Dark Beyond the Stars Page 7

  I go back to the elevator and lean against the wall inside. The doors don’t close. The elevator doesn’t move. My brow furrows. This is one of those automated things; my presence in the elevator should trigger it. I step out, wait a few seconds, and then take an exaggerated step back in. With the state the ship is in, maybe the sensor is malfunctioning due to dust or something.

  The elevator still doesn’t budge.

  What the hell?

  I step back out and place a hand on the wall panel. “The elevator seems to be malfunctioning,” I say. “Please run a diagnostic for me.”

  “There is no diagnostic needed, Beth. I have been instructed to keep you on the Control Deck until your shift is complete.”

  Huh? That makes zero sense. “Instructed by whom?”

  The computer doesn’t answer.

  “Computer, where is the other maintenance tech?”

  “Maintenance Tech Jacob has completed his shift.”

  “No. He’s not done. He still has to give me the report.”

  “Maintenance Tech Jacob has completed his shift.”

  My brow furrows and I bite down on my lower lip. I need to ask the right question to get around whatever strange commands the computer is following. “What—no—when was the last time the elevator was operational?”

  “Your trip up from level two, Maintenance.”

  “And the last time before that?”

  “Maintenance Tech Jacob’s trip up from the same level.”

  So, he’s gotta be up here somewhere. Is he injured? Sick? I can’t imagine why else he wouldn’t have met up with me. I move away from the elevator and walk slowly down the hall. There aren’t too many places he could be.

  Kitchen area. Empty.

  Sleeping quarters. Empty.

  Bathing pod. Empty.

  I’m nearly at a full-out run as I check the last few rooms.

  Engine room. Office. Rec room… Closet. All empty.

  I lean my back against the wall and slide down into a sitting position with my knees bent in front of me. The only other place he could be is the airlock, but… that can’t possibly be right. I shake my head and rise to my feet. The computer must be wrong, or maybe it misunderstood my question. I’ll have to figure this out on my own.

  I jog back to the data port, slip into the chair, and call up the crew vid logs. There has to be something in the logs that’ll be helpful. I scroll through the list, my finger flicking over and over again as my eyes widen. Why are there so many logs? One per day. That’s what we were told, but there are over a hundred thousand vids on this list. And I’m still not at the bottom.

  I swipe my hand over the data pad, clearing the list from my sight. Maybe there’s a glitch and the log was duplicated? Yes. That has to be it.

  All the major systems were fine earlier, so I pull up the most recent status reports for the other onboard systems. Everything looks perfectly normal until I scroll past the reports for level two.

  Scrubber bots level three, Maintenance: Operating at twenty-five percent capacity.

  Temperature control level three, Maintenance: Operating at eighty percent capacity.

  Cryo timelock system level three, Maintenance: Computer override. Protocol A235 in effect.

  I lean forward, a cold dread seeping into my limbs as I skim the next line.

  Level four, Citizen: Heavy damage sustained in collision with asteroid. Fifty percent of units flushed on Day 210,970 to preserve resources, but temperature control continues to be unstable.

  Flushed? Somebody flushed half of one of the citizen levels. That is… was… almost twenty-five percent of the ship’s passengers. Over ten thousand people. What if my family was in that group?

  The hand that reaches up to scroll to the next screen is shaking. I’m shaking.

  Level five, Citizen: Maximum inefficiency reached, level is a loss, diverting resources to other areas. All units flushed.

  I yank my hand away and shut down the holo.

  Seventy-five percent of the people in the citizen levels are gone. Floating out in space somewhere.

  Dead.

  Eyes closed, I run a hand over my face and shake my head. That’s… that’s… how… if… what…

  Whatever it was my brain was trying to grasp slips away as the other number I just skimmed past slams into focus in my mind: Day 210,970.

  My eyes fly open. Those units were flushed over five hundred years into Genesis’s journey. The journey that wasn’t supposed to last longer than two hundred years.

  How long have we been on this ship? And how is it that this is only my first maintenance shift? If each shift lasts thirty days… No. The cryo timelocks control when the techs are released to duty. The same timelocks that are now operating under computer override.

  The words are like glass shards painfully working up my throat. I don’t think I really want to know, but I have to ask.

  “Computer, what is Protocol A235?”

  Instead of the mechanical voice I expect, it’s a human one that answers. “Hello, this is President Howard. I am creating this recording in the event that Protocol A235 goes into effect. First of all, I would like to thank you for your bravery in volunteering to be a maintenance technician. The Genesis mission cannot succeed without you. It is my sincere belief that we will reach Xenith or another suitable planet within the planned two-hundred-year time frame. Unfortunately, if Protocol A235 has taken effect, that means the time limit for the mission has been exceeded, and more drastic measures must now be taken in order to assure the longevity of the human race. To do this, the resources of this ship must be preserved for as long as possible—and that includes the members of the maintenance crew and their cryo tubes. I realize you have been prepared to serve only a thirty-day shift, but under Protocol A235, you will now be required to serve the ship for as long as you are physically and mentally able. I am greatly saddened that it has come to this. Please know that both I and the human race as a whole are deeply indebted to you for your sacrifice.”

  A soft beep.

  “End recording,” says the computer. “Supplemental message from Maintenance Tech Franklin can be found in a voice log from Day 103,569. I can play it for you now if you wish.”

  “Please,” I manage to croak out.

  “Hi, I’m Franklin Combs and I’ve had the… honor… of being on duty after Protocol A235. So, you could say I’ve had some time to kill.” He lets out a sarcastic laugh. “I used some of that time to do research and perform a few calculations. I’m not going to sugarcoat anything. I’m a numbers man and these ones aren’t too great. If you’d prefer to live out your shift in blissful ignorance, please direct the computer to stop playing this now…”

  A pause.

  I hesitate, but choose to stay silent.

  “Still with me? Okay then. First thing, Xenith was a lie. There was no habitable planet that they were aware of before setting the Genesis’s course. They just needed something to tell people so they would sign on for the journey. Not to say there’s not a habitable planet out there somewhere, but heading at a random trajectory and hoping to find one is like… trying to find a needle in the entirety of the universe. Second thing, Earth went black about two years into this journey, so it looks like we’re all that’s left of humanity. That was the triggering event for Protocol A235, too, so it’s been in effect for a while now. I envy those first lucky bastards who only had to serve thirty days. Of course, the rotation could eventually come back to them… if the ship lasts that long. And that leads me to my third point: by my calculations, the Genesis has enough resources to maintain operation until some time between Day 313,000 and Day 324,000. The exact day depends on how things go from here, but keep that number in mind. Maybe the next one of you guys who gets this far and is good with numbers can run some new calculations? I’m sure those to come after you would appreciate it. And fourth thing, good luck.”

  I slump back into the chair, my head spinning. There was never any plan. No Xenith. No nice, n
eat colonization of a distant planet. We’re simply adrift in space headed… nowhere. And I’m expected to spend the rest of my life as the steward of this ill-fated ship and its doomed passengers.

  Can I do it?

  Who would I be to just give up now? Clearly, others have served their shifts under Protocol A235. It’d be a disservice to them and to what’s left of the human race if I didn’t try.

  I call up the navigation system and study the course the ship is currently on. Who knows, maybe tomorrow could be the day the sight of our new home appears in the viewing window that takes up the wall in front of me. Right now, the darkness of deep space fills the entire thing, only broken by the occasional pinpoint light of a star. No planets. No asteroids. No suns. Nothing.

  I suddenly feel very, very insignificant.

  Q&A with Theresa Kay

  Photo credit: Marybird Photography

  Where did this story come from?

  People always ask me where my stories come from and I always want to have a really awesome answer. I never do, though. This story came from a random thought I had while reading an article about space. It was so long ago I don’t even remember exactly what about space the article said, just that I got an inkling of a story idea from it. The single-sentence idea I jotted down sat forgotten in an old computer file until a couple months ago when I decided to clean out my Dropbox—and then I finally used it to write this story.

  How does it relate to other books you’ve written?

  Most of my work has darker elements to it and, more often than not, lacks a happy ending, so when I first described the general idea of this story to my husband he said, “That definitely sounds like something you’d write.” Besides my love of being mean to my characters, this story has more in common with my space opera novella serial, Bright Beyond, than my YA post-apocalyptic sci-fi series, Broken Skies.

  How can readers find you?

  They can contact me through my website, www.theresakay.com, and I can also be found in the wilds of the internet on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

  Works in progress?

  I’m putting the finishing touches on Fractured Suns, book two in the Broken Skies series, and prepping it for release on September 18, 2015.

  Full-time writer or do you have a day job?

  Day job. I’m a paralegal at a divorce firm. It can be quite interesting at times.

  What’s your favorite dinosaur?

  Velociraptor. Jurassic Park was one of my absolute favorite books as a kid. I probably read it at least twenty times.

  If you could have any accent from anywhere in the world, which would you choose?

  British. I’m a bit of an anglophile thanks to BBC and Doctor Who. Did you notice the Doctor Who Easter egg in “Protocol A235”? Most of my works have one.

  Do you go out of your way to kill bugs? Are there any that make you screech and hide?

  As long as the bug isn’t on me, they don’t really bother me and I try to get them outside.

  Earliest literary influence?

  I think the first author I read who I think has an influence on my work now is Stephen King. I started reading his books when I was eleven.

  Winner Takes All

  by Elle Casey

  “Tremblay!”

  Langlade’s voice echoed off the steeloid walls of the flightdeck. Knowing his first summons would be ignored, he leaned in closer to the array at his left hand and pressed the comm button again. “Tremblay, get your ass up here now!”

  The Centurion 4 Dark Settlement Station lay ahead, and the only entrance bay available was one of the smaller ones. He told himself he wanted Tremblay to pilot the Kinsblade 3 into this bay because he was too tired from their all-night trip from Gartan to do it himself. Tremblay would keep his mouth shut and not say what they both knew, though: Langlade wasn’t exactly the best pilot in the galaxy, and it was better if he didn’t try to guide the DS into the small space himself. The ship had already suffered enough hull damage for one trip.

  Even so, Tremblay would give him that look, the one that made Langlade want to blast him with a particle ray—the look that said they both knew that while Langlade was an ace trader and no puff with the ladies, he sucked exhaust pipe at piloting ships of any size. So long as Tremblay’s looks never evolved into actual words, though, Langlade would let him live. The man was a pretty damn good pilot, even if he did stink like he bedded down nightly with goats.

  “Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, I’m comin’.” The comm crackled after Tremblay’s response before going down again.

  “Adelle,” Langlade said out into the open air of the flightdeck.

  “Yes, Captain,” the onboard compubot responded in her cool, assured tone. She always had that confident hum to her voice, even when the ship was being fired on by hostile forces—usually meaning angry fathers, highly disappointed in their wayward daughters who’d had the extraordinarily good taste to fall for the captain of the Kinsblade fleet.

  Langlade smiled, thinking of his last late-night escape into the Dark. Boy, that little slice of heaven was sure ripe for the picking. She’d nearly jumped on him the minute he’d walked through the airlock and onto the dock. It seemed his reputation was preceding him more and more these days.

  The idea of easy pickings drew his attention back to his immediate situation. He had a few days’ worth of repairs to do to the ship before he could find some more paying work; might as well enjoy himself while the crew got the DS shipshape.

  “Any events being broadcast on the dock’s PA system?” he asked Adelle.

  “Yes, Captain. There is a music and light show this evening, if that interests you.”

  Langlade shook his head. Adelle was good at keeping the ship’s systems online and assessed, but she was garbage at remembering his personal preferences. It was like she was always trying to turn him into a different man; she acted too much like a wife for his comfort. It was why he rarely spoke with her about things involving his personal life. But it had been a while since he’d been back to the farthest Dark Settlement in Centurion 4, and he didn’t want to walk off the docks blind.

  “Try again, Adelle. And let’s focus on things that won’t put me to sleep, all right?”

  “As you wish, Captain. There is a gambling tournament being hosted by Gervais at the Grand Old Saloon.”

  His eyebrows went up at that. “Sanctioned?”

  “I do not believe so, sir. It’s being broadcast on the black channel.”

  Langlade’s smile came slowly as the ideas floated through his skull. “What’s the ante?”

  “I do not have details, sir, other than to know it features the game of givit. It’s being broadcast sporadically, and much of it is encrypted.”

  Langlade knew Adelle wouldn’t have the decryption codes; the Kinsblade fleet wasn’t made up of regular residents, nor were any of its ships or its crewmembers trade partners with the people who inhabited this settlement, generally speaking.

  “Can you get me dealt in?”

  “No, sir. You must approach in person.”

  Langlade nodded, chewing his broken thumbnail pensively. He had to come up with something to ante. In games like this, gencredits weren’t always welcome—not that he had piles of them anyway. Money was boring; lust was much more exciting. Blood-lust, sex-lust… it was all the same in the end. People living in the Dark Settlements craved passion in any form. Luckily, Langlade was a passionate guy. He knew he’d come up with something that someone at the tables would want, and surely there’d be a chancer there who’d be offering up a trinket he would suddenly find he could no longer live without. It was always that way at the givit tables. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the night ahead.

  The door to the flightdeck slid open and a stench flowed into the room, as if it were trying to escape its source and find a new host.

  “Took you long enough,” Langlade growled out, standing up from the captain’s chair. He wanted to put as much breathing space between hi
mself and his crewmember as possible, on account of the fact that the man’s stench tended to rub off and stick around.

  Tremblay mounted the stairs to join his captain. “I was busy.”

  “Too busy to pilot the ship into the bay?” Langlade scoffed as he made way for the real pilot of the ship to take his place. “You sure you don’t have a whore lined up in there already?”

  “So what if I do? Don’t make what I’m doing now any less important.”

  Langlade was instantly suspicious. Tremblay had been with him for a long time, but that didn’t make him any less mysterious. Normally what he did in his chamber was never something Langlade questioned; so long as the guy did what he was paid to do, Langlade left him to his perversions. But this felt off for some reason. Not much took precedence over Tremblay’s sex dates.

  “What’s so important on the ship that it keeps you from your whore?” Langlade asked.

  Tremblay ignored him, his fingers flying over the seat’s arm. After passing his hand over the array to get it primed for his commands, he hopped on the comm box by pressing blue and black buttons simultaneously, then dialed in the frequency visible outside the station.

  He called out to the dockmaster, who would give them permission to enter and assign them a dock to settle on. “Dockmaster, this is the Kinsblade 3, requesting authority to enter bay three niner. That’s three niner, Dockmaster.”

  A space of three seconds preceded the response. “Kinsblade 3, this is the dockmaster. State the nature of your business.”