing,” Emmanuelle moaned.

“OhmyGod.” Sandy pushed herself back from her console as if it had just given her an electric shock. “Sir, missile launch. The lead ship has fired. Eight. Nine. Twelve. That’s confirmed as twelve missiles.”

“At us?” Wilson asked. He was pleased by how calm he sounded.

“Four of them, yes. The rest are on courses for ships two, three, and six.”

Wilson’s virtual finger stabbed at a communications icon. “Mac, Francis, get out of there now. I’m recalling the shuttle in three minutes.”

“We’re almost at level seven.”

“The aliens are firing at us. Get out of there. I am not going to repeat this order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The other ships are responding to one’s missile launch,” A

“Son of a bitch,” Wilson spat. “Pilot, take us over to the Watchtower. We’ve got to get that shuttle on board. Tu Lee, is the hyperdrive ready?”

“Aye, sir,” Tu Lee said. “We can go FTL at any time.”

Mac’s virtual hand twisted the throttle as far as the graphic would let him. He shot out of the station compartment into free space. His suit sensors locked on to the shuttle, and a bright red trajectory plot streaked across his virtual vision. He steered himself along it, ignoring the amber velocity warnings winking urgently. Francis was beside him, matching his flight.

A searing white light appeared from behind the Watchtower. Mac flinched inside his suit. Then logic kicked in. It was the Second Chance’s plasma drive, bringing the ship in close. Cutting down the time it would take for the shuttle to get inside its force field.

A time that shouldn’t have existed. I couldn’t leave them without making some effort to help. I just couldn’t. Who knew this would happen?

He started to decelerate a few meters short of the shuttle, using his legs to absorb most of the impact. Even so, he hit hard. The cilia on his soles gripped the fuselage grid, preventing any rebound. Francis came down beside him. “Bugger me,” she grunted. Her legs were bent sharply, torso twisting.

“Go,” Mac told the shuttle pilot.

“You’re not inside yet.”

“Just go. We’re secure.”

Space around him flared yellow as the chemical rockets ignited.

Oscar had hurried back into the bridge compartment. Wilson acknowledged him with a quick wave as he claimed his console. He was waiting for the shuttle, willing it across the gap. Both Jean Douvoir and the shuttle pilot did a superb job, rendezvousing thirty kilometers from the Watchtower. A small screen showed the little craft settle onto its cradle, which sank back into the hangar.

Wilson kept clenching his fist, which was disrupting his contact with the console interface pad. “Any contact?” he asked for the tenth time.

“No,” Oscar said. “I think Mac was right, they’re in trouble.”

“What the hell kind of trouble? It was dead over there. Cold and dead.”

“I don’t know.”