Her name was Heather Pt.4
08 Nov 2017Gmanharmon
Part 3Good. You and Heather will fly out with the Los Angeles to human space in forty-eight hours. If you two have any special preparations, now would be the time to see them through.
A wise man once wrote that time is relative to the observer. To some, forty-eight hours is just that. To Heather and I, gearing up to become the next King and Queen of humanity, it felt like an eternity.
I took her to the edge of the town, by the apple orchard, before sundown, and I asked her to marry me. Without hesitation, she said yes. An hour later, at the mayor’s house, with his wife as witness, we were officially a couple. Shortly thereafter, back in our abode, we made love until the sun came up. Her pale skin was glowing in the dawn that shone through the slit in the window curtain, highlighting her smile.
“I love you, Grayson.” Hearing her say my name sent a shiver up my spine, and she could feel it as well.
“I love you, Heather.” Her kiss was like music; her touch, a brush of fine silk against my skin. I held her close, exploring every inch of her with my hands, eyes, and lips. I could have stayed there forever.
It was time to fly. While Heather and I were making preparations, the Corvette and Eagles had been sanitized, stripped of their original crimson paint and Federal logos, and done up in primer or bare steel, affecting the appearance of a ghost fleet. Pop told me about his first sortie behind the flight stick of an Eagle, accelerating so fast it felt like he was being crushed. Our Eagles were identically equipped, with A-grade frame-shift drives, Class 3 shield generators, and railguns on the top-mounted hardpoints, with mutli-cannons affixed to the wings. We locked our nav-computers with the Los Angeles, as the heavy ship could only jump ten light-years at a time, while the Eagles were good for eighteen. Frankie Holliday, the resident shipwright and mechanic, would fly the Corvette with two hand-picked crew, and stay with the ship until further instructions. Under cover of night, we launched from the surface of our little rock Out There, and I got my first taste of the vast emptiness and coldness of space. Even through the snug Remlok suit fastened into the pilot’s chair, with heating elements working to keep my core temperature warm enough to sustain life, and the Eagle radiating waste heat into the cockpit, the cold nipped at me. The warm glow of our K-class star grew dim behind us as Holliday set her coordinates to the very edge of the bubble, a destination called Gorramacor. It was two hundred light-years out, so I buckled in for a long journey.
I looked out to the port side, and Heather was looking back at me, flashing a radiant smile through her helmet. I watched her blow a kiss through the glass. I caught it with my hand and placed it on my own helmet, before tapping at the keyboard to synchronize my frame-shift data with the Los Angeles. The heat began to rise, and from deep within the bowels of the Eagle an unearthly hum began to issue forth, growing in timbre and intensity. My hand began to tremble slightly on the flight stick as I watched the heat emitters extend on the holographic Eagle being displayed on the right side of the console.
“Buckle up, kids,” Holliday chimed over the comms, her hard voice offering reassurance to two novice pilots. “Gonna be a few hours followin’ this here boat.” We had been traveling behind the Corvette in realspace, approximately 120 meters per second, which was faster than either of us had gone before. Holliday tried to explain to us how the frame-shift architecture worked and allowed faster-than-light travel, but it had sailed over my head.
Until now. The shipboard AI began counting down the last five seconds to jump, and I saw the universe began to dim. Blue and white gases surrounded my cockpit as the nose began following the Los Angeles into what I could only describe as a formless, shapeless, expanding void. A sound like a sufflating, eldritch beast filled my ears, reverberated through the throttle and stick, rattled my bones, shook my soul. My body locked. I shut my eyes. I called for my mother. I was entering witch-space.
FOUR.
THREE.
TWO.
ONE.
ENGAGE.I kept my eyes shut. The Eagle was banging and shimmying to and fro; the flight stick rattled in my clenched fist. I could feel my teeth cracking from the amount of force I was using to hold my jaw closed. My breaths were quick stabs in the cockpit, with a hic-- sound escaping me every time I exhaled, tightening every muscle and joint from head to toe, and everything inbetween. It wasn’t doing me any good, as it was only a useful technique in high-G atmospheric flight to stave off unconsciousness. Against my better judgment, I opened my eyes.
Witch-space was beautiful. Time and space spun around me, stars flitting past as orange or white streaks, while my compass went haywire and my speed indicator said—
What? I blinked. For a second, I thought I saw 7,000c, or 78.2 billion miles per hour. Then, 1,800c. Then, up to 8,754c, and back down again. Millions of numbers in a fraction of a second, all in multiple orders of magnitude above light-speed. All at once, I felt incredibly small, and sick to my stomach.
With a push forward, then a shove back, we dropped out of witch-space, and the pinpoint of a white star started filling my canopy, then expanding at an immense rate, as if being drawn to me by titanic tidal forces, until I was sure I was about to punch through the stellar body and cause the system to go nova. I pushed the stick forward and threw the throttle to idle, corkscrewing and flailing in space as the star swirled around in my peripheral vision. Eventually, space settled in front of me, with the star resting at ten o’clock high. I let go of the controls, imagining my gloves being ripped off and sticking to the throttle, and sank in my chair, head in my hands, trying not to vomit.
“How was that, kid?” Holliday’s voice crackled through the comms, but I was too shaken to answer. “Witch-space is the only way to travel, if ya ask me.”
“That was so fun!” Heather cut in. “Again! Again!” Her trademark giggle came through clear as a bell, no matter how the radio distorted the transmission.
“Not ‘til we get Grayson out of his funk. Hey, boss, watch yer heat there!”
I raised my head, and saw the head-up display visually letting me know the Eagle was currently scooping H2 from the A-class star, at an uncomfortably close distance of one light-second.
Warning: Temperature critical.A klaxon began blaring in the cockpit, followed by a shrill buzzer. My heat display began climbing past ninety percent while my tank was only filled halfway. I grabbed the controls again, pushed the stick down, then increased throttle to full. Bad decision. I started gliding away from the white-hot ball of hydrogen and helium, but not fast enough to wick off excess heat. Sparks began flying from the consoles and bulkhead behind me as I started cooking alive, heat holding at one hundred fifty. Blue smoke filled the cockpit, the sting of ozone assaulting my nose, but I escaped being consumed in the exclusion zone and the heat started sloughing off exponentially. Each breath was more laborious than the last, and the air scrubbers couldn’t take care of the malodorous fumes coming from the consoles fast enough, but eventually I was breathing easily again.
“Hey, let’s not do that again,” I said through the radio, my voice a bit shaky.
“Sorry, boss, but we got about twenty more of those to do!” Oh, great, I didn’t add. “Your ship doin’ alright? What’s left of your paint got a bit scorched there.” My eyes wandered to the diagnostic panel, ascertaining the health of each module affixed to the Eagle.
“I’m good, just feeling char-broiled,” I answered.
“Good! Just line up with us over here when you’re ready to jump.”
“Let’s go, Grayson!” Heather’s voice was like music. I couldn’t say no.
The rest of the trip went without incident. Along the way, Holliday talked us through plotting our own routes with the shipboard galactic map, how to filter our route plotting to select only stars that we could refuel from, and mentioned something about supercharging the frame-shift drive via neutron stars. All I remembered about neutron stars from my education were that they were superdense spheres of matter spinning at incredible speeds, and anything caught in their radioactive emission cones would be vaporized instantly. She had to be pulling our legs.
The final jump saw us arrive at Gorramacor A, an unremarkable T Tauri-type star, that was one of the star types we couldn’t scoop fuel from. The Los Angeles emitted a deafening noise, like a fog-horn of old, then my navigation panel updated with the reveal of another T Tauri star approximately 16,813 light-seconds away. Nearby, atop a sparse belt cluster, just 123 light-seconds away, sat a commercial outpost named Bahcall Settlement. My heads-up display flashed as Holliday left the wing and turned the Corvette away from Heather and I. I would need to get used to the fact that there were no cardinal directions in space.
“This is where I get off, y’all,” Holliday said, her voice crackling in my headphones. “Can’t stay in Imp territory in a big hulkin’ Fed ship armed to the teeth without attractin’ some kinda unwanted attention. Your pa’s given me coordinates to a safe haven where I can rest up and wait for y’all to complete your missions.”
“Where will you be?” Heather asked.
“I can’t tell ya, under pain of death. But I’ll be very close.”
“I understand.” I didn’t. It was just to make me feel better. Without another word, the Corvette fired its engines and surged off to parts unknown, entering witch-space with a bright flash and a fwip sound. Heather and I hung in space for a minute, before she flew in and gingerly set the Eagle just above me, canopies nearly kissing, separated by millimeters. She had caught on to piloting fast as a whip, and I couldn’t deny that I was envious. I looked up at her, and she smiled back at me.
“This is probably the closest we’re going to be for a long time, Grayson,” she said. Heather would not be following me to Bahcall Settlement; her mission was to enter Federal space, usurp Felicia Winters, and become the Shadow President of the Federation, finally unseating Zachary Hudson through hook or crook to become President. Once we had secured our positions of power, we would end the Federal-Imperial cold war, launch a grand offensive to reunite the galaxy, and start shaping the future of humanity under one Utopian flag. We would conquer the universe as husband and wife, king and queen, emperor and empress, whatever we wanted to call ourselves, under the ideals of individual liberty and personal accountability.
“I miss you already,” I replied. I placed my hand to the cockpit glass, and watched her follow suit. “You look great in that flight suit, Madame President.”
She laughed. “Same to you, Your Majesty the Emperor.” That familiar shock of pink hair fell out of her helmet and framed her face against the cool glow of the star. We blew kisses once more, then I watched as Heather thrusted up away from my Eagle, then fired engines and took off for Sol. Her backstory included forged documentation and a rank of Petty Officer in the Federal Navy, allowing her access to the Cradle of Humanity. I was groomed as a Serf, and I would need to prove myself in order to ascend to Master and earn a permit to Achenar before striking at Emperor Lavigny-Duval. I set the Eagle’s engines to 100% thrust, selected Bahcall Settlement in the nav-panel, and entered supercruise according to Holliday’s instructions.
It didn’t take long for Bahcall Settlement to appear in view, a small dot of light growing in intensity as space-time was pulled towards me in supercruise.
At least, I think that’s what Holliday said it’s doing? I couldn’t care less, regarding the speed display on the scopes as three times the speed of light, and slowing. If I’m going faster than lightspeed, why can I still see everything? Relativity says that as one gets closer to c, the spectrum of visible light will shift red, and therefore since you’re traveling faster than light can reach your eyes, then...
I throttled back to 75% once the distance timer reached seven seconds, hearing the frame-shift envelope around me “decelerate”, waiting until the sensors prompted me that I had reached a safe disengage speed and distance to target. A flip of the switch, and the envelope dissolved away, and Bahcall Settlement loomed large in front of me. The Eagle was scooting along at an intense clip, when the radio started to crackle. Suddenly, I remembered my flight training, and I needed to make myself known. After a minute of thinking, I keyed the radio and addressed the flight controller.
“Bahcall Tower, Core Dynamics Zero Zero Two Golf Romeo Alpha, eight point six klicks distant, inbound for landing.”
“Core Dynamics Golf Romeo Alpha, this is Bahcall Star-Con, radar contact, eight six. Be advised this station is under Imperial mandate. Please follow established docking procedures and reduce speed to one-zero-zero within the no-fire zone. Squawk point niner, send request packet at seven-five, and hold for confirmation.”I nodded, then replied. When I got in range, I switched frequencies, selected the outpost in my target panel, and sent a docking request. While I could verbally request for clearance if all else fails, the pre-made packet of information being beamed to Star-Con did all the work for both of us. Within seconds, I got my reply.
“Core Dynamics Golf Romeo Alpha, docking request granted. You are number one to enter, touch down on pad zero two, facing the greens. Be advised a Lakon Type-6 is leaving pad zero three.”“Golf Romeo Alpha has traffic in sight.” I watch the boxlike light hauler lift off from the sole medium pad, do a pirouette, then fire its engines and trundle off.
“Golf Romeo Alpha, approach vector is nominal, five hundred meters from touchdown. Flight services are standing by.”I flash my lights on and lower my landing gear, squaring up the Eagle against the landing pad’s centerline, as my scopes changed to show the bull’s-eye that I was aiming for, relative to my ship’s position in space. With a flick of my wrist, I fire off the vertical thrusters and touch down on the plasteel pad, feeling the Eagle sink and strain against the hydraulic suspension. Heavy clanging sounds issued forth as the magnetic locks secured the gear feet to the deck, and my engines powered down. I keyed the nav-panel, and the pad lurched downward, bringing the Eagle into the hangar so I could refuel and rearm, as we flew out without ammunition.
“Landing complete, locks engaged. You may alight when ready, good Serf.”“It’s been a pleasure, Star-Con.”
Stretching my legs never felt so unfulfilling. The outpost was constructed to mine cobalt and bauxite from the belt clusters below, thus unable to spin and provide artificial gravity for the workers within. I clanked through the cramped halls in my mag-boots, holding on to the rails on either wall for extra stability. Signs posted everywhere carried the Imperial Eagle, sigil of Emperor Lavigny, and touted a zero-tolerance policy on battle weapons, narcotics, and toxic waste within the outpost. I observed a miner on break applying a stim patch to his inner arm right underneath one such sign, defaced with powdered rutile and a crudely-drawn Imperial Eagle, identical to the Emperor’s sigil save for stars above the wings instead of tailing lines, done in blue. I scanned the sigils with my dataslate, and a search returned the symbol of Princess Aisling Duval. Pop called her “that blue-haired brat with her heart on her sleeve” and dismissed her as too naïve to ascend the throne. More looking found this area of space to be contested by both women, each putting pressure on the mining guilds and factions living and working here to subvert the other and claim the system for one or the other.
“Why, of all places, stage a power play for this dump?” I said to nobody in particular. The miner didn’t budge as he soaked in the narcotics, losing himself on his break. At the end of the hall, a digital bulletin board displayed various money-making opportunities; however, most of them involved delivering clothing or food cartridges to the outpost, as well as pleas for medicines to prepare against an impending outbreak. Of what disease, nobody seemed to know or care, so I had no idea if it was the common cold, meningitis, or plague. I suddenly felt very unsafe here, so I turned around and stomped my way back to the hangar.
My Eagle was being stripped by three Imperials wearing baggy blue jumpsuits, posing as mechanics. The frame-shift drive was in pieces and the canopy was smashed, a massive pipe wrench stabbed straight through the glass and resting against the pilot’s chair. The starboard wing drop tank was in the process of being cut off the ship, through the most liberal use of a gas-axe I had ever seen. Should the torch cut through the pressurized wall of the H2 tank and ignite the volatile gas within, the resulting explosion would destroy the station, or at least the hangar we were all standing in.
I placed my hand on my belt and drew my firearm, a nickel-plated revolver given to me by my father as a wedding present. It was called an Anaconda, but featured a wild horse design on the frame and bore no resemblance to either the ectomorphic reptile or the Faulcon DeLacy ship of the same name. Six cartridges were sitting in the cylinder, some obscure and ancient chambering called “forty-four Magnum”, with bullet tips cast in copper and hollowed out, filled with soft lead and formed into a flat-topped shape. I used my thumb to ease the hammer back and took aim at the saboteur with the gas-axe, placing the red square of the front sight blade over his head, holding my left arm out for balance.
The report was truly deafening, and the revolver climbed upward, taking my hand and arm with it. I stopped its upward trajectory with tightened muscles, and rocked forward to counteract the motion imparted on me from the act of firing the gun. The saboteur rocked back, his corpse banging against the fuselage, as the gas-axe and welding goggles still remained in the clutches of rigor, his mag-boots keeping his body from tumbling off across the hangar bay. The other Imperials turned, startled, hands flying to ears and holstered blasters.
“That’s my ship, you sons of bitches!” I called out, pulling the hammer back for the next shot.
“Not anymore, Serf!” the first Imp snarled. “Her Majesty will hear about this treachery!”
“Your beloved Princess will never have this system!” the second Imp added, the whiny inflection sounding almost comical. He turned and clomped over to a canvas tarpaulin nearby. I fired once more, hitting him square in the back, the report of the revolver booming throughout the confines. The Imp screamed and twisted sideways, unhooking a mag-boot from the floor and ultimately expiring with three limbs in the air. I moved to cover behind a toolbox as ionized energy blasts filled the air inches from my head, as the remaining Imp took aim with his blaster. Bolts sizzled against the plasteel wall, but his power pack ran out before he could punch a hole through the aluminum chest. I took aim as he fumbled with his spare pack, and the third bullet disabled his blaster for good. Pop gave me only rudimentary marksmanship training, but the old six-gun still shot true. I eased the hammer back once more.
“Another move and you’re dead.”
“You’re pretty good with that slug-thrower, Angel, I’ll give you that.” He held his hand close to his chest, blood staining his jumpsuit.
“Angel?”
“Still playing dumb, eh? No wonder you’re still a Serf.” He laughed at his joke, then his radio started beeping; he wasted no time answering it. “Send help! Hangar One, two Inquisitors dead! He’s—”
I fired once more, sending the bullet through the Imp’s hand, radio microphone, and upper jaw. A fine pink mist coated the fuselage of the Eagle and his corpse recoiled, arms outstretched to the ceiling as gore filled the area. I surveyed the area, checking for threats, before holstering the Anaconda and stamping over to the canvas tarp. It was actually an oversize duffel bag, and it looked like a person was stuffed inside. I opened the top and pulled the limp figure out. Judging from the slim body type in the Remlok suit, it had to be a young woman, in her late twenties or early thirties. Her helmet’s visor was set on opaque, so I couldn’t see her face, but a quick vital sign check indicated she was still alive and breathing, but sedated. A commotion further down the hall diverted my attention, so I picked up the unconscious woman and made for the exit.
A deep rumble shook the outpost, and the lights started flickering on and off. Klaxons were blaring and emergency lights flipped on, while miners ran to and fro. Shouted voices echoed against the plasteel walls, and a peek around the corner revealed a corridor filled with rubble, all but impassable. The air was getting thinner, and the outpost started to creak. I stomped my way to the escape pods, secured myself and my charge in the seats, then activated the release clamps and held on as the lifeboat shot free of the outpost. Through the tiny porthole, I saw several explosions pierce the comms tower and rip apart the outpost, sending pieces of metal and modules flying infinitely into space and turning to powder against the asteroids in the belt cluster.
Not a few minutes passed before I saw the green flicker of thruster fire outside the window. A Python glided above us, banging the lifeboat against the undercarriage, before scraping us into the open cargo hatch and rolling end-over-end into the artificial gravity of the loading bay. I sat still and waited, finally hearing the bulkhead open a few minutes later, and the sound of jackboots echoing against metallic grates. The escape pod depressurized and the hatch locks undogged, creaking open to the sight of a grey-suited Imp holding a blaster.
“Uriah? That you?” he called. “Did you get her?” I reached out and drug the Imp inside, disarming him so fast he didn’t notice, then shoved his own blaster in his face and stepped out of the pod.
“Not quite. Give me whatever you’ve got, and I won’t disintegrate you.”
“Here! Here!” He was so frightened he wet his pants, throwing his identity badge and credit chips at me. “The code to the safe is five, twenty-three, fifty! Have it all! The ship’s yours! Just don’t kill me!”
“Deal.” I struck him in the temple with the butt of his blaster, then tossed it in his moistened lap as I pulled the girl from the pod. With a shove, I closed the pod door and overrode the locking mechanism, sealing the Imp inside. After making my way to the crew quarters and laying the girl in the bunk, I entered the cockpit and familiarized myself with the Python’s controls, before keying the cargo panel and jettisoning the pod. I engaged reverse thrust and watched the white-orange coffin spin lazily out into the black, hoping the Imp inside would use the blaster for its intended purpose and spare himself the painful death of starvation.
I heard a noise behind me. Sounded like a…
Like a mouse? I put my hand on the revolver and spun the chair around slowly. The sound morphed into a faint mumble, like someone waking up from a bender.
“Nnngh… Denton? Denton, is that you?”
I finished turning around. My eyes swelled in their sockets.
Princess.