So It Begins (36 page)

  As he backed away from the steaming goo, he struck his elbow on a protruding piece of equipment. The cold-pack dropped to the deck as he cradled his arm against the pain. Reality finally fell back in upon him.

  “I need a nap,” he said, moving his arm to work out the ache. He watched his hand, as he fanned and contracted the fingers against the numbness and tingling sensation. After retrieving the cold-pack from the deck, Donovich put on his comm-hood and secured the pack beneath it.

  After a few more pain killers, he started off toward the ladder well, and the two-story climb to the life-boat deck. At this point he knew clearly that he should at least let Patterson know what was going on, but after his moment of insanity, he needed to make sure before he made a complete fool of himself. “Beside, if it eats my brain . . .” he laughed, “. . . then at least my headache will be gone.” He started climbing.

  From the ladder well he could see that whatever the goo was, it had dripped down from the top deck, through an intervening deck, to where he’d spotted it. He knew that there was no machinery in that general area of the life-boat deck, nor any hydraulic or fuel lines; only storage lockers.

  The life-boat deck was designed to be used as an emergency staging area in the event that the CM became compromised and had to be abandoned. To that end, it was basically just a large, open area ringed by stocked storage lockers.

  On this trip it had been used as a barrack for two squads of Starine Ground Observers that had been dropped off over Demeter in re-entry capsules. As happens when people are thrown together out of necessity, Donovich came to know many of the men living on the life-boat deck. In fact, it was the GO team leader, Sergeant Ryan Warwick, who had warned the
Garryowen
of the impending missile strike. “Thanks, my friend,” Donovich whispered.

  “Get your mind back in the game,” he ordered himself, as he neared the top of the ladder well. He could see where the unidentified fluid had come through the decking; sighting on that point, he casually brought his eyes above the level of the deck plating. There, caked onto the wall, was a line of goo running down from one of the chest-high lockers. Its door hung partially open.

  With his feet still on the ladder’s rungs, he took a slow and careful look around; this while visions of procuring something from the small arms locker continued to play across the back of his mind. “And I’m going to do what, to whom, with a Peacemaker?” he said, shaking his head in disbelief at his own foolishness, as he stepped up onto the deck.

  Despite the reticulating fans, the air was still thick with the sickly-sweet smell. As he walked slowly toward the locker, he wished that he had brought up his MAC suit’s helmet, if for nothing else than an added feeling of security; then he remembered that it didn’t help that guy in the movie. “Stop that,” he forcibly whispered at himself.

  Now, standing in front of the locker, he pulled it open by the handle and stepped back, keeping the door between him and whatever was inside. With a splat, something fell out onto the deck at his feet. Despite his best effort at self control, Donovich jumped, his whole being riveted on what landed in front of him.

  There they sat, two baseball-size hemispheres, clearly parts of one whole, steaming and partially impaled by the corrugated decking. Like the goo, they were dark amber in color, except for where a lighter, fleshy material showed through from the areas torn open in the fall.

  Donovich forced his breathing to slow, then held one breath and slowly let it out; he felt dizzy from the effort. His body was awash with adrenalin and hormones, fueling him for either fight or flight against the unknown.

  “Enough of this crap,” he snapped, now becoming angry with himself. He swung the door open until it locked back, then stepped around the stuff on the deck to get a look inside the locker. After just a moment, Donovich stepped away and engaged the squad-ban. “Patterson from Donovich,” he commed. A smile of relief crept across his face. He turned and walked toward the mess-station for something to drink.

  “Yes, Chief?” replied Patterson.

  “What’s your location?”

  “I’m ’n the machine room just below the middeck hatch.”

  “Come up to the life-boat deck,” Donovich instructed, understanding that it was a six-story ladder climb. “I’m going to need help with a few things.”

  “Yes’ir,” replied Patterson, almost enthusiastically; with a beep, the comm switched to standby.

  Donovich felt physically rung out, and emotionally less than worthy to wear the uniform of the Aerospace Command. The only up-side to all this was that the mission recorders—the ship’s black boxes—continuously stored system data and comm traffic, but only recorded images at very specific moments, such as Transition, and when certain alarms were tripped. So with luck, it should have missed all his stupidity over the stuff from the locker.

  “Ya’ll called, Chief?” said Patterson, as he climbed up onto the deck.

  At about six-foot four and built like someone who worked for a living, Patterson literally stood out among his fellow Starmen.

  Donovich just stood there by the open looker, sucking something from a collapsible drink bottle. “Is this your handy work, Sergeant?” he asked with an I already know the answer undertone.

  Patterson just smiled and walked over for a better look. After a moment of contemplation, “Nice trick,” he said turning to Donovich, “Someday ya’ll have to tell me how I did it.” Patterson had one of those easy-going personalities that made it hard not to immediately take a liking to him, but as far as Donovich was concerned, it was the fact that he was a highly knowledgeable and dedicated member of the engineering team that made him a worthwhile comrade.

  Clamping the drink bottle closed, Donovich stowed it in his utility jumper and reached into the locker. “So you’re claiming this isn’t one of your practical jokes?”

  “Yes’ir,” Patterson replied. “My jokes never involve havin’ to clean up afterward.” He smiled and motioned toward the deck. “That’s quite a smell you got there, what’s this stuff?”

  Donovich pulled out what appeared to be a closed pull-top can, and casually tossed it to Patterson; it was heavy and made a sloshing sound. Patterson turned it around in his hands for a look at the label. “Yellow Cling Peaches,” he read.

  “Yep, in heavy syrup; that explains the burnt-sugar smell,” Donovich said as he pulled several other cans from the locker and placed them on the deck. “They’re not Squadron-issued, so where did we get them?”

  Patterson thought it over in his usual, drawn-out way; he once had to explain this to a rather annoyed instructor, “Sir, I’d rather be right and considered slow, than fast and stupid.” Although this wasn’t tolerated in training, it later proved to be one of his most outstanding attributes.

  “I’d say it’s part of the ship’s discretionary cargo, most likely from one of the officers; hey, maybe even the CO?” he speculated.

  “Lovely,” stated Donovich, as he dug out several cleaning packs he had brought back from the kitchen station. “Well it’s our mess now, let’s get going on this,” he said, handing Patterson a pack.

  Inside the locker was a mass of caramelized sugar and two more burnt peach halves. Donovich scooped the mess into a bag, and wiped down the area; the pack’s chemically treated cloth made short work of the remaining goo, but it uncovered something else: a circular outline matching the base of the can was burnt into the floor of the lockers.

  “Patterson, look at this,” he called.

  Without a word Patterson stood up and watched as Donovich tried to clean off the ring. “It looks like the can just flashed over,” said Patterson. He was no longer smiling.

  “Agreed,” stated Donovich as he bent down and picked up the other peach cans. “I don’t know what’s going on, but until we get a chance to sort things out I’m securing these in one of the ordnance bunkers we installed for the Starines.” He headed out across the deck. Patterson joined him.

  The bunker looked like a black garbage can bolted to the deck by four spring-loaded shock absorbers. “Get the lid for me,” asked Donovich.

  “Yes’ir,” Patterson replied as he undid the oversized wing nuts.

  “Thanks,” Donovich said. He placed the cans down into the drum designed for storing small arms ammunition and explosive ordnance—such as grenades. The bunkers were more than capable of containing and redirecting the force of such an explosion; this while the quilted lining burst, releasing a cloud of heat-absorbing particles to dampen down any fire.

  “Okay. . .” said Donovich as they secured the drum’s lid, “. . .we’ll finish the clean up, then you can help me track down the bug in the DFC unit.”

  “Yes’ir, but my diagnostic set is still down by my station, it’ll take me a bit . . .” he started to explain. Donovich motioned for him to stop talking.

  “No, no, I mean, an actual bug.” He held up his fingers to indicate the size. “About this big; I came across it after the incident,” he said. “It was just sitting there on the panel . . .” Donovich fisted his hands and brought them up to either side of his head “. . . watching me with an eyeless, hotdog-shaped head.”

  Patterson just stopped and stared at him; a dull expression crossed his face as his eyes seemed to be looking back at some point in his memory.

  “Patterson?” said Donovich calmly; it was obvious that his comrade was in trouble, “Robert . . . Bobby, look at me. . .” He resisted the urge to physically reach out to him. Patterson’s breathing became deep and drawn out; something was frightening him.

  “Starman Patterson!” yelled Donovich with his best military bearing, “Look at me!” Patterson snapped to attention and fixed his eyes on Donovich; the look of wide-eye terror quickly faded.

  “Sir,” said Patterson, as he pulled himself together.

  “Would you care to explain yourself, mister!?” commanded Donovich, hoping that by maintaining the pressure, he could work out what was upsetting his fellow Starman.

  “Can’t,” replied Patterson.

  “Can’t or won’t!?” demanded Donovich.

  Patterson took deep breath, “Can’t.” Clearly Patterson knew that this answer was going to piss him off, but before Donovich could retaliate, “Sir . . .” Patterson said, holding up his hands in an effort to deflect the outburst. “Chief, can we stop playin’ spacemen for a bit, and just talk?” Patterson asked, sincerely, with a look of concern in his eyes.

  Donovich picked up on this. “Sure,” he said, and pulled out his package of pain killers. He took one, and then offered the rest to Patterson.

  “No thanks,” the man said with a wave of his hand. He turned and looked down over the deck’s guardrail at the DFC unit. “It’s been about two years ago now, I was the Assistant Chief Engineer onboard the
Boston
. Well, we were homeward bound from Proxima; about a day under drive we started havin’ electrical problems.”

  “Isn’t that run about a week?” asked Donovich.

  “About that,” he agreed. “You know, electrical shorts and loose couplin’s are business-as-usual after Transition; but then equipment lockdowns were bein’ found opened, or even missin’ all together.”

  To Donovich, it sounded like a disgruntled Starman engaged in a bit of revenge sabotage, most likely to make someone else look incompetent.

  “Then the shit really hit the fan. One of the support stanchions for the LI’s laser canal broke loose. I don’t have to tell you, if the gravity detector went out, findin’ home would have been more a matter of religion than science.” he turned to see Donovich’s reaction.

  All Donovich could do was nod in agreement. The Laser Interferometer was the only navigational aid the ship had under drive; its primary function was to detect the approach of a gravitational anomaly, namely a star or some other super massive object. Without it, navigation would have to rely on pure mathematics and a ballistic trajectory to determine when to turn off the drive, and that could lead—
had
led—to timing mistakes measured in hundreds of millions of miles.