Sci Fi & Fantasy / Chthonia Chapter 1

Chapter 1.

The star-craft thundered through the portal, exhaust gases from its vast engines buffeting the thin atmosphere of the toroidal habitat ring like a hurricane; ionised particles creating storms or aurora borealis in the magnetic shielding.  If there had been anyone left alive on the ring looking up through that atmosphere, it would have been a spectacular site.

But there was no one left here to appreciate it.  There had been no one here for more than one hundred and thirty years.  No one human, at least.

Unlike the delicate, exquisitely engineered lines of the portal and its surrounding habitat ring, the ship was a misshapen, ugly lump of cold steel, its form entirely governed by its function.  Every square inch of the craft’s surface was utilised for some practical purpose.  The front was covered in ion scoops, the rear entirely occupied by the enormous mass-reactive engines.

Brutal, blockish mining gear in the star-craft’s mid-sections broke what smooth lines it had, making it seem unbalanced and unevenly weighted.  Delicate sensor arrays poked out of the star-craft’s surfaces at every conceivable angle, further breaking its lines, and giving it the appearance of a deformed hedgehog.

As the craft passed out of the portal, solar panels unlocked, rotating, angling their huge flat surfaces towards the sun.  Even at this distance where, to the human eye, the sun was lost in the background glow of the Milky Way, the efficient solar panels could draw enough power to run the ship’s life support systems.  But they did nothing to enhance its appearance.

Dotted around the star-craft, huge docks, where smaller ships could come and go, were ugly rifts torn in its sides.  One such small ship detached itself from a docking clamp within these depths and, powering up its engines, flew out and away, heading back to the toroid that was its home.

At ten kilometres from the star-craft, about half the way on its journey back, a beacon on the small ship’s back illuminated.  Flashing rapidly, the pulses spelt out a formalised invoice for services rendered, the credits to be deposited directly into the account of the Eur-Asian Mega Corporation that currently owned the portal.

This smaller ship was known to the star-craft’s crew simply as a tug boat, one of the many entirely automated AI systems that were now the toroid’s only residents.  The job of the these tug boats was to guide large star-craft through the portals.  Huge though the portals were, it was millennia old economics that had dictated the restrictive maximum diameter of the worm-holes the portals held open.

Over the centuries, as deep-space mining expeditions like this had become vital pillars of Earth’s economy, these star-craft had needed to become larger, but it was not feasible to widen the portals.  Ship designers had therefore become masters at maximising the use of the available diameter, but to accommodate the required extra storage space, the star-craft had inevitably grown longer and longer, making them unwieldy in such narrow confines.  It was the job of the tug-boats to ensure neither ship nor portal came to any harm.

At around 10,000 kilometres from the portal, the output from the star-craft’s vast engines began to ramp up, pushing out huge streams of ionised particles, accelerating the craft away and into the outer reaches of the Trojan asteroid group.

“Orders, Captain?”

Captain Dresslan turned to his first officer.  ”All ahead full, Mr Compton.  Take us away from the portal.”

“Aye, sir.  All ahead full.”  Compton turned back to the bridge crew and relayed the orders to the men.

Captain Dresslan stepped down from his command bridge.  He made his way over to the COMMS station.

“Anders?”

The young black man sat at the COMMS station looked up at him.  Captain Dresslan had seen the same wide-eyed, bunny-caught-in-the-headlights look plastered across every one of his bridge crew over the years.

Captain Dresslan reached out a hand and placed it on the young man’s shoulder, like a proud father, reassuring his young son.  This was Ensign Anders first time out on an active commission, and Captain Dresslan liked to keep a close eye on new bridge crew personally.  A happy ship was like a family, he had always said, and he meant it.  Every member of the crew was like a son or a daughter to him.

“Don’t worry, Anders, my boy,” Captain Dresslan said, his deep voice low, just breaking out past his thick beard so that only Anders would hear him.  ”Everything will be fine.  Just you place your trust in me, and I’ll see us all home safe and sound.”

Anders’s head bobbed up and down, but he didn’t reply.

“Now then,” Captain Dresslan said, with more volume.  ”Any word from Station Victor?”

Anders shook his head.

“Speak up lad,” Captain Dresslan whispered.

“Oh, er, sorry, Captain,” Anders said, the words sticking in his throat a little.  He swallowed and then continued.  ”There’s been no word from Station Victor, sir.”

The Captain paused for a moment.  That was odd; they normally got a COMMS handshake from Victor as they came out of the portal.

Station Victor was the oldest of the mining stations out here in the clutches of Saturn.  Holding station around Io, it was closest to the jump portal and acted as an informal hub for the people and traffic that moved around the vast areas covered by the mining operations.  Most of the miners out here had visited the place at one point or another, and most had more than a few tales of drunken misadventure that started ‘I remember this one night on Victor…’

“I guess they must have some big hangovers,” Compton said.  There were some laughs from the rest of the bridge crew.

That could have been it.  The date of Earth’s Winter Solstice had become something of an unofficial system holiday in recent years, and that had been yesterday.  But still, Captain Dresslan could feel something was wrong deep in his bones.

“Aye, I’m sure that’s it, Mr Compton,” Captain Dresslan said at length.  ”But I’d appreciate if you could get me in touch with them, Mr Anders.  There’s a man I need to talk to about a gambling debt…”

“Gambling debt?” Anders asked.

“Why, yes.  Let me tell you the story, my boy…”

There was a background groan from the crew as Captain Dresslan started his story.

Dresslan glanced around the men sat at the table.  The hours had dragged on so far past midnight that he’d lost track of the time; the room was totally dark save for the sharp brightness of the naked bulb that hung just a few feet above the card table’s worn green felt.

“Well?” the man opposite him asked.

Dresslan stared at him, trying to see past his eyes, read his mind, find out what his cards were, and, more importantly, see if he were bluffing.

Dresslan glanced down at his own cards again.  He lifted the corner of the two cards for what felt like the first time, but he knew was the tenth.  It was as if he was expecting them to be different each time he looked.

A pair of deuces.  Not so good in and of themselves, but combined with the third deuce and the two Jacks on the table it made a full house.  It was a good hand—one of the best he’d had all night.

Dresslan re-did his mental calculations.  The cards the dealer had revealed meant there was no possibility of a straight or a flush.  Dresslan’s had to be the winning hand.  But what was at stake?  If he lost, he could kiss goodbye to the fortune in chips sat before him, and it was a fortune he sorely needed.

If he played, he could clean out the man opposite him, use the money to buy a new Cutter, prove to his father he was a capable pilot.  The other two men at the table were virtually bankrupt already—they had only enough for three or four more stakes between them.  The only real money in the game belonged to the man in front of him.

All night Dresslan had been struggling to get a handle on this man.  He couldn’t detect even the slightest tell; the man was as impassive when holding bupkis as he was holding a straight-flush, and that worried Dresslan.  He didn’t like playing men he couldn’t read.  Not for this many credits.

Dresslan picked up his shot glass, and slammed back the ruddy brown liquid.  It was a good single malt, and he felt the warm glow as it burnt its way down his throat and into his belly.

In that moment he decided.  In that moment his fortunes changed.

“All in,” he said.

The man on his right exhaled, appreciatively.  Dresslan glanced at him before leaning forward and pushing his mound of chips into the centre of the table.

The man opposite said nothing for a moment, then he smiled.  Dresslan felt an ice-cold bolt of fear shoot down his spine.  He swallowed hard.

The man opposite looked at the dealer.  ”Could I trouble you for a little credit?” he asked, simply.

The pretty red-head glanced at Dresslan and then back at the man opposite.  Then she picked up a small COMMS device that had been sat on the table.

“Did you hear that?” she said into it.  Dresslan realised a channel on the device must have been left open to monitor the game.

There was a momentary pause, and then a tinny voice came back.  ”Yes,” it said.  ”Credit line is approved.”

The man opposite Dresslan smiled again.  Dresslan felt a bead of cold sweat trickle down his temple.  He wiped it away, nervously.

The dealer put the COMMS device back on the table.  ”Credit granted,” she said.  Dresslan looked at her, expecting her to state an upper limit for the man’s credit.  It didn’t come.

“Good,” the man opposite him said.  The man pushed his mound of chips forward.

“I believe the difference between our two bets is somewhere in the region of 100,000 credits?” the man asked.

Dresslan didn’t realise the question was directed at him until it was repeated.

“Er, yeah,” Dresslan answered.  ”I guess, something like that.”

“So there must be around three quarters of a million credits in the pot, total?” the man said.  This time it was a rhetorical question, but Dresslan responded anyway.

“About that,” Dresslan said.  He swallowed again, but his mouth was completely dry.  Where had that shot of whisky gone?

“I double it,” the man opposite Dresslan said.

The man on Dresslan’s right gasped.  Dresslan took no notice this time.

The room was silent for what seemed to Dresslan like an hour, then he answered.

“I don’t have the money,” he said.

“I know,” the man said.  ”But I’d be willing to lend it to you.”

Dresslan thought for a moment.  This was either an exceedingly elaborate bluff, or the man opposite knew what Dresslan’s cards were.

Dresslan stared at the man again.  His expression had returned to its former, utterly impenetrable blankness.

“I need an answer, Mr Dresslan,” the dealer prompted.

“Okay, okay,” Dresslan said.  ”I’ll see the bet.”

The man opposite Dresslan smiled for the third and final time.

Dresslan reached down and flipped his cards over.  ”Deuces,” he said, studying the features of the man opposite.  There was no reaction.

“Ah,” the man opposite said.  He turned over one his cards to reveal the last deuce.  There was another gasp from the man to Dresslan’s right.

Dresslan’s eyes widened.  He must have won—surely?  He couldn’t have anything, just three of a kind… Right?

Dresslan’s own face widened in a grin; he was about to cry out, when the man opposite Dresslan turned over his last card.

A Jack.

The man had a Jack.  He had a full house too.  But he had Jacks over deuces, not deuces over Jacks.  Dresslan had been beaten.

He didn’t know what to say.

He owed this man three quarters of a million credits.  Three quarters of a million credits he didn’t have.

The man opposite leant across the table a little.  ”I’m Jack,” he said and held out a hand.  ”Jack Victor.”

Dresslan could only look at the offered had, dumbfounded.

Captain Dresslan finished his telling of the story, which, after so many retellings, had received quite a few embellishments.  He smiled at Anders.

“How did you pay him, Sir?” Anders asked.

“That’s a story for another time,” Captain Dresslan said.  ”I’ll be in my ready room if you get hold of Station Victor.”

“Come,” Captain Dresslan called.

The door to his ready room slid open and Anders stepped through.

Anders saluted.  ”Reporting, Sir,” he barked.  Anders was rapidly starting to look like a proper member of the crew, but, like most newbies, he had slipped into the pseudo-military formality they drummed into new recruits at the training academies back on Earth.

Captain Dresslan smiled but said nothing.  He’d found over the years it was best to let people relax into their roles in their own time.  Plus, it gave him a kick to be called ‘Sir’ every so often.

“At ease, Mr Anders,” Captain Dresslan said.  ”Any luck?”

Anders shook his head.  ”I’m afraid not, Sir.  Station Victor is all quite.”

“Now that is odd.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Captain Dresslan pushed his not inconsiderable frame up from the chair behind his large desk and strolled over to the small observation window.  The engineering difficulties made windows an absolute luxury on purely commercial ships, but it was at times like this Captain Dresslan was glad his forebears had insisted on its installation.

The Gracious had been in his family for decades, the portraits of all its previous Captains hanging in the formal hall used for official occasions, and he was proud to be continuing the unbroken line that stretched back through his Father and Grandfather.  She wasn’t the prettiest of star-craft, but she was still the best at what she did.  And that wasn’t just bluster—they had the financial returns to prove it.

He stared out at the stars.  They looked so different out here, in the orbit of Jupiter.  The great Jovian mass loomed large on the horizon, like a dimmer half-brother to the sun, its numerous moons like planets in the backdrop of the stars.  Of course, many of what he saw as stars were actually the asteroids they were here to mine, the small pinpricks of light they reflected making the two indistinguishable.  The only clue to their true nature was the relative speed at which they moved when compared to the background, but even that was hard to detect without studying them for a considerable time.

“Do you have any orders, Sir?” Anders asked, snapping Captain Dresslan from his reverie.

“Yes,” Captain Dresslan said.  Could you send Mr Compton in, please?  I think we may need to make an unscheduled stop.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Captain Dresslan didn’t hear the sound of the door as Anders left.  He continued to stare out into space, wondering what had happened to the Station’s owner, Jack Victor.

“I have a proposition for you,” Jack said.

“A proposition?” Dresslan asked.  He slumped into the chair at the booth of the grotty bar he had been summoned to.

Dresslan looked around.  It was early afternoon, the place was nearly empty, but all the same, it carried an oppressive, closed-in atmosphere.  This was the kind of bar you came to when you were not just expecting a night to end in a fight or two, but hoping for it.

Jack must have seen him looking around.  ”What do you think of the place?” he asked.

Dresslan looked back at the man.  He was as desperately thin as Dresslan had remembered him, but now Jack’s face was covered in a stubble that was longer than his short-cropped, receding hair.  There was also a scar over his eyebrow Dresslan didn’t remember from before.  It hinted that Jack had seen his fair share of local colour, his slightly too new clothes the only real clue that he didn’t quite fit in with his surroundings anymore.

Dresslan realised that, sat here, at this table, Jack looked more like a big, scar-covered alley cat, king of its despotic little empire.  And yet there were hints that the big tomcat was often absent nowadays, living the high life in front of a big open fire on the soft rug, a bowl of milk never too far away.

“I think it’s a dive,” Dresslan said.

For a moment Jack didn’t reply, then he smiled that smile again.  ”That’s what I like about you, Dresslan,” he said.  ”You’re honest.  You call a spade a spade.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Dresslan said.  He took a gulp of his watered-down beer.

“This is my bar,” Jack said.

Dresslan almost spat the beer at him.  ”Er, it is?” he said.  ”Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Jack waved his hand dismissively.  ”No,” he said.  ”It’s okay, you’re right—it is a dive.  And it’s one of about thirty dives I own.”

“Thirty?  Wow.”

Jack leant forward, across the vandalised, graffiti’d table between them.  ”I’m a business man, Dresslan.  I know an opportunity when I see it, and that is how I have built myself an Empire.  People will always need somewhere cheap to drown their sorrows.—I have simply given it to them.”

Dresslan nodded.  He’d seen his fair share of grotty bars across the solar system, and no matter where you went they were always full of the same types of people.  People with no hope, no prospects, no ambitions other than getting that next bottle of booze, or hit of drugs.  By the sound of things, Jack owned half of them.

“But I have ambitions,” Jack continued.  ”Grand ambitions.”

“Which are?” Dresslan asked.

“I want to own a space station.”

Dresslan blinked at him.  ”A what?”

“A space station,” Jack said.  ”Do you know how much revenue there is in a space station?”

“I’ve no idea,” Dresslan confessed.  Although he was the heir to a vast fortune, it was a tradition in his family that they made their own way in life until their thirties, when they took a commission onboard one of the family’s mining vessels.

Dresslan wasn’t making a very good job of finding his own way, and finances had never been one of his strengths.  In a way, that’s what had led him to this meeting…

“Trillions of credits,” Jack said.

Dresslan thought for a moment.  ”And I suppose the fact that the last three gas giant commissioners were all ex-station owners doesn’t hurt?”

Jack bobbed his head from side-to-side, in what wasn’t quite a confirmatory nod, but which didn’t indicate denial either.

“Okay,” Dresslan said.  ”So what’s the proposal?”

“I need a favour,” Jack said.

Dresslan fidgeted in his chair.  ”What sort of favour?”

Jack smiled again.  ”Your support and assistance.”

“My support with what?”

Jack gestured at the bar.  ”Well,” he said.  ”A man of my reputation and background needs friends in high places.  Money talks, Dresslan, but some of its languages are only spoken in certain circles.”

“I see,” Dresslan said.  ”And I suppose this favour will be called in when I reach thirty?”

“You’re getting the idea,” Jack said.  ”And it will be a mutually beneficial relationship, I assure you.  I will give you employ in one of my bars until then—you might even get to run one or two of them.”

“That sounds delightful.”

“I knew you’d see the up side.”

Dresslan thought for a moment.  He could certainly learn a thing or two from Jack.  And he owed the man more credits than was healthy.  Speaking of which…

“I assume the favour cancels my debt?” Dresslan asked.

Jack nodded.  ”That’s right,” he said.

“And what if I was to say no?”

“Well,” Jack said.  ”If you were to say no, then I suppose…”  He looked around.  Two enormous men loomed out of the gloomy darkness and stood at the end of their table, towering over Dresslan.

“I suppose I’d have to get my associates to collect the credits you owe me.  You do have the money, yes…?”

Dresslan looked up at the two men for a moment, took another large gulp of his beer and then held out his hand.  ”I think you’ve got yourself a deal, Jack,” he said.

Ironically, when the time had come for Dresslan to help Jack buy his space station, it was actually something he’d wanted to do.

Dresslan had grown fond of Jack over the years.  He’d learnt many things from him, the most important of all being how to deal with people.

It was all about working out what made them tick--what they wanted, what they needed--and putting yourself in a position to use that information.  It was never really about exploiting them, just making sure that what that person needed involved using a service you alone could provide.

He’d put those skills to great use since then, and was sure he wouldn’t have the profitable mining concessions he did now if it hadn’t been for Jack.

Good old Jack.  And now they couldn’t get hold of his space station—Station Victor, which he’d renamed after himself.  Something was definitely wrong.

It started as a low rumbling sensation.

Captain Dresslan had felt it through his boots at first, not quite sure if he was imagining it.  Then he’d noticed the pen on his desk bouncing up and down.

It had quickly gotten worse; a painting on his wall shaking and falling to the floor, and with the increase in the vibrations there had come a low, rumbling din too.

Captain Dresslan collected his hat and stepped out of his ready room onto the bridge.

“Mr Compton, report,” he said.

His first officer was stood behind one of the sensor array desks, talking to the operator.  He turned to answer his Captain.

“No idea Captain,” Mr Compton said.  ”But we can’t find Station Victor.”

“What?”

“It’s not where it should be,” Mr Compton explained.  ”We’ve taken up geo-stationary orbit around Io and… it’s not here.”

“Not here?” Captain Dresslan said, his annoyance evident in his voice.  ”It has to be here.  How can a six trillion tonne space station that’s thirty kilometres across just disappear?”

“We don’t know,” Mr Compton said.  ”We’re currently scanning Io’s surface.”

“You think it crashed into Io?”

“It’s the most sensible explanation, Captain.”

Captain Dresslan frowned at his first officer for a moment.  It would make sense.  The space station had to be somewhere, and if they couldn’t find it on radar, crashing into Jupiter’s moon, Io, would be the only logical explanation.

But crashing into a moon?  It would be like walking into a wall in broad daylight with your eyes open.

“Mr Compton?  Let me take a look at the radar histories—and what the hell is with this damn rumbling?”

“We don’t know,” Mr Compton said, looking somewhat embarrassed.  ”It started as we approached Io.”

“You don’t know very much, do you, Mr Compton?” Captain Dresslan said.

Mr Compton knew better than to reply, instead turning back to the sensor array console and its operator to get the radar data.

Captain Dresslan strode up the steps to his command pulpit.  One of the screens flickered into life as the radar history data was transferred to his console.

He took his seat and scrolled back through the information, honing in on a couple of spikes.  The data seemed awfully noisy, but there was certainly nothing big enough to be Station Victor.

There was one thing that caught his eye, though.

“Mr Compton?” Captain Dresslan said

“Yes, sir?” Mr Compton said.

“What’s this at time-frame six-niner-seven-seven, frame-ref hash-point-three-two-four?”

Mr Compton said something to the array operator, who then tapped a few commands into his console.  The main display changed to show the radar readings Captain Dresslan had indicated.

Mr Compton looked up at the large screen, trying to decipher them.  ”I don’t…”

“You don’t know, right?” Captain Dresslan said, interrupting.  ”Well, neither do I.”

“Henry?” Captain Dresslan asked.

The sensor operator turned to look at him.  ”Captain?” he said.

“Run it through the Amlack filters, Henry.”

“It’s a very long range scan sir,” Henry said.  ”The resolution’s a bit low for that to do much.”

“Just do it, Henry,” Captain Dresslan said.

Henry turned back to his console and tapped in a few commands.  All eyes turned back to the large screen.  There was a moment’s pause, and then the screen changed to a different display, with a fuzzy, pixelated image at its centre.

Amlack filters could be used to generate a 3D interpretation of radar data.  They worked better with higher resolution data, but were useful for getting an overall picture of what an object might be—especially useful when you were manoeuvring a gigantic mining ship through an asteroid field.

The process itself involved building up and refining successive radar returns to produce an image.  The screen updated sequentially as it carried out several such iterations.  As the picture finally became clear, there were a handful of gasps from around the bridge.

“Anders?” Captain Dresslan said.  He turned to the young radio operator’s station.

Anders looked down from the large screen.  ”Yes, Sir?” he said, meekly.

“Has there been any communication from Station Victor?” Captain Anders asked.  ”Anything at all?”

Anders shook his head.  ”No, Sir.  There’s been nothing at all.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No Sir.”

“Not even any casual radio chatter?” Captain Dresslan said.  ”What about other ships?  Anyone else trying to contact Station Victor?”

The young radio operator’s eyes widened, answering Captain Dresslan’s question more completely than his words did.  ”No, Sir, it’s all totally silent.”

“Silent?”  Mr Compton said, giving voice to everyone’s thoughts.  ”Good God, where is everybody?  This is a major staging area—it should be teeming with activity.”

“That it should, Mr Compton,” Captain Dresslan said.  ”That it should.  And my gut tells me the reason is something to do with… well, whatever that is.”  He pointed at the object on the screen.

“Plot us a course, Mr Compton.”

It was, as close as their instruments could measure, perfectly spherical.

It was also incredibly dense, its gravitational pull far in excess of what seemed sensible for an object of its small size, which was perhaps one third that of The Gracious.

And that was about all they could really say about it for definite.  It was floating in space, seemingly holding a stable orbit around Io in spite of the enormous gravity well it was creating, but what it was made of, how it had been made, or, more importantly, how it had come to be here had them stumped.

“But what is it?”

Mr Compton shrugged.  ”We’ve no idea,” he said.  ”The mineralogical engineers say they’ve never seen anything like it--the scan results are contradictory, apparently; the sensor operators say it defies several of the laws of physics--something about impossible levels of molecular order; the stellar cartographers don’t believe anybody else’s results and are having to treat it like a small sun… Basically, we’ve no idea.”

“But how can that be?”  Captain Dresslan asked.  He and Mr Compton were standing in his ready room.  They had been approaching the object for the last three hours; the sheets of paper and data slates scattered over Captain Dresslan’s desk were the fruits of the crew’s extensive labours during that time.

“We don’t know,” Mr Compton said.  ”If it’s natural, it breaks all sorts of physical laws, and if it’s man-made then it’s a remarkably advanced feet of engineering, which is totally beyond us.”

“Remarkable doesn’t even cover it,” Captain Dresslan said.  He dropped the data slate he had been scrolling through back onto his desk.

“We--and I mean we as a species--can’t make anything anywhere near this perfect.  And not only that, but according to one of these,” Dresslan waved at his desk, “there’s no sign of any repulsive shielding?”

Mr Compton shook his head.  ”Apparently not,” he said.

“No shielding, and yet its surface is perfectly smooth—that’s just not possible, is it?  Micro-meteorites and the space dust drawn to Io alone would leave it pock-marked within days, not to mention the junk that’s spiralling down towards Jupiter.”

“I know, sir, and yet there it is.”

Captain Dresslan rounded his desk, slumped into his chair and immediately regretted it.  The vibrations had grown worse in the hours since they’d gotten close to the object, leaving little doubt that it was the source.  It had become impossible to sit for any length of time without your joints aching from the contestants shaking, and it was even getting difficult to stand.

Captain Dresslan had begun to fear for the structural integrity of his ship, and his crew wasn’t doing much better.  It had become impossible for anyone to sleep, and with a ship that was reliant on shift-patterns that could only mean trouble ahead.

“How are the medical bays doing?” Captain Dresslan asked Mr Compton.

Mr Compton shook his head.  ”Not too good,” he said.  ”They’re just not able to cope with these volumes of people—almost everyone on-board has some sort of headache or joint pain caused by the shaking, not to mention the injuries from people falling over or having accidents.  There are also reports from some of the lower levels that people are starting to get visions.”

“Visions?”

“So they tell me,” Mr Compton said.  ”It’s a known side effect of long-term exposure to ultra-sound—the doctors think we’ve been hit by whatever’s causing this since we came out of the portal, we just didn’t realise until the vibrations became more noticeable.”

“You think we should turn back, Mr Compton?” Captain Dresslan asked.

“I think it’s something we should consider, Captain.  We should at least contact the authorities before going any further.”

Captain Dresslan considered this for a moment.  ”Okay,” he said.  ”Send a message drone back to the portal with our findings on it.  We’ll drop back and hold station until we get a reply.”

“Very good, sir.”

The message drone was utterly dwarfed by the vast star-craft that had been its home.  Two hundred and twenty three years the drone had sat, motionless, attached to the underside of the ship, inactive, waiting for its purpose.

This was its first day of action, and it would also be its last, for, as the drone sped away, heading back to the portal, its movement was being tracked by the only thing still alive for millions of kilometres that wasn’t on board the star-craft.

Inside the perfect sphere, something was stirring back to life.  Older than the galaxy itself, it had been sleeping for countless millennia.  It had recently been awoken from its slumber; it was desperately hungry and soon it would be time to feast again.

“Captain?”  Anders asked, turning towards him.

“Yes, Mr Anders?” Captain Dresslan said.

“I’m picking something up on COMM, Sir.”

Captain Dresslan paused for a moment.  ”Put it on the main bridge speakers,” he said, eventually.

Captain Dresslan strode into the middle of the bridge, listening to what Anders had discovered.  At first there was nothing but the feint background hum of static caused by the proximity of Jupiter.  Then, Captain Dresslan heard a soft ping.  After a while there was another.

He turned back to Anders.  ”It’s the drone, son.  You’re jumping at shadows—don’t worry, Mr Anders, we’re all a little frazzled…”

“No, Sir, there’s something else—listen.”

Captain Dresslan did as Mr Anders suggested.  ”I can’t hear anything, Mr Anders,” he said.

“I think I can,” Compton said.

Captain Dresslan turned to him.  ”What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Compton said.  ”Anders, see if you can clean it up some, would you?  Try to filter out the background static.”

“I’ll give it a go, Sir, but I think the noise is actually a part of the static.”  Anders turned back to the COMM station and started to fiddle with the knobs and buttons.

Captain Dresslan listened as the static grew in intensity and then dimmed, its pitch shifting higher and then lower, distorting.

And then he heard it.

“Wait,” Captain Dresslan said, holding up a hand.  ”I can hear it… What is it?”

“I don’t know, Sir,” Anders said, hesitantly.  ”It sounds… Well, it sounds like… like an animal, Sir.”

Captain Dresslan listened closely.  Anders was right.  It sounded like the cry of a wild animal…

“Mr Compton, get us out of here.”

“What?  Why sir?”

“Just do it, Mr Compton,” Captain Dresslan said.  ”Now.”

Mr Compton turned and began relaying commands to the bridge crew.  It would only take them minutes to fire the engines back up and get moving.  Captain Dresslan could only pray it would be long enough.

*

The drone was just three kilometres from the portal when the front edge of the shockwave hit it.

To the probe, this front was perceived as an intense storm of electromagnetic interference.  By way of response, the drone shut down its systems in order to avoid any permanent damage, and rode out the storm.

The drone re-started its systems just in time to detect the shower of fractionally slower particulate matter that followed in the wake of the electromagnetic storm.  A quick radar sweep confirmed to the drone it would not survive intact.

Its logic circuits were pre-programmed for just such an event, its actions clear.  The drone fired off a series of distress signals in the last known direction of its home, The Gracious.

After just one second of transmission, larger pieces from the detonation of The Gracious’ plasma engines, flung off in all directions at great speed, pounded the small drone beyond function.

The signals from the drone’s last act would not reach its intended target, for there was nothing left of The Gracious but a growing debris field.  They would, however, be received in less than an hours time by a small space station in High Earth Orbit.

They would be intercepted, recognised, decoded and relayed down to Earth only because of the attention drawn by the bright flash of The Gracious’ death.

The contents of this message would spell the end of mining in the vicinity of Jupiter and the complete prohibition of any transit to the gas giant portals for nearly 30 years.

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