Short Story: "The Key to the Bottomless Pit"
Posted: 2007-01-27 11:26pm
This is a short story I'm writing for submission to the university honors college literature magazine. The deadline is 31st January, so hopefully I'll have it completed by then.
I'm interested in feedback, mostly on style and writing in general, but also on the realism of the numbers in the first section (I'm planning on running calculations tomorrow to check them), and on the symbolism I've put into the story (is it too subtle? obvious?).
***
“The Key to the Bottomless Pit”
The RSS Athena swung silently across the surface of the gas giant's moon. Ordered out of its routine outer-system patrol by a special, direct-line message from the COMFRIGSOL to ostensibly investigate an anomalous gamma burst in Uranos' orbit, it had begun to decelerate into the planet's immediate vicinity three weeks ago, and had been hanging in low orbit over Miranda for three days. She was, in reality, waiting to rendezvous with the demilitarized battleship RMS Insertnamehere, to pick up prisoners from the uprising on Titan and convey them out to the settlement on Triton. Some doofus in the beauracracy had had fun with that name, reflected Captain Matthew Nowak not for the first time, rolling his eyes at the battleship. Half a lifetime in the space fleet, and new weirdness could always pop up to surprise him.
“Captain, we have a new positive contact with the Insertnamehere,” called the first mate, John Anders. “She has begun her deceleration burn into Miranda's orbit.”
“Time until rendezvous?”
“Three hours, fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you. Continue to monitor them as they drop into orbit.” It wouldn't be difficult; the Athena's monitors could, in theory, pick up an antimatter explosion in Earth orbit from Pluto, and the demilitarized battleship's engines were as bright as the dim sun this far out in the system.
Nowak kicked himself away from the captain's station and floated along the spherical wall of the command cabin to the monitoring station. This particular officer preferred to read the hard data from the computer instead of trusting the computer to build a good model of the system; Nowak didn't mind a bit. It would be a bad captain indeed who, after twenty-five years, could not translate hard data.
The Insertnamehere had two minutes left on her burn, and already the output from her rockets was dialing back. Her captain was obviously a minimalist, and it was difficult to blame him. Life in the space fleet was life on the edge of a razor: despite multiple redundancies, one miscalculation could kill you, or worse. Nowak reflexively looked over his shoulder at the engineering console on the bridge, displaying readouts of the idling rockets and power plant. All normal. Good, he thought.
The officer at the mana control station spoke, interrupting Nowak's rumination. “Sir, I'm getting strange readings from the Insertnamehere.”
The captain was suddenly alert, adrenaline coursing through his system. “What is it?”
“There's a spike near the bridge. It's being used aggressively –”
“Sir!” The first mate, again. “She's doubled her burn strength!” Nowak flung himself back to the captain's station.
“Another spike in their engineering bay. Sir, there's a problem over there.”
Now, the comm station. “Sir, we're receiving a transmission. Channel 875.2 – yes, a distress call.”
“Full audio,” Nowak ordered.
“RMS Insertnamehere to RSS Athena, mayday. Prisoner rebellion and crew mutiny. Request immediate assist-” There were screams, and the transmission cut off.
“Put the ship on full alert,” Nowak said, sinking back into his chair. “Load the tactical readout onto my console.” He pressed a button on his console. “Engineering, how long until we're stoked up and can give chase?”
The reply was immediate, filtered through the speaker. “One minute, thirty seconds.”
“Mana control, are your channelers ready?”
“They are, sir.”
“Fire control, prepare a volley of twenty-five torpedoes. Anders, what's the reading on their course?”
“They're still burning, almost in an unstable orbit.”
“Thank you. Engineering, give me a half burn for three minutes, bearing nought-three-six-nought-two-five, beginning on my mark. ... mark!”
On the scope, Miranda was skimming beneath them, and in the distance, a single star shone brighter than the others: the Insertnamehere's engine, spraying particles and radiation with reckless abandon. The Athena shuddered as the rockets ignited, and, for an instant, Nowak felt helpless and crushed as the acceleration dragged him back in his seat. He didn't let the feeling hold him, though; the tactical readouts of the demilitarized battleship caught his attention and held him.
Even while not a tithe of the waship it had been, the Insertnamehere was still formidable to any non-military warship (and pirates were a dime a dozen in the belt and around Jupiter's moons): it carried two torpedo launchers and two sixteen-inch cannons, as well as five interceptor launchers. Nothing the Athena couldn't handle, though there was always that small chance ... .
Nowak shook off the feeling, and refocused his attention on the large viewscreen above, laying back and relaxing as much as he could. Uranos was rising blue above Miranda, and the second sun that was the battleship they were chasing was now a bright dot against the gas giant.
“Engineering, give me full power.”
“Aye, sir.” The ship shivered, the rumbling in the deck changed tenor, and the acceleration redoubled, pulling Nowak back into his seat. “Anders, what is their expected trajectory?”
“Sir, if their current burn continues, they're going to decay into an unstable Uranos orbit.”
“How long until we can catch them?”
“We'll have them within range in forty-five minutes if everything continues like this.”
“Excellent. Stand the crew down, and notify me in thirty minutes or if anything changes. Also, dispatch a report back to the relays on Titan. The Commander will want to know about this.”
The blaring klaxons and blinking red lights were already off – once the crew was on alert, they would do nothing but distract – so Anders leaned forward and spoke into the intercom mic. “All hands stand down. We will resume battle stations at 1745, but be prepared to come to full battle stations at any point in the intervening time. Good work.”
After forty minutes, very little had changed; Miranda was a large disk behind them, Uranos was looming blue above them, and the light they were chasing had brightened. The readout on Nowak's console indicated that they had closed to within five thousand kilometers: no chance of missing here, but no chance of being missed. He was counting on his interceptor screen being superior to the Insertnamehere's, and, given its stated capacity, Nowak was sure of his judgment. No, the reason he had closed instead of shooting the prison ship out of the sky was rather different.
“Comm, do we have their frequency?”
“Aye, sir; we do.”
“Flood their system with the recorded message.”
The comm officer pressed a button, and flipped a few switches. Nowak smiled. Right now, the mutinying officers and prisoners were hearing the following, blasted over their comm system: “Mutineers and prisoners, give me your attention. This is the RSS Athena, in close pursuit of your ship. If you do not discharge your weapons safely into Uranos and power down your rocket, we will destroy you. I repeat: if you do not discharge your weapons safely into Uranos and power down your rocket, we will destroy you. You have two hours to comply before we open fire on you.”
Fifteen minutes later, the mana control officer spoke up. “Sir, I'm detecting a spike in their engine room. I can't quite tell what they're doing, but-”
“Sir!” The first mate, breaking in. “Their acceleration has doubled, and it's rising!”
“Engineering!” Nowak again. “Can you give me any more power?”
“Sir, we're running full out.”
“Anders, will we lose them?”
“They're pulling away at twenty meters per second per second.”
“What's their trajectory?”
“Give me a second ... it's unstable. If they continue on their current burn, they'll hit Uranos' atmosphere in an hour and a half.”
“Sir, the spike is increasing in intensity,” said the mana control officer, growing more frantic. “I can't tell what they're doing, but it's different.”
“Is there any channeler on board who can?”
“No, sir,” replied the officer. “I'm the most sensitive.”
“Anders, plot me a course that runs above theirs with respect to Uranos and keeps them in range,” ordered Nowak. “Unlimber the torpedo tubes and prepare the interceptors.”
“Very good, sir,” said Anders. “Um, sir – they've increased acceleration to five gees.”
“Are they compensating?” Nowak asked the mana control officer.
“They are, sir.”
“New orbit?”
“Sir,” Anders said, “they're steering for Uranos. They'll hit in forty-five minutes.”
“... and we can't catch them.” Nowak looked down at his console for a minute. “Continue scanning their ship, and bring all the intelligence on the crew and prisoners together for me. I want everything ready when I begin to prepare my report.”
“Aye, sir.” After a moment, “And sir? They've increased their acceleration to thirteen gees.”
Nowak was stunned. “They can't be compensating for that, can they?”
“I don't think so, sir,” said the mana control officer. “It would take twenty of the strongest channelers I've heard of to do that.”
“They'll impact in fifteen minutes now. Wait – their angle of attack is changing. Ten minutes. Five. Still accelerating.”
“Keep them visual. I want a recording of this.” Above them, the pinpoint of light they were chasing was almost outshining Uranos. It was visibly moving towards the center of the blue disk hanging up there – and then, it flashed and disappeared. In its place was an orange, slowly-fading scar in Uranos' atmosphere. Nowak sighed. Gone. “Anders, take us back to Miranda. Preferably a ballistic trajectory.”
The force pulling Nowak back into his chair eased, and in the viewscreen above, Uranos flew off the side, and the crescent of Uranos' icy moon swung into view. Suddenly, without any reason, Miranda exploded. The last thing Nowak ever saw was static on the viewscreen above him.
***
Ilia City was a teeming metropolis and equatorial spaceport. Since the end of the world war, it had grown by leaps and bounds; now, it was a giant cancerous sprawl, with its downtown skyscrapers jabbing defiantly into the sky. A million people could live their lives in the city and never see each other.
That night, the streets were lined with fog. James Cambell looked up with glassy eyes for a moment at the dull roar of a shuttle taking off from one of the pads on the outskirts of the town. The glow of the rocket lit the fog, turning the street into a murky orange soup. As the shuttle headed for the asteroid parked in orbit directly above, James shook is head and walked on. He'd never gotten used to the shuttles taking off and landing, two or three a day, and he'd been here a month.
Neon signs loomed out of the fog and disappeared behind him as he slowly staggered on. A lone car zipped by him, doing twice the speed limit. The world was rocking around him, and he was lost. That, and he felt sick. Brushing cold, sweaty hair out of his eyes, Campbell leaned against a lamppost, and sank down to the ground, shivering. Too much alcohol, again.
He'd been in the bar, as usual on Friday nights, and had struck up a conversation with a hot chick. She'd seemed pretty receptive, and he was making good progress toward taking her back to his apartment for the night when he heard the music again. It got distracting fast, and the conversation quickly petered out, the woman heading off to fish more interesting and productive waters. Some lucky bastard had gotten laid that night; not he. Campbell had stayed at the bar until everyone except two or three regulars had left, trying to drown the music, and the manager quite politely but firmly deposited him in the street at four in the morning.
And now, here he was, drunk off his ass, and lost. He had to laugh, and did, huge gulping mirthless convulsions that lasted longer than he intended. Campbell was still shaking silently when the white patrol car pulled up behind him, and he rolled glassy eyes toward the officer leaning out the window.
“Sir, are you all right? Can I help you with anything?”
“Yeh, I'm fine,” said Campbell. He could hardly understand his own slurred words.
The officer clicked the door handle, stepped out. He had a breathalyzer in his left hand. Campbell grinned humorlessly. Great, into the drunk tank again. And the music was still playing.
He fell asleep in the cop's car and woke up when at the station when the cop and two other men roughly pulled him out of the vehicle and dragged him half walking, half limp across the parking lot into the city jail. It was a small, squat building; the white sign, lit by the argon streetlight above it, read, “Eden Correctional Facility”.
Registration was as usual, and a few minutes later, Campbell staggered into the common cell. It was uncommonly deserted: a man in a ratty jacket and torn pants was huddled in the corner muttering to himself, another was passed out in a puddle of his own vomit, and there was nobody else. Shuffling over to the corner furthest from the muttering man, he unsteadily sank down and hugged his knees to his chest. Despite the bright light, he was asleep in a moment.
The music, delicate and light, a hint of whistles and bells, flitted away the moment Campbell was roughly shaken. The first thing he felt was a chisel splitting his skull; the next, a hand under his arms pulling him to his feet. He didn't resist, instead shielding his eyes from the too-bright fluorescent light above him. His mouth was stuffed with cotton balls, and tasted like he'd eaten rotting apples.
The officer was none too rough leading him out of the cell and into the dimmer hallway. Campbell blinked a bit, looking through watery, swollen eyes at the featureless passage. After a second, he managed to croak, “Water?”
“What's that, eh?”
“I want some water.”
“You'll get some in just a minute.” The officer pulled him into an interrogation room, and shoved him down in one of the chairs. There was a full glass of water sitting on the table; he drained it, spilled a little onto his shirt. A tall mirror covered one wall; Campbell glanced at it, fascinated by his reflection. A bleary-eyed, unshaven man with a jaw too square and unkempt, wavy hair stared back. Behind him, the heavy door clicked, then opened. A woman stepped in, clicking in high-heels, and carefully shut the door behind her.
Campbell eyed her openly in the mirror as she walked businesslike around the table to sit in front of him. Willowy, normal height, blonde, with sharp features, perky breasts, in a tailored business suit, carrying a snakeskin briefcase she set on the table before she pulled the chair out and sat down. He was suddenly acutely aware that his breath smelled like sour apples and dogshit.
“Mr James Campbell, I see.” The womans voice was sweet and tinkling, like the music that was still flitting around at the edge of his perception.
“Yes?” It was thick. Not enough water in the cup.
“You may call me Lucy.”
There was uncomfortable silence for a moment.
“Mr Campbell, we've been watching you for some time now. I've taken this moment to approach you and offer you a business proposition.”
Campbell was instantly suspicious. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Be calm, Mr Campbell. This is not an attempt to ensnare you; I merely have friends here who allowed me to speak with you.”
He was silent.
“You have two options, Mr Campbell,” continued Lucy. “You can choose to hear me out, in which case you will be escorted to the department desk, cited for public intoxication, and then released into the street, where I will pick you up in a white car; or, you can choose to reject my offer out-of-hand, in which case you will be escorted to the department desk, cited for public intoxication, and then released into the street, where you will never see me again.”
Campbell thought for a moment. “What sort of deal are we looking at here?”
“I'll reveal the details in the car.”
“No.” The headache made his voice sullen.
Lucy was silent for a moment, half-nodded to herself. Then she abruptly stood, leaned over the table, and brought her mouth to Campbell's ear. When she whispered, his awareness of her physical closeness dissipated. “I know what you're hearing.”
It was like a physical blow. Campbell jerked back, eyes wide, headache forgotten. How could she know?
“It brushes the edge of your consciousness, dances back and forth. It's always there, isn't it?”
“Ho-how do you know?”
“I'll explain everything in the car.”
He nodded, and without another word, she picked up her briefcase, and walked precisely from the room. Campbell was so busy wondering how she knew he forgot to check out her ass as she left.
The citation – the third in a month – didn't take long, and Campbell paid the fine upfront from his checkbook. After another glass of water and a piss, he felt better; the blinding headache had subsided to a dull throb, and the music was a little louder, though still flitting in and out of his conscious mind.
Outside the station, there was indeed a white corvette, the newest variety, parked at the curb. He walked over, got in, painfully aware that he smelled stale, overripe, and slightly like vomit. The car's interior was pristine, and though Lucy, at the wheel, wrinkled her nose slightly, she made no more mention of it.
As she pulled away from the curb, Campbell turned to her. “Okay, so how do you know?”
“My organization keeps track of channellers,” she replied. “We've been doing it since the end of the world war.”
“Wait, what?”
“I said,” she repeated rather impatiently, “my organization keeps track of channellers.”
“So how do you know what I can hear?”
“We've been watching you for some time, Mr Campbell. It appears that you are one of the few channellers who escaped the tests in primary school.”
“That's – that's absurd. I can't channel to save my life.”
“That's true. You can't.” She glanced sideways at him, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. “At least, not consciously.”
For a moment, Campbell looked out the windshield, digesting the information. Lucy didn't seem to be driving with any destination in mind; she was turning apparently randomly and weaving in and out through the narrow streets of downtown Ilia. It was like a concrete garden, planted and grown over the centuries. In the sky above it, the Ilia Station, a giant asteroid with hangars and a city of its own right built over it, hovered in geocentric orbit, tethered to the highest skyscraper in Ilia City by a long space elevator. Anything to keep his mind off the implications of this latest revelation.
“So, Mr Campbell, the business proposition is this. We will keep your information secret, and will pay you a monthly salary. In return, we'd like you to keep track of all the music you hear.”
“Wait, so you're saying that I won't have to register?”
“That is correct.”
Campbell relaxed, realized that he'd been tensed up. Thank the gods. No registration, none of that hell. “And you'll actually pay me?”
“That is also correct. We want to make sure that you're aware this is a business deal, and not blackmail. Should you choose to accept, you will receive a monthly salary starting at two thousand dollars, cash, and a package in the mail with instructions regarding what, precisely, you need to keep track of.”
“Where do I sign?” The extra cash was too good to pass up. A small, still voice was nagging at him that something was wrong here, something was very wrong, but he quashed it without hesitation.
Lucy turned and smiled at him. “No signatures, Mr Campbell. You will simply receive the instructional package in the mail within a few days, and your salary will begin arriving at the end of each month.” She reached down beside her, pulled something out of the bag beside her, and held it out to him. “An apple for breakfast, Mr Campbell?”
***
The first thing Campbell did when he got home was drop onto the couch. His bed was covered with books – too many to clean off. No work today; good. He laid back and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the splitting pain, and woke up four hours later with a dull throbbing headache and a mouth full of cotton balls. The shadows had shifted, throwing his messy flat into a new light. In the kitchen, sunlight was glinting off of a fork on top of the pile of unwashed dishes – a week's worth, stacked up next to the sink.
Yawning, Campbell groggily stood up and stepped over a heap of dirty clothes – since he'd moved out of his bedroom into the living room, his clothes had migrated with him – and into the kitchen. Pouring himself a glass of cold water, he drank it, scratching at an itch in the stubble on his chin.
Time for a refreshing shower. Another glass of water, and Campbell walked into the bathroom, stripped, pissed, and flicked the hot water on. It took a minute for the water to heat up.
After a few minutes of scrubbing and rinsing, he stepped out of the shower, toweled off. The music was gradually becoming louder at the edge of his hearing. A clean outfit, teeth brushed, and Campbell moved into his room, picked up his latest book, and continued reading. A History of Mana, a thick tome by J. Adam Elliot, detailed the little that was known about mana channelers before the Great War. That afternoon took him through the life of Ikani the Great, who established an empire that stretched all the way across the continent of Azha and from the southern sea to the ice of the ocean under the north pole.
The music was still in the back of his mind, constantly changing. Once in a while, a new chord would enter the music, sometimes dissonant, sometimes not. The music was always sweet and lilting, though, dancing around in the distance. He could drown it out with words, most of the time, but sometimes, he had to stand up, stretch, and just listen to it, try to make out a melody or chords or something. But, always to no avail, and he would settle back down to reading.
At five o'clock, the shuttle at the northern platform took off for the station, always visible in the sky above. The blast rattled the building and the orange fireball from the ignition lit the apartment, shaking him out of his book. Ikani had just finished his last battle, putting down the Boxing Rebellion on the far eastern coast of Azha, before dying of sickness en route home to his capital. A good stopping point. Campbell put the book down and stretched. Dinnertime.
It was a short walk down to the Sunshine Cafe two blocks down, and Campbell covered it quickly. A plate of pasta and glass of nice sangrea later, Campbell was moseying back to his apartment, tired and ready to fall asleep. He'd been worn out for some reason.
At the base of the stairs, he stopped to check his mailbox. Two thick envelopes were lying in the cubbyhole. No return addresses at all. He grabbed them, took them up the stairs; his apartment was on the fifth floor of the insula. As he opened the first letter, the apartment shook, filled with the usual orange glow of a shuttle liftoff. Inside was a roll of cash – two hundreds, three fifties, and four twenties: enough to cover rent for the next two months, and then some drinking money on the side.
The next envelope contained a thick packet of papers, a little notebook, and a pen. Mostly boring stuff about channeling that he already knew from reading, but the interesting part was the job description. Apparently, they wanted him to keep track of which direction the music was coming from, and write down if it changed. All he had to do was deliver his daily notes to a particular address not far from his own at the end of each week.
Neat. He flipped open the notebook and started scribbling down what he could remember of the changes during the day. It hadn't changed much in terms of direction, though; and it was difficult to pinpoint a particular direction in the first place. It was just like it was omnipresent.
They seemed to want volume, too, so he noted that it wasn't terribly loud, but not too faint, either. Just the same as always.
The next few days went like that – the notebook provided welcome respite from his cubicle phone-answering – and then it was Saturday, and he made his way up the five blocks toward downtown and the notebook drop-off. Between his particular neighborhood and downtown proper was a very seedy zone – seedier and more run-down than his neighborhood, at least. The first thing he noticed, since he usually took the bus through toward work, was the smell of piss and vomit.
The address he'd received was in a dilapidated insula with dead ivy growing up the side and paint peeling from the cinder blocks and loose, squeaky door. The inside wasn't much better; it was musty, dusty, and smelled slikghtly of mildew. The windows on the mail cubbies were dusty, and the wallpaper on the wall above and around them was bubbled and falling off.
Reading the address off a slip of paper he'd brought, Campbell slipped his notebook into the appropriate slot and walked out. A replacement had arrived in his box today, and he had already filled out the first page and a half.
After walking out, he caught a convenient bus and rode it downtown. It was just two blocks to his favorite bar. As he walked in the door, caught the scent of heavy cigars mixed with cigarettes and ale, he realized that the music was louder than ever before, and now he could point to its source with his eyes closed. Since they weren't closed, he could see her, sitting at the bar.
***
I'm interested in feedback, mostly on style and writing in general, but also on the realism of the numbers in the first section (I'm planning on running calculations tomorrow to check them), and on the symbolism I've put into the story (is it too subtle? obvious?).
***
“The Key to the Bottomless Pit”
The RSS Athena swung silently across the surface of the gas giant's moon. Ordered out of its routine outer-system patrol by a special, direct-line message from the COMFRIGSOL to ostensibly investigate an anomalous gamma burst in Uranos' orbit, it had begun to decelerate into the planet's immediate vicinity three weeks ago, and had been hanging in low orbit over Miranda for three days. She was, in reality, waiting to rendezvous with the demilitarized battleship RMS Insertnamehere, to pick up prisoners from the uprising on Titan and convey them out to the settlement on Triton. Some doofus in the beauracracy had had fun with that name, reflected Captain Matthew Nowak not for the first time, rolling his eyes at the battleship. Half a lifetime in the space fleet, and new weirdness could always pop up to surprise him.
“Captain, we have a new positive contact with the Insertnamehere,” called the first mate, John Anders. “She has begun her deceleration burn into Miranda's orbit.”
“Time until rendezvous?”
“Three hours, fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you. Continue to monitor them as they drop into orbit.” It wouldn't be difficult; the Athena's monitors could, in theory, pick up an antimatter explosion in Earth orbit from Pluto, and the demilitarized battleship's engines were as bright as the dim sun this far out in the system.
Nowak kicked himself away from the captain's station and floated along the spherical wall of the command cabin to the monitoring station. This particular officer preferred to read the hard data from the computer instead of trusting the computer to build a good model of the system; Nowak didn't mind a bit. It would be a bad captain indeed who, after twenty-five years, could not translate hard data.
The Insertnamehere had two minutes left on her burn, and already the output from her rockets was dialing back. Her captain was obviously a minimalist, and it was difficult to blame him. Life in the space fleet was life on the edge of a razor: despite multiple redundancies, one miscalculation could kill you, or worse. Nowak reflexively looked over his shoulder at the engineering console on the bridge, displaying readouts of the idling rockets and power plant. All normal. Good, he thought.
The officer at the mana control station spoke, interrupting Nowak's rumination. “Sir, I'm getting strange readings from the Insertnamehere.”
The captain was suddenly alert, adrenaline coursing through his system. “What is it?”
“There's a spike near the bridge. It's being used aggressively –”
“Sir!” The first mate, again. “She's doubled her burn strength!” Nowak flung himself back to the captain's station.
“Another spike in their engineering bay. Sir, there's a problem over there.”
Now, the comm station. “Sir, we're receiving a transmission. Channel 875.2 – yes, a distress call.”
“Full audio,” Nowak ordered.
“RMS Insertnamehere to RSS Athena, mayday. Prisoner rebellion and crew mutiny. Request immediate assist-” There were screams, and the transmission cut off.
“Put the ship on full alert,” Nowak said, sinking back into his chair. “Load the tactical readout onto my console.” He pressed a button on his console. “Engineering, how long until we're stoked up and can give chase?”
The reply was immediate, filtered through the speaker. “One minute, thirty seconds.”
“Mana control, are your channelers ready?”
“They are, sir.”
“Fire control, prepare a volley of twenty-five torpedoes. Anders, what's the reading on their course?”
“They're still burning, almost in an unstable orbit.”
“Thank you. Engineering, give me a half burn for three minutes, bearing nought-three-six-nought-two-five, beginning on my mark. ... mark!”
On the scope, Miranda was skimming beneath them, and in the distance, a single star shone brighter than the others: the Insertnamehere's engine, spraying particles and radiation with reckless abandon. The Athena shuddered as the rockets ignited, and, for an instant, Nowak felt helpless and crushed as the acceleration dragged him back in his seat. He didn't let the feeling hold him, though; the tactical readouts of the demilitarized battleship caught his attention and held him.
Even while not a tithe of the waship it had been, the Insertnamehere was still formidable to any non-military warship (and pirates were a dime a dozen in the belt and around Jupiter's moons): it carried two torpedo launchers and two sixteen-inch cannons, as well as five interceptor launchers. Nothing the Athena couldn't handle, though there was always that small chance ... .
Nowak shook off the feeling, and refocused his attention on the large viewscreen above, laying back and relaxing as much as he could. Uranos was rising blue above Miranda, and the second sun that was the battleship they were chasing was now a bright dot against the gas giant.
“Engineering, give me full power.”
“Aye, sir.” The ship shivered, the rumbling in the deck changed tenor, and the acceleration redoubled, pulling Nowak back into his seat. “Anders, what is their expected trajectory?”
“Sir, if their current burn continues, they're going to decay into an unstable Uranos orbit.”
“How long until we can catch them?”
“We'll have them within range in forty-five minutes if everything continues like this.”
“Excellent. Stand the crew down, and notify me in thirty minutes or if anything changes. Also, dispatch a report back to the relays on Titan. The Commander will want to know about this.”
The blaring klaxons and blinking red lights were already off – once the crew was on alert, they would do nothing but distract – so Anders leaned forward and spoke into the intercom mic. “All hands stand down. We will resume battle stations at 1745, but be prepared to come to full battle stations at any point in the intervening time. Good work.”
After forty minutes, very little had changed; Miranda was a large disk behind them, Uranos was looming blue above them, and the light they were chasing had brightened. The readout on Nowak's console indicated that they had closed to within five thousand kilometers: no chance of missing here, but no chance of being missed. He was counting on his interceptor screen being superior to the Insertnamehere's, and, given its stated capacity, Nowak was sure of his judgment. No, the reason he had closed instead of shooting the prison ship out of the sky was rather different.
“Comm, do we have their frequency?”
“Aye, sir; we do.”
“Flood their system with the recorded message.”
The comm officer pressed a button, and flipped a few switches. Nowak smiled. Right now, the mutinying officers and prisoners were hearing the following, blasted over their comm system: “Mutineers and prisoners, give me your attention. This is the RSS Athena, in close pursuit of your ship. If you do not discharge your weapons safely into Uranos and power down your rocket, we will destroy you. I repeat: if you do not discharge your weapons safely into Uranos and power down your rocket, we will destroy you. You have two hours to comply before we open fire on you.”
Fifteen minutes later, the mana control officer spoke up. “Sir, I'm detecting a spike in their engine room. I can't quite tell what they're doing, but-”
“Sir!” The first mate, breaking in. “Their acceleration has doubled, and it's rising!”
“Engineering!” Nowak again. “Can you give me any more power?”
“Sir, we're running full out.”
“Anders, will we lose them?”
“They're pulling away at twenty meters per second per second.”
“What's their trajectory?”
“Give me a second ... it's unstable. If they continue on their current burn, they'll hit Uranos' atmosphere in an hour and a half.”
“Sir, the spike is increasing in intensity,” said the mana control officer, growing more frantic. “I can't tell what they're doing, but it's different.”
“Is there any channeler on board who can?”
“No, sir,” replied the officer. “I'm the most sensitive.”
“Anders, plot me a course that runs above theirs with respect to Uranos and keeps them in range,” ordered Nowak. “Unlimber the torpedo tubes and prepare the interceptors.”
“Very good, sir,” said Anders. “Um, sir – they've increased acceleration to five gees.”
“Are they compensating?” Nowak asked the mana control officer.
“They are, sir.”
“New orbit?”
“Sir,” Anders said, “they're steering for Uranos. They'll hit in forty-five minutes.”
“... and we can't catch them.” Nowak looked down at his console for a minute. “Continue scanning their ship, and bring all the intelligence on the crew and prisoners together for me. I want everything ready when I begin to prepare my report.”
“Aye, sir.” After a moment, “And sir? They've increased their acceleration to thirteen gees.”
Nowak was stunned. “They can't be compensating for that, can they?”
“I don't think so, sir,” said the mana control officer. “It would take twenty of the strongest channelers I've heard of to do that.”
“They'll impact in fifteen minutes now. Wait – their angle of attack is changing. Ten minutes. Five. Still accelerating.”
“Keep them visual. I want a recording of this.” Above them, the pinpoint of light they were chasing was almost outshining Uranos. It was visibly moving towards the center of the blue disk hanging up there – and then, it flashed and disappeared. In its place was an orange, slowly-fading scar in Uranos' atmosphere. Nowak sighed. Gone. “Anders, take us back to Miranda. Preferably a ballistic trajectory.”
The force pulling Nowak back into his chair eased, and in the viewscreen above, Uranos flew off the side, and the crescent of Uranos' icy moon swung into view. Suddenly, without any reason, Miranda exploded. The last thing Nowak ever saw was static on the viewscreen above him.
***
Ilia City was a teeming metropolis and equatorial spaceport. Since the end of the world war, it had grown by leaps and bounds; now, it was a giant cancerous sprawl, with its downtown skyscrapers jabbing defiantly into the sky. A million people could live their lives in the city and never see each other.
That night, the streets were lined with fog. James Cambell looked up with glassy eyes for a moment at the dull roar of a shuttle taking off from one of the pads on the outskirts of the town. The glow of the rocket lit the fog, turning the street into a murky orange soup. As the shuttle headed for the asteroid parked in orbit directly above, James shook is head and walked on. He'd never gotten used to the shuttles taking off and landing, two or three a day, and he'd been here a month.
Neon signs loomed out of the fog and disappeared behind him as he slowly staggered on. A lone car zipped by him, doing twice the speed limit. The world was rocking around him, and he was lost. That, and he felt sick. Brushing cold, sweaty hair out of his eyes, Campbell leaned against a lamppost, and sank down to the ground, shivering. Too much alcohol, again.
He'd been in the bar, as usual on Friday nights, and had struck up a conversation with a hot chick. She'd seemed pretty receptive, and he was making good progress toward taking her back to his apartment for the night when he heard the music again. It got distracting fast, and the conversation quickly petered out, the woman heading off to fish more interesting and productive waters. Some lucky bastard had gotten laid that night; not he. Campbell had stayed at the bar until everyone except two or three regulars had left, trying to drown the music, and the manager quite politely but firmly deposited him in the street at four in the morning.
And now, here he was, drunk off his ass, and lost. He had to laugh, and did, huge gulping mirthless convulsions that lasted longer than he intended. Campbell was still shaking silently when the white patrol car pulled up behind him, and he rolled glassy eyes toward the officer leaning out the window.
“Sir, are you all right? Can I help you with anything?”
“Yeh, I'm fine,” said Campbell. He could hardly understand his own slurred words.
The officer clicked the door handle, stepped out. He had a breathalyzer in his left hand. Campbell grinned humorlessly. Great, into the drunk tank again. And the music was still playing.
He fell asleep in the cop's car and woke up when at the station when the cop and two other men roughly pulled him out of the vehicle and dragged him half walking, half limp across the parking lot into the city jail. It was a small, squat building; the white sign, lit by the argon streetlight above it, read, “Eden Correctional Facility”.
Registration was as usual, and a few minutes later, Campbell staggered into the common cell. It was uncommonly deserted: a man in a ratty jacket and torn pants was huddled in the corner muttering to himself, another was passed out in a puddle of his own vomit, and there was nobody else. Shuffling over to the corner furthest from the muttering man, he unsteadily sank down and hugged his knees to his chest. Despite the bright light, he was asleep in a moment.
The music, delicate and light, a hint of whistles and bells, flitted away the moment Campbell was roughly shaken. The first thing he felt was a chisel splitting his skull; the next, a hand under his arms pulling him to his feet. He didn't resist, instead shielding his eyes from the too-bright fluorescent light above him. His mouth was stuffed with cotton balls, and tasted like he'd eaten rotting apples.
The officer was none too rough leading him out of the cell and into the dimmer hallway. Campbell blinked a bit, looking through watery, swollen eyes at the featureless passage. After a second, he managed to croak, “Water?”
“What's that, eh?”
“I want some water.”
“You'll get some in just a minute.” The officer pulled him into an interrogation room, and shoved him down in one of the chairs. There was a full glass of water sitting on the table; he drained it, spilled a little onto his shirt. A tall mirror covered one wall; Campbell glanced at it, fascinated by his reflection. A bleary-eyed, unshaven man with a jaw too square and unkempt, wavy hair stared back. Behind him, the heavy door clicked, then opened. A woman stepped in, clicking in high-heels, and carefully shut the door behind her.
Campbell eyed her openly in the mirror as she walked businesslike around the table to sit in front of him. Willowy, normal height, blonde, with sharp features, perky breasts, in a tailored business suit, carrying a snakeskin briefcase she set on the table before she pulled the chair out and sat down. He was suddenly acutely aware that his breath smelled like sour apples and dogshit.
“Mr James Campbell, I see.” The womans voice was sweet and tinkling, like the music that was still flitting around at the edge of his perception.
“Yes?” It was thick. Not enough water in the cup.
“You may call me Lucy.”
There was uncomfortable silence for a moment.
“Mr Campbell, we've been watching you for some time now. I've taken this moment to approach you and offer you a business proposition.”
Campbell was instantly suspicious. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Be calm, Mr Campbell. This is not an attempt to ensnare you; I merely have friends here who allowed me to speak with you.”
He was silent.
“You have two options, Mr Campbell,” continued Lucy. “You can choose to hear me out, in which case you will be escorted to the department desk, cited for public intoxication, and then released into the street, where I will pick you up in a white car; or, you can choose to reject my offer out-of-hand, in which case you will be escorted to the department desk, cited for public intoxication, and then released into the street, where you will never see me again.”
Campbell thought for a moment. “What sort of deal are we looking at here?”
“I'll reveal the details in the car.”
“No.” The headache made his voice sullen.
Lucy was silent for a moment, half-nodded to herself. Then she abruptly stood, leaned over the table, and brought her mouth to Campbell's ear. When she whispered, his awareness of her physical closeness dissipated. “I know what you're hearing.”
It was like a physical blow. Campbell jerked back, eyes wide, headache forgotten. How could she know?
“It brushes the edge of your consciousness, dances back and forth. It's always there, isn't it?”
“Ho-how do you know?”
“I'll explain everything in the car.”
He nodded, and without another word, she picked up her briefcase, and walked precisely from the room. Campbell was so busy wondering how she knew he forgot to check out her ass as she left.
The citation – the third in a month – didn't take long, and Campbell paid the fine upfront from his checkbook. After another glass of water and a piss, he felt better; the blinding headache had subsided to a dull throb, and the music was a little louder, though still flitting in and out of his conscious mind.
Outside the station, there was indeed a white corvette, the newest variety, parked at the curb. He walked over, got in, painfully aware that he smelled stale, overripe, and slightly like vomit. The car's interior was pristine, and though Lucy, at the wheel, wrinkled her nose slightly, she made no more mention of it.
As she pulled away from the curb, Campbell turned to her. “Okay, so how do you know?”
“My organization keeps track of channellers,” she replied. “We've been doing it since the end of the world war.”
“Wait, what?”
“I said,” she repeated rather impatiently, “my organization keeps track of channellers.”
“So how do you know what I can hear?”
“We've been watching you for some time, Mr Campbell. It appears that you are one of the few channellers who escaped the tests in primary school.”
“That's – that's absurd. I can't channel to save my life.”
“That's true. You can't.” She glanced sideways at him, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. “At least, not consciously.”
For a moment, Campbell looked out the windshield, digesting the information. Lucy didn't seem to be driving with any destination in mind; she was turning apparently randomly and weaving in and out through the narrow streets of downtown Ilia. It was like a concrete garden, planted and grown over the centuries. In the sky above it, the Ilia Station, a giant asteroid with hangars and a city of its own right built over it, hovered in geocentric orbit, tethered to the highest skyscraper in Ilia City by a long space elevator. Anything to keep his mind off the implications of this latest revelation.
“So, Mr Campbell, the business proposition is this. We will keep your information secret, and will pay you a monthly salary. In return, we'd like you to keep track of all the music you hear.”
“Wait, so you're saying that I won't have to register?”
“That is correct.”
Campbell relaxed, realized that he'd been tensed up. Thank the gods. No registration, none of that hell. “And you'll actually pay me?”
“That is also correct. We want to make sure that you're aware this is a business deal, and not blackmail. Should you choose to accept, you will receive a monthly salary starting at two thousand dollars, cash, and a package in the mail with instructions regarding what, precisely, you need to keep track of.”
“Where do I sign?” The extra cash was too good to pass up. A small, still voice was nagging at him that something was wrong here, something was very wrong, but he quashed it without hesitation.
Lucy turned and smiled at him. “No signatures, Mr Campbell. You will simply receive the instructional package in the mail within a few days, and your salary will begin arriving at the end of each month.” She reached down beside her, pulled something out of the bag beside her, and held it out to him. “An apple for breakfast, Mr Campbell?”
***
The first thing Campbell did when he got home was drop onto the couch. His bed was covered with books – too many to clean off. No work today; good. He laid back and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the splitting pain, and woke up four hours later with a dull throbbing headache and a mouth full of cotton balls. The shadows had shifted, throwing his messy flat into a new light. In the kitchen, sunlight was glinting off of a fork on top of the pile of unwashed dishes – a week's worth, stacked up next to the sink.
Yawning, Campbell groggily stood up and stepped over a heap of dirty clothes – since he'd moved out of his bedroom into the living room, his clothes had migrated with him – and into the kitchen. Pouring himself a glass of cold water, he drank it, scratching at an itch in the stubble on his chin.
Time for a refreshing shower. Another glass of water, and Campbell walked into the bathroom, stripped, pissed, and flicked the hot water on. It took a minute for the water to heat up.
After a few minutes of scrubbing and rinsing, he stepped out of the shower, toweled off. The music was gradually becoming louder at the edge of his hearing. A clean outfit, teeth brushed, and Campbell moved into his room, picked up his latest book, and continued reading. A History of Mana, a thick tome by J. Adam Elliot, detailed the little that was known about mana channelers before the Great War. That afternoon took him through the life of Ikani the Great, who established an empire that stretched all the way across the continent of Azha and from the southern sea to the ice of the ocean under the north pole.
The music was still in the back of his mind, constantly changing. Once in a while, a new chord would enter the music, sometimes dissonant, sometimes not. The music was always sweet and lilting, though, dancing around in the distance. He could drown it out with words, most of the time, but sometimes, he had to stand up, stretch, and just listen to it, try to make out a melody or chords or something. But, always to no avail, and he would settle back down to reading.
At five o'clock, the shuttle at the northern platform took off for the station, always visible in the sky above. The blast rattled the building and the orange fireball from the ignition lit the apartment, shaking him out of his book. Ikani had just finished his last battle, putting down the Boxing Rebellion on the far eastern coast of Azha, before dying of sickness en route home to his capital. A good stopping point. Campbell put the book down and stretched. Dinnertime.
It was a short walk down to the Sunshine Cafe two blocks down, and Campbell covered it quickly. A plate of pasta and glass of nice sangrea later, Campbell was moseying back to his apartment, tired and ready to fall asleep. He'd been worn out for some reason.
At the base of the stairs, he stopped to check his mailbox. Two thick envelopes were lying in the cubbyhole. No return addresses at all. He grabbed them, took them up the stairs; his apartment was on the fifth floor of the insula. As he opened the first letter, the apartment shook, filled with the usual orange glow of a shuttle liftoff. Inside was a roll of cash – two hundreds, three fifties, and four twenties: enough to cover rent for the next two months, and then some drinking money on the side.
The next envelope contained a thick packet of papers, a little notebook, and a pen. Mostly boring stuff about channeling that he already knew from reading, but the interesting part was the job description. Apparently, they wanted him to keep track of which direction the music was coming from, and write down if it changed. All he had to do was deliver his daily notes to a particular address not far from his own at the end of each week.
Neat. He flipped open the notebook and started scribbling down what he could remember of the changes during the day. It hadn't changed much in terms of direction, though; and it was difficult to pinpoint a particular direction in the first place. It was just like it was omnipresent.
They seemed to want volume, too, so he noted that it wasn't terribly loud, but not too faint, either. Just the same as always.
The next few days went like that – the notebook provided welcome respite from his cubicle phone-answering – and then it was Saturday, and he made his way up the five blocks toward downtown and the notebook drop-off. Between his particular neighborhood and downtown proper was a very seedy zone – seedier and more run-down than his neighborhood, at least. The first thing he noticed, since he usually took the bus through toward work, was the smell of piss and vomit.
The address he'd received was in a dilapidated insula with dead ivy growing up the side and paint peeling from the cinder blocks and loose, squeaky door. The inside wasn't much better; it was musty, dusty, and smelled slikghtly of mildew. The windows on the mail cubbies were dusty, and the wallpaper on the wall above and around them was bubbled and falling off.
Reading the address off a slip of paper he'd brought, Campbell slipped his notebook into the appropriate slot and walked out. A replacement had arrived in his box today, and he had already filled out the first page and a half.
After walking out, he caught a convenient bus and rode it downtown. It was just two blocks to his favorite bar. As he walked in the door, caught the scent of heavy cigars mixed with cigarettes and ale, he realized that the music was louder than ever before, and now he could point to its source with his eyes closed. Since they weren't closed, he could see her, sitting at the bar.
***