Soon Cooper returned and loaded the old data. “Captain, you’re not gonna believe this. It’s a New Racellian Mark 7 escape pod. That’s an old pod. Shouldn’t there be a larger vessel nearby this thing launched from?”
“Not necessarily. The Racellian pods could go long range. They were made long ago for frigates hauling gold and titanium in deep space, before alacyte was discovered.”
“Sir, are we gonna take it out?” They watched as the little ship went atmo. “Sir, Federation guidelines state that any unauthorized entry into Fed space shall be eradicated.”
“Take your Fed rulebook and stick it where the sun don’t shine, Cooper. Hold course and keep your mouth shut or I’ll have you down in level four scraping space dust off the manifold injectors.” The ensign shrunk down and started fiddling with his display.
“Any life forms on the scan?” said the captain.
“One human, sir.”
“Weapons?”
“Not that I can see sir. The pod has lost life support and the fuel cell is about dead.”
“Hmmm… she’s come a long way,” said the captain, rubbing his chin with his good hand, the other, a mechanical alacyte tri-grip, held the arm rest of the captain’s chair.
“Computer, at present course, where will the Mark 7 touchdown.”
“The Mark 7 is headed straight for the Soldown Flats, sir.”
“Powell,” he said to his pilot, “take us down to the Flats. If this little bird appears hostile we’ll take her there.”
“Aye, sir.”
……
The man stood on the solid earth, still swaying like a drunk. It was all he could do to stand. Three marines approached in full battle armor and he wished he had his gun.
“Why didn’t you respond to our hail?” said the first marine, pointing his energy weapon at the man. His voice amplified by a full face-shield helmet.
“No communications,” said the man. He took a shaky, baby-step forward and the marines raised their weapons, but the man was only trying to steady himself.
“What is your name?”
“I, uh…” said the man, looking up into the blinding light, the puffy white clouds, the blue sky, and the recon boat hovering over them 30 meters or so back. The ship had a rounded snout and short wings on either side. It was a long range patrol boat designed mainly for reconnaissance missions, but he could see the lines of the cowling that hid the rail guns. He knew they could open in a second and wreak havoc.
“What is your name?”
And the man searched his mind but nothing came. Meanwhile the lead marine took a step forward. The man started to wobble again.
“On your knees!” said the first marine. But the man fell forward with his hands out for support and the marine cracked him in the head with the butt of his gun. The man fell, blood dripping down into his eyes, into the hot sand. He lay there still and quiet.
“Oh, great,” said one of the marines, “you’ve killed the prisoner.”
Soon the captain arrived. “Stand down, you valiant defenders of Federation freedom,” the captain mocked his over-eager marines. “We’ve got a sick man in an escape pod and you idiots want to rumble.” The captain knelt down next to the man from the pod. The man looked up and instantly recognized the mech-armed chief from his dream.
Computer, search the Fed military for a man with a mechanical arm, the man thought.
Captain Franklin Barthelme, came the reply.
“Call the med droids, you idiots,” barked the captain. “This man’s wearing Fed blues. He’s one of us.” The captain eyed the man’s dirty blue uniform. Then he turned and started walking back to the ship as the droids flew in with a stretcher.
“Chief Barthelme,” said the man in a weak, hoarse voice.
The captain spun around and looked hard at the man.
“Where do I know you from?” said Barthelme.
The man slowly stood up. “I’m your captain,” he said.
Barthelme stepped closer and stared into the bearded man’s eyes. There was something about the man. He felt like he knew the man, but couldn’t place exactly where.
And then it hit him. The last battle on Montag. The beach and the lights at night. They were close to victory until the giant BG cruiser jumped in on top of them.
“It can’t be,” said Barthelme. “How is this possible?” The man started to fall again and the former chief grabbed him. “Get this man into the med bay, now!” he yelled. “This is Captain Jolo Vargas! He’s alive!”
The man could feel the warm, padded hands of the med droids, then movement as he was flown into the med bay of the recon ship. He drifted in and out of consciousness for the next day, but one thing stuck in his mind: the name, Jolo Vargas.
He was taken to the core Federation planet Sol, and given the royal treatment from the med staff and Captain Barthelme, who stopped by several times to check on him before being sent away by the doctors. And after two days he was starting to feel better.
He sat up in bed and looked across the room to the glass divider. He could see himself clearly in the reflection, a dark-haired, middle aged man with a strong jaw and blue eyes. He rubbed his chin, the beard gone, his hair short. He said his name aloud while looking in the mirror, hoping for some bit of recognition, but nothing came.
Soon Barthelme came and told him of the last days of the BG war, when Captain Vargas, hero of the Federation, was presumed to have died. The man listened to the stories, of the things he had done, like he was listening about some other man. But even though he still could not remember much, he
