Authors: Marc Andre
“I thought you said you were taking calculus?” Ellen asked.
“Well... err... yeah... I did, but I wasn’t doing well, so they pushed me back down, a bit.” I said feebly.
“All the way down to 7
th
grade math!” Ellen cried in disbelief.
I knew my claim was outrageous and continuing to lie only made me look like a complete jackass. “Okay, you caught me. I lied. I was never in calculus.”
Ellen looked indignant, disgusted even.
“Hey, Anton,” Hammond smirked, “if your momma had you the old fashioned way, that means she has a really loose —”
“Hammond! Enough! Really?” Ellen’s shouted. Her reprimand worked. Hammond remained silent and looked ashamed.
Cotton continued to crawl down the ductwork.
“I can see the jano-bot dead ahead.” Allen said gleefully.
“Well I guess you boys completed your mission successfully. Strong work!” Ellen said tersely. Of course, the mission was only half over. Cotton still had to bring the jano-bot back to Allen’s place, but annoyed at me for lying and annoyed at Hammond for being himself, Ellen took her leave. Hammond wasn’t so clueless as to try to walk her home. He yawned and dismissed himself a few minutes later.
“It’s not going to shock me again is it?” Cotton asked fiddling with the robot’s treads.
“No it’s pretty much off line now.” Allen said.
“Good, because that hurt.”
“Sorry about that. I wasn’t sure what was blocking the duct at the time,” Allen explained, but Cotton wasn’t listening. He was preoccupied with the robot. An orange light at the rear of the robot suddenly blinked on and flickered. The robot came to life and rolled out of view. One of its articulated graspers hung limply by its side.
“What happened? Allen asked.
“A cube-thingy was sticking up, so I pushed it down.”
“That was the battery pack. You must have knocked it out of place before with your punch.”
“Is he going to be able to catch up to it?” I asked.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. The flashing orange light means that it’s not receiving a signal or executing pre-programmed instructions. It’s going to head straight until it hits the far wall at a junction and then stop.”
On cue, I heard a distant crash through the big screen’s speakers.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I think the robot just fell through a grate.” Cotton explained. He was breathing heavy as he rushed to catch up with the robot.
“Where are they?” I asked Allen.
Allen read off the ship’s schematic on the smaller screen, “E7-17.”
“What’s that?”
“Cargo hold auxiliary,” Allen explained, “the site for much of the retrofit when we were planet-side.”
“I don’t think so,” Cotton said softly. “I think this is someone’s living unit.”
Cotton peered through the hole where the grate once stood. On the big screen I couldn’t believe what I saw. A woman lay with her eyes shut. Her bright red hair had been pulled back revealing a distinct and familiar widow’s peak. Her high cheekbones and the mole on the right side of her face were unmistakable. “No way!” I cried. Cotton had not lied about seeing Fiona Mammalot on the ship.
“I told you so,” said Cotton. “I must have been here before.”
“Yes, you told me so,” I conceded.
“I think she’s asleep,” said Cotton.
“No one could sleep through that racket.” Allen said.
“Maybe she takes sleeping pills,” I suggested. “Mother takes them and they can knock her out pretty deep.”
“No, I don’t think so.” Allen said confidently. “Cotton, can you see the jano-bot?”
“No not from here.”
“Go ahead and stick your head through the vent.” Allen advised.
“What are you crazy?” I protested. “He’s going to wake her!”
“No he won’t.” Allen said.
Cotton stuck his head through the vent. Fiona lay in a grey-metallic coffin-like structure. The clear window that allowed us to see her face had been right below the vent, the remainder of the chamber not visible from the ductworks. As Cotton looked around, I could see countless rows of additional cryochambers. There must have been thousands.
“Figures,” Allen said shaking his head, “the one voyage I don’t bother to check the cargo manifest, we’re transporting cryogens.”
“You mean like the Packard?” I asked, recalling the story of how Jim Boldergat won his fame.
“No,” Allen said, “the Packard only transported a handful of cryogens. From the data I’m getting from the glasses, I’d say we’re transporting thousands.”
“Why didn’t you check the manifest?” I asked curiously. Normally Allen had a keen eye for detail.
“In the past it was invariably very boring,” he said. “Usually we transport farming equipment or construction materials, so I didn’t bother to check this time. There’s nothing more tedious than learning about the hundreds of variants of steel I-beams.” Allen sighed. “I am such a fool. In hindsight, it was so obvious. We would have needed the retrofit to come up to the Department of Corrections’ codes for ventilation. Normally we keep our cargo air tight to minimize oxidation of ferrous materials. New flooring would have been needed for shock absorption. As is, these cryogens should be able to survive a pretty hard crash.”
“You mean all those guys are prisoners?”
“Yes, a label reading ‘Department of Corrections’ is sealed across the hatchway of each cryochamber. It’s a security measure. You can’t open the cryochamber without breaking the seal.” I couldn’t see the lettering, so I figured Allen was performing another trick with his vision, like he had earlier with Ellen’s lapel pin. “This must be some sort of mass deportation,” he concluded. “Wow, these cryochambers are ancient. These models went obsolete decades ago. We must have bought them surplus as scrap metal and refurbished them. Even for Heavy Industries General LLC, this is a bit extreme as a cost saving measure.”
“Cotton, can you see the jano-bot?” Allen asked.
“No.”
“Look three chambers down and two to the left.”
“Got it.”
“The robot must have kept rolling after it hit the ground.” Allen observed.
“Now what?” I asked Allen.
“We’ll have Cotton drop through the grate, grab the robot and walk home.”
“You sure?” I said, concerned that Cotton might get caught if he left the ductworks.
“Yes, cryochambers are pretty autonomous. There shouldn’t be anybody here. And if Dr. Zanders was here, he’d have switched on the light.” The cargo bay was poorly lit with just emergency lights glowing from the floor and the soft yellow glimmer from the window of each cryochamber.
“Why would Dr. Zanders hang out here?” I asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? As an officer in the Space Marine Health and Sanitation Reserves, he’s the attending physician for each of these prisoners.”
“You mean they can still get sick while frozen?”
“They’re not truly frozen, just sort of chilled. But yes, glitches happen, wires come lose, and sometimes Dr. Zanders would probably have to intervene to correct the problem. Remember the day you got in a scuffle with Mike and Jeff?”
“Yes.” I said. My ribs still ached at night.
“Dr. Zanders called the archives from E7-17, this very location. He also wanted an old book about cardiopulmonary resuscitation for hypothermic patients. My guess is that some complication of cryostasis occurred. He probably needed the old book because the problem had since been eliminated by the newer technologies of modern cryochambers. My guess is that one of these ancient cryochambers malfunctioned and the vital signs of the affected cryogen crashed. Fortunately, Dr. Zanders was able to save him.”
“How do you know Dr. Zanders saved him?” I asked.
“Because there was only one body in the morgue and that belongs to Edward Sanstet, ordinary starman.” What Allen said made sense.
Cotton hung from the open vent and let himself fall. He landed with a thud. “I’m okay,” he said. “Didn’t break or twist anything.”
“Good.” Allen said.
Cotton looked back up at the vent. Were it not for the reduced gravity, he would have surely hurt himself. The fall from the vent to the floor was almost five meters. There was no way Cotton was going to be able to replace the grate. Even if he stood on a cryochamber and jumped, the ductworks were just too far out of reach.
Cotton crawled onto Fiona’s cryochamber and tried to peer down her blue bib. “Too bad we can’t see her boobs.”
“You know this woman?” Allen asked.
“Yes, she’s a famous topless bikini model,” I said, borrowing terminology from the articles that described her during her heyday.
Allen pecked away furiously at his computer.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Hacking.”
“Hacking what?”
“I need you to be quiet,” he said curtly. “I am trying to concentrate.” A few seconds later, Allen said, “I’m in.”
“In what?” I asked.
“Command Central. Gives me access to confidential files and lets me control ship functions.”
“Really, you mean you could steer the ship from here?”
“No, that kind of command needs to be executed from the engine room,” Allen explained. “It’s an important security measure.”
“How did you hack in so easily?” I asked.
“I used Jim Boldergat’s password, but of course that only gives me access to documents and functions related to security. If I could guess the captain’s password, I could access everything. I tried in the past, but I couldn’t figure it out.”
Allen
raised his voice so that it would register on the microphone, “Cotton, can you look at the side of this woman’s chamber!” Cotton complied, and Allen punched in the fourteen-digit number stamped on the Department of Corrections seal.
“I think you guys are wrong,” Allen said. “Records say this woman is Audrey Prudercoeur. She is classified as a violent offender, religious extremist, and recidivist.”
“What did she do?” Cotton asked.
“Says here she was found guilty of forcibly administrating N-ethylbenzine-sulfonamide dehydrogenate to thirty three boys. Two of them were her own sons. Yikes!”
“What’s that do?” I enquired.
“Irreversible chemical castration.”
“Yikes!” Cotton squeaked.
“You still want to see her boobs?” Allen joked.
“I’m telling you that’s Fiona Mammalot,” I said.
“What makes you so sure.”
“She was famous.”
“This Mammalot lady, any chance she had a criminal record?” Allen asked.
“Yes, she got into fenes.” I said.
Allen shrugged. “Let me try this.” He pecked away on the keyboard and brought up the Global Comprehensive Background Search Engine. “Cotton, I need you to look at her face so I can capture a good image.” Allen ran the image into the engine’s facial recognition algorithm, and the computer spat out a match in under a second. “You’re right,” he said. “She’s Fiona Mammalot. I’ve got her arrest record and court proceedings right here.”
“What was her sentence?” I asked
“Three to five years in lockup at the State Women’s Correctional Facility in Hinckley, California.” Allen said.
“So no re-education then?”
“No, no re-education, which means the government couldn’t remand her to deportation without violating her civil rights. Someone smuggled her on board this ship. But how, though? I mean snatching someone from a prison isn’t exactly like hacking a computer.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to kidnap her.” I explained.
“Someone tried to kidnap her before?”
“Yes.” I said, remembering the news articles I came across while prying into Allen’s past.
“Who?”
“Some gang of piety-freaks. Brothers of the Celestial Seasons or something.”
“Brethren of the Celestial Heavens?”
“Yes, that’s the group.”
Allen made some sort of mental connection and smiled. “Cotton, look in the window of the next cryochamber!”
Inside was a bald middle age man.
“Look at that,” Allen said. “No stubble, and a small round scar above each temple.”
“So?”
“He had his hair follicles permanently ablated. Scars are from where a metal halo was bolted into his skull. This guy was a blessed male of the Brethren of the Celestial Heavens.”
“Why didn’t they let him keep his halo?” I asked.
“It would make a pretty dangerous weapon if he head butted someone,” Allen explained. “Cotton, look in the next chamber!”
There was another bald male, with the same scars and the same absence of stubble. Only, this guy was shorter and more wrinkly than the first. Cotton looked in five more cryochambers only to find the same thing each time, a bald male.
“I don’t believe it!” Allen said. “Some highly placed contact of the cult must have smuggled in this Mammalot woman to be some deportee’s wife on Gliese 581e.”