McLan Docking Station is old but that
does not make it slow. In its time it had been on the edge of the
known universe, a stopping off point to unexplored frontiers. The
frontier has moved on; McLan had remained. The shield generators burn
energy, golden and silver light flaring through space. We used to
circle a sun; as of two minutes ago the Docking Station no longer
does, hurling freefall into space, the entire top half simply gone.
I help coax the antigrav engines to
full power with a mixture of antiquated apps, jamming together old
linkages and dumb luck. No mechanic ever underestimates the power of
dumb luck. I can hear the station shudder, stresses creaking through
its frame. It was built to survive, but this was long ago – and
against enemies that could be fought. Engines whine, the sounds
causing people around me to grab their heads as they struggle to
patch systems together. I alter my auditory systems, fire up another
set of linkages, kludge together ancient shapes and forms into
something modern.
The station ceases spinning. People
stumble, collapse, pull themselves together and begin running tests,
shouting for orders that will never come. I can feel the station
shuddering through my chassis, vibrations making every limb ache. I
am the only transfer on the McLan, a human body places inside a body
no longer human. A cylinder on treads, a viewscreen for interaction
with others, a projection of a human-self when I need to use one. I
haven’t used it in some years. I hurl out the exit of the engine
room, ignoring shouts of surprise and people leaping out of my way.
I don’t do this often. Transfers are
old tech. Relics, behind my back. But I have served on the McLan for
a long time: docking bays, maintenance, engineering. And I have
served on other Docking Stations before and planets before that. And,
once, I saw footage of a hingari craft. I know what is coming. I
override door commands and send out messages on the infoweb even as
it falls apart.
Brin and Orien are waiting outside the
quarters Orien and I share. Both are old now, as humans get old:
Orien is more synthetics than flesh, and Brin just flesh held in
statis fields. Young, until the field breaks, and then nothing at
all. Her eyes are wide and I shove them both in, slam the doors
behind us.
“The top half of McLan is gone,”
I say, manifesting my projection so they can see how scared I am. “A
galaxy-class starcruiser fell out of hyperspace, missing us. Trying
to dock again, as it did once before.”
“The
Seeker SK4209,” Orien whispers.
“The
newest model of it.
A
hingari ship followed. Dropped down into normal space. The gravity
field ripped a star apart, hurled us off course. McLan is holding
together, but it can’t hold long. The hingari ship burns in normal
space, leaving behind alien shapes, shadows etched into the fabric of
space behind when it goes.” I turn to Brin. “You once moved
through the Ashel quadrant to
the Deli system. You
disrupted space; the hingari craft is doing the same.”
“And if I do
that, we get away.”
“If we reach
another Docking Station we can warn them. The infoweb is down,
hyperspacial links shattered. We have to try something!”
“I don’t have
it in me to survive this,” Brin says, very softly.
I move
toward her, and Orien’s hand catches one of my limbs in a tight
squeeze. “Send us. And others after, as you can. They’ll
listen to us, if only because Dar will shout at them until
they do.”
“I haven’t
heard you shout in a long time,” Brin says. “Not since that
incident with the third engine coolant system –.” She breaks off,
closes her eyes. “You always knew I could do this, didn’t you?
You never said.” She looks so young, despite old eyes.
“You wouldn’t
have wanted me to.” I turn my projection off, and every system I
can spare, watch Orien as he does the same.
The stasis field
keeping Brin young shudders, holding – somehow, holding – as she
disrupts space itself and hurls us into a vortex of her own making.
It hurts. That’s
probably an understatement, but I don’t recall most of it. I shut
down almost everything I am for part of it. I survive. I am
kind of amazed I do.
I wake. It’s
slow, hard, but I flick my viewscreen on. Take in a dozen
armed humans and more weapon systems than is comfortable. I’m in a
quarantine cell; Orien is in the one next to me. He isn’t dead.
That keeps me awake.
“This is the
Docking Station Alpha 11?” I say, and my voice is thin, scratchy.
I’m operating on backups of backups, systems almost drained. “I
need – I need to charge. Data upload. Plea –.”
I shut down my
vocal system as a weapon pulses through me. I steal some of its
energy, despite the pain. Force an infoweb connection and hurl the
information into every open and closed system on Alpha 11 a
nd I come to.
Charged. Not in pain. Someone’s quarters. Orien is pacing the small
room, limping badly. Whoever charged him forced an upgrade on some of
his apps and linkages. No one altered me, though someone tried to.
“Sit.” Orien
looks over at me, grins, and sits down in the one couch in the room.
I begin fixing links, altering apps, shifting modules in his body.
“Someone assumed
you were a hingari weapon,” Orien says after a good ten minutes as
I’m finishing up double-checking my work. “We did come through a
spacewarp and apparently that such things can be done is
somewhere beyond top secret, so they assumed it was an attack.”
“And McLan?”
“I don’t know.
They refused to say if anyone else made it off.” He pops open my
chassis gently and checks a few systems over, closes it. “You
turned a weapon they hit you with into a power source?”
“I got the idea
from Brin.” I extend a limb with a rag on it, turn on my projection
and grin.
Orien shakes his
head, but takes it and cleans my body off. We both have our rituals
to help us hold together. He’s a bit better after, puts it away and
sits on the couch. We wait in silence together for almost an hour
before a tall, tired man comes in, the door sealing shut behind him.
The pause between the door opening and closing allows infoweb access;
I scan the man, download data and close the connection in a moment.
“Commander
Garison.” I add his ID numbers. “I’m Dar. This is Orien.”
He blinks, then:
“The door.”
“Yes.”
Orien shoots me a
look; I don’t normally show off what I can do, especially not to
strangers. Garison pauses, then says: “Wall.”
The wall flickers
to reveal star charts, zooms in on the system McLan is in and there
is – nothing. No stars, no systems. No data. Just a hole too big to
think about. Hingari craft bruise the nature of the universe, leave
gravitational indents that persist for millennia to mark their
passage. Not even that remains. No shapes, no shadows cast on walls.
Nothing to cast them with. Just a piece of space so empty not even
datatrails haunt it.
“I imagine you
can explain this,” the commander says.
I move closer. I
don’t need to, but I do. Extend a limb to brush the wall. To be
sure it’s real. My limb trembles a little against my will. Orien
hasn’t moved. I look back at him through my viewscreen. “You
knew.”
“That she’d
kill herself if she survived that? Yes. This – this I don’t think
even you expected, Dar.”
“Can I upload
data?” I say to the commander. He nods, and I toss some of the info
on Brin up. “She is – she was – a splice.” I pause, gather
myself a little. “She could produce disruption fields and knew how
to use them on any source of energy, which includes actual gravity,
not just the artificial kind. There are not many splices like her
made since someone accidentally let the nature of said splice be
known to some interested parties.”
“You being
someone,” Garison says.
“I asked Brin;
she agreed. A disruption field on her scale can warp space. Hence our
arrival and attempted warning about the SK4209, which was stupid
enough to flee a hingari craft into normal space. Whatever they did
pissed the hingari off enough to send a craft in. The gravitational
fields it generated ripped the McLan in half and destroyed the system
proper.”
“There would be
debris.”
“There would, but
the hingari got too close to McLan. Perhaps they were going to
attempt to repair it or remove witnesses; I have no idea. Brin –
disrupted their craft. Surpassed mere matter and energy and disrupted
information; I imagine she uses her stasis field to allow that, and
the hingari ship simply being near her boosted her splice. I have no
idea if she destroyed the craft, but she definitely damaged it and
the result wiped a piece of the universe entirely of information in
the process.” I smile grimly. “Which I imagine you figured must
have happened, even if you had no idea how.”
“We were hoping
to be wrong, yes.” He doesn’t say what the Seeker SK4209 was
doing, or about the hingari. Just turns and heads back to the door.
“We will see about planetfall for the both of you and compensation
for our mishandling of your arrival. Contracts will be drawn up so
this data is never revealed.”
“All right,”
Orien says quickly before I can comment. I might have a habit of
really not liking contracts, but right now – right now Brin is
dead, and mourning never gets easier no matter how many times you do
it. I stare at the wall, at the empty place where McLan used to be,
and wonder if, where I to open myself up, there would be a hole in me
that felt like the hole in the universe where a friend had been.
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