Guardians of the Galactic Sentinel 1: The Deimos Artifact (16 page)

Chapter 18.
Technicolor Dreams.

Nova Philadelphia, July 8, 2676.

That night, Miriam Love and thousands of other "sensitives" scattered among the Human-settled planets, had the most intense "shared visions" they'd had since the whole dreaming phenomenon had begun. All of the visions started out much as they had before, with a view of a dark little pyramid. Where they differed from the initial dreams was that this time the pyramid morphed from dark and featureless to being lit up with mysterious glowing inscriptions covering each of its surfaces. That and the visions tended to be considerably longer and far more detailed.

While each of the sensitives had their own personal vision, the dreams seemed to fall into two distinct groups. For some, the image of the little pyramid segued into idyllic scenes of people working happily together on some undefined common goal. Others experienced scenes of enormous feasts of celebration with seemingly never-ending supplies of food and drink. In these visions, all of the different factions of Mankind seemed to have come together and were living in harmony.

The visions experienced by the other half of the sensitives were the exact opposite. This group also experienced several variations of the same dream, but all of the versions shared a common theme: they were profoundly disturbing. Some of the dreamers saw long lines of people marching into windowless factories. Others would have insisted that the people were marching into mines instead. Still others saw large groups of people stooped over and working in huge fields planted with some kind of unfamiliar crop.

Each of the negative versions of the shared vision had one thing in common: None of the people depicted in the dream were heading into the factories, mines or fields of their own free will. It was as though all of them had been enslaved somehow. Who or what had enslaved them had not been made clear...

Miriam Love woke up from her own dream in a cold sweat, her heart pounding madly. Hers had been one of the negative versions portraying the agricultural setting. As one of the most sensitive of the dreamers, her particular vision had been even more elaborate than most. She had been treated to an up-close, first-person viewpoint as though she were one of the actual workers in the field. The plants around her were a little over waist high and sported many long, slender leaves with sharp, serrated edges.

In the vision, she had grasped a spiny pod in her left hand and, with the short, curved knife in her other hand, made to harvest the unfamiliar fruit by cutting through the tough stalk that attached it to the plant. Reaching into the nest of leaves, she nicked the back of her knife hand on one of the serrated leaves. The jagged cut began to ooze blood and a flash of intense pain from a powerful toxin produced by the plant shot through her hand and up her arm. Mercifully, her panicked reaction to the sharp pain forced her to come up and out of the dream. Relief washed over her as she examined her hand and found it to be whole and uninjured.

It had all seemed so real!

After taking a little time to fully wake up and to get her ragged breathing under control, the sheer terror associated with the raw, oppressive vision began to blunt somewhat. Miriam struggled to understand what the meaning of such a deeply disturbing dream might be. She knew she was going to be asked about it because of her previous visions and her connection to Senator Dawson's wife. Her ever-increasing influence among the rich and powerful had elevated the little medium's status immeasurably over the last several weeks. To be sure, things had been going very well for Madam Love lately, but... her increased notoriety also brought with it greater responsibilities and higher expectations.

Miriam herself was convinced that powerful nascent psychic powers, previously dormant, had recently been awakened in her somehow. Suddenly she found herself far removed from the kindly, harmless but well-meaning fraud who had developed a minor talent for telling people what they wanted to hear about their futures. She was rapidly coming to be considered something of a prophet or an oracle, a responsibility she hadn't wanted and was still coming to grips with.

The dream had been so vivid and the impression of doom so intense that it had scared the hell out of her. Unable to sleep any longer, she got out of bed and went to make herself a cup of herbal tea in an effort to calm down. Outside, Isis, star of the Central Planets system, began to rise and grey dawn slowly segued into the promise of a bright day. Miriam, sipped her tea as she watched the transition into morning, hoping that her spirits would rise with the coming of daylight.

She was still trying to come to grips with the meaning of the powerful vision and was rolling the remnants of the dream through her mind for the ninth or tenth time, when the Senator's wife brought her back to reality by contacting her on her tablet. The little medium set down her now cold, empty cup and answered the call.

"Madam Love?" said the image of the Senator's wife, breathlessly, "Have you heard the latest? There was some kind of major disturbance in the mass visions last night."

So Miriam hadn't been the only one who had seen things a little differently this time around. Somehow she wasn't surprised.

"I know, Ellen," replied Miriam, numbly, "I had another vision myself."

"I thought that might be the case. What did you see?"

Never one to overly alarm her clients and fully aware that she needed more time to sort things out herself, Miriam told a little white lie, "It's fading now but it was very powerful."

"The Senator wants to hold a press conference at ten o'clock this morning. Can you be available?"

Miriam fought down a brief bout of panic at the request but managed to squeak out that she would be there. As soon as she broke contact with Mrs. Dawson, she began to surf the newscasts to see if she could get more information on what had happened. After an hour or so of research, she discovered that there were over a dozen distinct versions of the vision, some of them depicting an idyllic future for Mankind while the others, like hers, seemed to be predicting the exact opposite.

Not knowing exactly what it all meant, Miriam decided that she would have to be deliberately vague in her answers and use the age-old and proven technique of saying that she needed to consult with other oracles to determine what the message contained in the dreams was. It would work. It was going to have to. Miriam literally didn't know where to turn next.

"Trust your instincts,"
she told herself,
"They've been right so far..."

Chapter 19.
Rushed Repairs.

Nova York Orbital Station, July 8, 2676.

In the early hours of the morning, as the
Murmansk
approached the Nova York Orbital facilities, Sergei Popov contacted his superiors to report in and to make arrangements for repairs to his ship.

"Soviet Central Command? This is
Murmansk
."

"Go ahead,
Murmansk
."

"That pleasure craft we pursued out of Haven turned out to be heavily armed. We took what appears to be some minor damage to our hull and one of our reaction modules was rendered inoperative. We will require technical support immediately upon making port."

"A moment, Captain Popov."
Sergei waited several minutes before Soviet Central Command came back on line.

"Duly noted,
Murmansk.
We have informed the master engineer of your situation. He should be waiting for you when you dock."

"Thank you, Central. We will also need to re-provision. I don't know where we might be going next and I wish to be prepared."

"How many personnel?"

"We have fifteen officers and crew and one passenger."

"Very well,
Murmansk
."
There was a pause,
"It appears that special supplies for your passenger were delivered last week. We'll arrange supplies for the rest of your crew to be available as well."

"Thank you again, Central."

The
Murmansk
made her way through the maze of ships parked in and around the Nova York docking platform. She was to dock in the special section of the Orbital Platform that was reserved for the USRP government. Finally, with three dock workers helping to guide the way, the ship nudged gently into the bumper cushions at the bow end of the assigned bay.

"Captain?" said the communications technician.

"What is it?"

"An engineering technician is waiting just inside the docking facility."

"Do you have him on the con?"

"I do, sir, connecting you now."

Sergei waited for a few seconds while the technician made the connection.

"Ready, sir," said the technician.

"This is Captain Sergei Popov. Who am I addressing?

"I am Master Chief Engineer Vasily Andreovich,"
came the reply.

"Very good, Master Chief. As you can see, we have sustained damage to one of our reaction modules."

"Indeed, Captain, It looks to be pretty severe. I would like to take a closer look at it. I came prepared and am already in my spacesuit. Would you care to join me?"

"By all means," replied Sergei, "Please come on board, Master Chief. One of my crewmembers can guide you down to the rear shuttle bay while I get suited up. We have a two-man utility sled and can use it to survey the ship."

"Very good, Captain."

Sergei headed aft and down a couple of decks until he reached the suit room. With the help of one of the crewmen, he was able to get suited up in less than five minutes. He then headed aft one more compartment and met up with Andreovich who was waiting just outside the hatch to the shuttle bay. The two men shook hands as gracefully as was possible while encased in spacesuits. Sergei thumbed the control for the hatch and the two of them entered the shuttle bay. Sergei nodded to a female technician in an enclosed control booth who closed the hatch and sealed it behind them.

The technician's voice came over Sergei's suit radio,
"Are you secure for vacuum, sir?"
After getting the thumbs up from both men, she began preparations to open the bay doors. While the atmosphere was being evacuated, Sergei and the Chief engineer mounted up on the
Murmansk's
two-man utility sled. Each of them attached a tether to a cleat on the hull of the tiny craft as a safety precaution.

"Utility sled ready for EVA," said Sergei.

"Aye, aye, Captain,"
came the reply,
"Opening shuttle bay doors now."

The bay doors scissored ponderously open and Sergei expertly guided the small craft out into vacuum. As he swung the sled back around to approach the ship from the rear, the first sight that greeted them was the shredded remains of the dorsal reaction module. The
Murmansk
, like many ships of her type, was equipped with four reaction modules. The modules, each of which was mounted on a short pylon, were located near the rear of the ship in a cross pattern with one mounted to port, another to starboard and two more mounted in dorsal and ventral positions. Sergei took the sled on a short inspection loop that gave them a good view of the damaged dorsal module from all angles. The chief engineer, who was recording video, remained silent during the entire loop.

"What is your diagnosis, Master Chief?"

"As I feared, the damage is very severe, Captain. I assume you were not able to obtain any thrust from this module?"

"We were afraid to even try."

"That must have badly upset the balance of your thrust vector."

"Oh yes. We were forced to also shut down the ventral module and use only the port and starboard engines. That provided us with a reasonably balanced thrust vector but we needed to make periodic corrections with the nose thrusters to stabilize the pitch of the ship."

"It must have been slow going?" said the engineer.

"With our thrust cut to half? It was very frustrating, but we managed to cope with it. Can you repair this module?"

"I'm certain that I cannot do so at this facility with what we have on hand for spare parts."

"How long until we could get the parts you need?"

"I cannot be certain, but it would be a minimum of two weeks, possibly even longer."

Sergei absorbed the news with some dismay but almost immediately asked, "Is there nothing we can do?"

The engineer thought aloud for a few moments, "Let me see," he mumbled to himself, "The pylons are pretty much a standard design...mounting points as well..." speaking directly to Sergei again, he said, "We have several spare reaction modules on the orbital platform, but none that are of the same specification as this one. Even the largest of them is intended for a smaller and less powerful application."

"Could you make it work?"

"I believe so, but you would have to dial back your other three engines to about eighty percent thrust to balance the power delivery."

Sergei thought that over for a moment, "How long would it take to replace the damaged module?"

"The modules mount to the pylons at four points and there are power and control cables as well as piping for the transport of reaction fluid. It is really not a difficult task to simply remove a module and replace it with another. Fortunately, the pylon itself does not appear to be damaged. If we get your ship over to the repair facility, we could probably get the job done in a day, possibly a little longer."

"But afterwards I would have to settle for only eighty percent thrust?"

"It would be recommended. Still it is more than you have now considering that you can't use either the dorsal or the ventral engines. In an emergency situation, you could leave the bottom engine dialed back to balance your pitch vector due to the weaker top engine and operate the port and starboard modules at full thrust. I don't know that I'd recommend using that arrangement for anything other than emergencies, however. The thrust differential will put some unpredictable and undesirable stresses on the ship."

Sergei did some quick mental arithmetic and decided that this solution, though far from ideal, was probably the best he could do under the circumstances. If he committed to a two week or longer period to get the repairs done, his quarry would almost certainly be long gone. Mission readiness overrode all other considerations.

"I think we have little choice but to go ahead with mounting the unmatched module, Master Chief. I simply cannot risk having my ship down for the longer period."

"As you wish, Captain. I will make arrangements immediately."

"We'd better take a look at the front of the ship also, Chief. We took a pulse beam hit there as well."

Sergei maneuvered the sled around to the bow of the
Murmansk.
In spite of an impressive scorch mark on the lower port side, the damage was really relatively minor. A couple of the hull plates were blackened and scored. There had been no hull breach, however.

"What do you think, Chief?"

"I will have to take a closer look when we get the ship to the repair facility, but it looks as though we can probably just cover the damaged area with a patch, just to be safe. There does not appear to be any need to replace those damaged plates. Especially if you are short of time. I can get another crew to work on that while I and my best people replace the reaction module."

"Let me know when we can transfer the ship over to the repair facility," said Sergei.

"Actually, we have an open bay available right now, Captain."

"Excellent!" said Sergei.

"Bring your ship over as soon as you can. I will go and make preparations."

"Thank you, Master Chief."

"My pleasure, Captain."

Sergei piloted the utility sled back around the ship to the shuttle bay entrance. Anticipating a relatively short inspection flight, the technician had left the bay doors open. After setting the craft gently down on the deck of the landing bay, the doors scissored silently closed behind them and the bay was quickly re-pressurized. Sergei bade farewell to the Chief engineer and, after shedding his spacesuit, made his way back to the bridge.

He silently hoped that everything would go according to plan but was resigned to the fact that his ship would be out of action for a least a couple of days. He debated the wisdom of not informing his passenger about the situation before deciding that he really didn't have any choice. With a heavy sigh, he headed for the Ambassador's quarters.

He pressed the intercom button next to the hatch that opened into his passenger's room.

"Captain Popov to see the Ambassador," he announced.

"A moment please..." came the reply. After almost a minute had passed, the hatch slid open. "You may enter."

Sergei went into the dimly lit room. As was the usual arrangement, his passenger spoke from the shadows with the ever-present Political Officer hovering nearby. Sergei wondered, and not for the first time, what sort of accident or affliction had so deformed the man that he refused to be seen in the light, but realized that the only way he could possibly find that out would be if the strange Ambassador decided to tell him. The hatch slid closed behind him

"I assume you have a report?" rasped the Ambassador.

"Yes, Your Grace. I have come to update you on the status of our ship."

"And?"

"We will be held up in the repair facilities for as much as two days. Our dorsal reaction module was almost totally destroyed by the enemy pulse beam strike."

"A strike that was almost solely due to your incompetence?" added Krupski.

Sergei rewarded the gratuitous insult with another sharp glare but managed to snub the Political Officer by addressing the Ambassador directly, "As Captain of the ship I naturally assume full responsibility, Your Grace. Fortunately the local facilities have the necessary parts to affect repairs." Sergei decided not to volunteer any of the details regarding what would be his ship's somewhat reduced capabilities, reasoning that it would only result in more verbal abuse from the Ambassador and his insidious handler over a matter that nothing could be done about.

"It is good that you have come to report, Captain," added the Ambassador. "I now know for certain that they not only have the artifact, but that they have been handling it."

"How do you know that, Your Grace?"

"I have...methods...of sensing such things. This is a new development. I suggest we alter our approach to one of passive observation for the time being. If we simply bide our time, the enemy may transport the artifact exactly where we want them to. Carry on with your repairs, Captain. We must be ready to follow them when they leave. I believe that will be shortly."

"As you wish, Your Grace."

"Report back to me when the ship is space worthy again. You may leave us now."

Sergei gave a slight bow and exited the dark and oppressive room. It was almost as though he could feel a curtain lift as he put some distance between himself and the compartment containing the strange Ambassador and his obsequious, repulsive liaison. He shivered despite that fact that he knew full well that the ship was operating at normal temperature.