----------------------------------- Beyond Those Distant Stars by John B. Rosenman ----------------------------------- Science Fiction/Fantasy
Mundania Press LLC www.mundania.com Copyright ©2009 by John B. Rosenman
First published in 2009, 2009
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Epilogue
* * * *
Beyond Those Distant Stars
John B. Rosenman
Mundania Press LLC
Beyond Those Distant Stars Copyright © 2009 by John B Rosenman
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Edited By: Michele Dowdey
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59426-328-6
eBook ISBN: 978-1-59426-329-3
First Edition * May 2009
No novel just writes itself.
My hearty thanks and appreciation go to the Oceanfront Writers’ Group, especially to my friends Richard Rowand, Jacqueline Falkenhan, Jean Klein, and Alan Bryden, who read and commented on the novel.
Above all, I want to thank my editor, Jody Wallace,
for her tireless help and brilliant suggestions.
At one point she stayed up to three a.m. for three straight nights, working on yet another of my revisions.
I consider myself extremely lucky to have had her for an editor.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Emergency!
“Why do they call me?” Supervisor Stella McMasters muttered as she ran down the circular metal stairs of the turbine building on the planet Warren. “The crew knows more about reactor plants than I do!” She raced past each of the landing's flashing red lights that warned of out-of-control readouts in the pit below.
Radiation Protection Supervisor ... Hah! I'm a nav-comm officer, not a bloody tank sniffer. I belong on a ship fighting the aliens. Dammit, I always hoped to command my own ship. Now look at me-given a soft job as a reward for loyal service.
Reaching the bottom, Stella headed for where Jack Faust bent over one of the filter tanks, the headset he was required to wear dangling from a back pocket. He was studying the panel on number 4, apparently still trying to dislodge the resin he'd mentioned earlier.
“Still constipated?” she called, thinking that she'd have to put him on report again for not wearing his headphones.
“Tighter than a Scaley's asshole,” he half-shouted over the hum of massive pipes welded to the wall. “I've used air, steam, gas, solvent, but the bitch hasn't budged. I tell ya, Sup, I'm worried.”
She nodded at the readout. “It's only 200. That's within accepted limits.”
Faust straightened and rubbed a slender, lined face. “Doesn't feel right, somehow. And I've been doing this a long time, even worked in the asteroid belt and at Solax out near the galactic rim.”
“Have you checked the sight port?”
“Yeah, just five minutes ago.” He shrugged. “Maybe I oughta take another look.”
She watched him climb the ladder fixed to the tank and squint at the sight port.
“Hey, it's steamed up now. I can't see a thing.”
Steamed. Her face froze at the word. She removed her cap and ran a hand through her blonde hair. What had she read recently about a blocked filter tank whose temperature registered normal?
A dull cough echoed through the pipe overhead. She raised her hand.
“Jack, get down!”
He turned on the ladder and looked down at her. “What?”
More sounds thrummed through the conduit. This time he heard it. She saw his mouth open.
“Get down!” she shouted. “It's—”
Like a giant snake, the pipe exploded from its mounts. Struts and valve controls rained like hail. But worst of all was the steaming water that covered Faust as he fell to the floor.
Suddenly every alarm light on tank four started flashing. She stood, gazing down at the still body. In just seconds it had been transformed into something she didn't recognize.
Searing water sprinkled her side, licking her boot heels.
Somewhere a klaxon shrieked.
Arms pulled her back from behind. Doug Shane, a man on her crew, spoke into the comlink on his headset.
“Turbine trip. Tank 4, level 1.” He grabbed her elbow. “C'mon,” he shouted, “let's get out before the reactor blows.”
She nodded, knowing it would take at least an hour for a meltdown to develop over in the reactor building. What she had to do now was evacuate her crew from the upper levels, then report to command, who would be trying to stop it.
“All right,” she ordered, “let's clear the place, make sure everyone's got the word.”
She watched Doug head toward the ladder she had just descended, and then followed. Of course, all her crew must know there was a problem, but it was her job to make sure even though a high-pitched oscillating warble now filled the building. Why didn't Jack move? If he'd just got off when I told him, he'd be alive now. Why hadn't the fool listened?
Forcing the image of Jack's frozen figure on the ladder from her mind, she picked up her pace to catch Doug. Mustn't think of that. What I've got to do now—
Ahead of Doug, a salmon-colored pipe overhead abruptly shook. And Doug was...
There was no time to shout, as she'd had with Jack. Dashing forward, she slammed him hard to the side, sending his body flying. Above her, the pipe punctured, spewing a flood of streaming liquid. Trying to duck, she barely had time to turn her head before a cloud of radioactive iodine settled over her like an invisible cloak. One breath shriveled her lungs and drove her to her knees, where she teetered briefly before collapsing to the floor. Desperately, she tried to rise, to escape the death that even now descended upon her, but her body seemed distant, as unreachable as the stars.
The last thing Stella remembered before she lost consciousness was a voice calling her name.
A year later, Stella McMasters’ duroplast heart beat faster as she gazed up at the sleek tower of the Spaceranger-her first command. Over a hundred meters tall, it contained twenty-six levels, 1100 crew, and pointed toward the stars like a silver spear. To her, it was more beautiful by far than any lover she had ever known, any creed or dream.
Well, it's about time, she thought. After all, I'm only thirty-seven.
“Ready to board, Commander?”
She turned to her first officer, a bald, smiling man. “Patch us aboard, Sloan,” she said.
Sloan nodded and pressed the comlink on his collar. “Williams here. Commander McMasters is ready to board.”
“Aye, aye, ser,” a voice answered.
She watched a ramp descend and started toward it across the bleak plain of New Mars, followed closely by Sloan. As she climbed, she felt her insides squirm as if she were in null-gee but ignored the sensation. It was an illusion, like the itch in amputated limbs. After the meltdown on Warren, rad contamination had necessitated the removal of her viscera, not to mention her heart, lungs, arms, face and eyes. She couldn't feel such sickness anymore. The unit that pumped and circulated her synblood would be good for 300 years yet, assuming it didn't short out.
Her mouth twisted at the mordant humor, and-thanks to synthetic tear ducts-she blinked back some moisture.
Once through the airlock, she and Sloan rode a tube up toward the bow, and then entered the bridge where her systems officers waited. Besides Sloan, who was in charge of navigation and communications, there was George Darron, the ship's immense, bearded psyche-physician; Carol Wayne, the engineer and weapons control officer, a small woman with alert eyes; and Myles Uxman, the expressionless director of internal security. Jason, the pilot, whose detached brain was interfaced directly with the ship, was not visible, but his clear computer-synthesized voice greeted her promptly when Sloan introduced them.
When the amenities were over, she smiled. “Please sit.”
After they did, she squared her shoulders, self-conscious and determined to look like a commander. General Chen had been quite blunt after her promotion. Though she was not the first cyborg, she was the first physically enhanced cyborg commander, the experiment of a medical unit that faced considerable opposition for its director's radical theories. One of these theories was that cyborg humans would make superior soldiers who would play a crucial role in the war effort. Stella had been chosen as the prototype because of her stable military record and official regret concerning her accident. Because she was experimental, she should expect considerable skepticism and prejudice, even outright hatred. He had warned that she would need a damned tough skin.
Stella, whose skin was a fibrous polymer resistant to temperatures up to 500 degrees, stretched her lips in a smile that she had practiced endlessly before a mirror. With most of her facial nerves gone, she'd had to painfully reacquire expressions she had once made without thinking.
“People, we've been given our orders. We are to rendezvous with General Loran's forces a light-day away from Cygnus X-1 in preparation for doing battle with the enemy.”
“X-1?” the engineer/weapons control officer said. “That's halfway across the galaxy.”
“Technically it's only 8,000 light-years. Just three jumps, I'd say.”
“I believe I can do it in two, ser,” the pilot said.
Stella frowned. The disembodied voice made it difficult to know where to look. She settled for straight ahead.
“Two jumps,” she finally said. “Explain.”
“Commander, Central reports a new wormie they call Charbydis near Loran Base where we have to report. Indications are it has a narrow horizon, but I should have no trouble accessing it.”
“Excellent.” She found herself drawn by the deep soft voice, though she knew it was only a computer translation of the pilot's brain waves.
“Tell me ... Commander,” the psyche-physician said. “We're to play second fiddle to the good general, aren't we? Essentially our purpose is to mop up behind him after he's had his glorious victory and saved us all from extinction.”
Second fiddle. Mop up. Gazing at the huge, bearded man, Stella recalled hearing that besides psychiatry and space medicine, Darron specialized in ancient Terran languages and idioms.
“Dr. Darron, if you mean by those terms that our mission will be ‘back up,’ then your guess is as good as mine.”
He smiled, folding brawny arms. “With all due respect ... Commander, none of this is exactly top secret.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that speculation about just such an offensive against the invaders has been rampant for weeks. Good old X-1 has often been mentioned as an ideal place for Loran and his fawning support team to reverse the losses of the past five years and rescue humanity.”
Uxman, the internal security officer, stiffened in his chair. Darron was edging toward treason. Within the rigid hierarchy of the Empire, such insubordination to a superior, especially during this war, could lead to a death sentence. Equally alarming to Stella, though, was the subtle pause before ‘Commander.'
“Our job is not to question, but to carry out orders.”
“Yes, but we can discuss—”
“I prefer not to.” She raised her eyes to the bridge's central command chair, and then glanced out the plexiport at the great dark. “...
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