Puzzled in Paradiso
07 Apr 2016TheDarkLord
Paradiso Outpost, 17 Draconis. Asp Explorer “TDL Eratosthenes”.February 3302.
I showed the admiral out, and closed the door to my quarters. The heavy naval style door slammed shut with a metallic clang. I’m sure I heard the Admiral and his aides chatting about me as they wandered down the corridor. I didn’t care though: I was going to get some sleep and then blow this joint for good in the morning. All things considered, it had been a successful day: I’d arrived on-station as a Post Commander, and was going to be leaving as a Rear Admiral. I was tired though, and all that imported lager had definitely gone to my head. I wasn’t sure how much the exercise had cost me, in cash, or in terms or of how far I’d compromised myself emotionally. It still felt wrong currying favour with the navy of my enemies. At the very least, the death count had been surprisingly low for one of my endeavours. Only the one salvage hunter who took a fancy to my haul of experimental chemicals had met an unfortunate end at the hand of Eratosthenes’s twin Imperial Hammers.
I undressed and collapsed on to the small, uncomfortable bed. I reached over and switched off the light. Tomorrow, I was out of here, for good. I was hoping for a restorative sleep, but my mind channel-flicked for a good while, ticking through the images of the last week. Sleep evaded me for the next two hours.
I’m in my Cobra MkIII. To my right, my beautiful girlfriend. She’s taken a couple of days off work, and is travelling with me on my Leesti-Diso-Leesti trade route. I will need to behave myself this time. Smooth, in and out, that’s the name of the game.
Dock Control hails the ship. I look across to the co-pilot’s seat. She’s sitting quietly, still taking it all in. Her mane of long curly auburn air shimmers as her head pans across the view.
“Do you want to respond?” I ask her.
She looks across to me, and smiles. “If you’re sure…”
“Sure, press that blue button there, say who you are, and the name of the ship, then request permission to initiate launch.”
“OK then.” She visibly stiffens, relaxes herself, and reaches for the comm button. “This is Ashley Tyler of the Cobra Golden Promise, requesting launch sequence initiation.”
“Ashley Tyler of Cobra Golden Promise, you are authorised to commence launch sequence,” the station responds.
Ashley grins at me. I whisper the words “Thank you. Cobra Golden Promise initiating launch sequence now.” She keys the comm and repeats the phrase. Wordlessly, I point to the relevant commands on the console to initiate the launch. Ashley presses each in turn, but is still startled when the bay grapples disconnect with their customary clunk, and the whine of the engines increases in insistence.
My Luxuries-laden Cobra lifts off from the launch pad sluggishly. The computer flies us out of the Diso Coriolis, following automated guidance from the docking bay management system. I call up the galaxy map and select Leesti as our destination. The targeting compass swings across towards that system. I roll left and pitch up, bringing the Cobra’s nose into line with the Witchspace travel bearing. I beckon Ashley to the Hyperdrive control, and in a few seconds we’re in Witchspace transit.
I woke. Another dream from before my assault. Why had her name come to me so clearly this time? And the definitive connection of the auburn-haired beauty as the author of that devastating letter was new too. It was all quite unsettling. I got out of bed, picked my shirt up off the floor, and threw it over my shoulders to ward off the chill in the room. I sat down in front of the data terminal, and went through the list of programs until I found a Citizen Search Tool.
- Name: Ashley Tyler
- System: Leesti
- Date: July 3272
I hit the “Search” button. The console showed an activity wheel, turning lazily as the search routines ran. After three revolutions, the answer.
- “No results found.”
“Shit,” I thought to myself. I sat there for several minutes, thinking through the dream and the name. It had seemed so real. I tried a few variant spellings, but all came back with the same answer. I looked back over at the dishevelled bed. It didn’t seem like I was going to get any more sleep. There was little else for me to do but throw all my stuff back into my holdall and prep for departure. I recalled TDL Eratosthenes from dock storage and to prep for launch, then perused the Bulletin Board for missions. A relatively straightforward shipment of 32 tonnes of Power Generators seemed sensible, so I accepted the mission and commanded the dockhands to load my ship. I grabbed my wristwatch, credit access card and holdall, and left the room, signing out as I closed the door.
It was 4AM, local time. Star ports were always busy places, but even they had a lull around this time of night. The usual level of ship traffic tailed off, with only the most determined commanders pushing through the middle of the night to get to dock before morning. Normally, travelling ships with small crews would drop into standard space, power down almost everything, and grab some sleep. Only the big stuff, with enough crew to run shifts, would operate at all hours. So, docking bays processed their regular stream of Type-9 Heavys, alongside those determined small-crew ships. Traffic was way down, so there was little movement through the passageways as I walked back to the docking bay area. Every sound travelled further than normal, and there were plenty of echoes bouncing around. Thumps and clanks from the cargo processing facilities, and occasionally the odd particularly vehement cuss-laden outburst from a dockhand. Non-crew personnel who were out and about looked as if serial substance abuse was taking its toll on their physique as they shuffled around, their posture stooped and staring at the floor. Although I was suffering significant fatigue, I strode past these unfortunates with purpose. I was heading for my ship, and out of this place. I was desperate to get away from this gnawing feeling that I was doing wrong by being here. It was an unusual feeling; it seemed as if I had developed a moral compass.
I reached TDL Eratosthenes, and signed for my cargo as the last of it was being loaded. I really don’t use this ship enough, I thought as I climbed aboard. Preflight checks complete, I launched the Asp, and guided it out through the mailslot, heading back to inhabited space.
Ashley Tyler. As the Frame Shift Drive countdown went through the last three seconds for the first of seventeen jumps, that name came back into my head. What became of you, and why aren’t you in the records?