He remembered waking up. Remembered the loud noise, the burn, the stars through the porthole above him. He wanted to track time so he could check his memory. He guessed his short term memory was good.
Computer, he thought, Do you have an onboard clock?
Functions beyond simple query logic unavailable.
How about a simple, No? he yelled. Then he started thinking. The computer is a dumb database. Nav’s gotta be separate. Assuming there’s a nav computer. No nav and I’m dead.
Computer, do you have a timestamp function?
Yes. Elapsed time is 3,628,923.2 seconds.
How long is that in days?
42.0014 days.
42 days, he thought, reaching down with his right hand to scratch his foot. His fingers couldn’t make it all the way so he just rubbed his boot on the padding. That’s good data but I have no idea where this pod originated from, he thought. He scratched at his beard, wishing he could shave.
Computer, can you generate a star map? he thought. A large 3D map opened up in the front of his consciousness. It was there, right in front of him. He saw it clearly with his eyes closed. It was strange, having the map in his mind.
Locate Vellosian space, he thought. The map spun and zoomed in. Two worlds, three moons, near a dense asteroid field. One planet, Vellos, was displayed as a 2d circle, the rest were nice 3d renders like on the ship.
He sat up quickly, but his head hit the padding and he settled back down. The ship, he thought. I’ve seen star maps like this on a ship. It was a memory. Just like the battle, just like the girl, Voss.
Why is Vellos just a 2d circle? he asked.
Vellos no longer exists.
Where did it go?
Vellos was destroyed by BG in 2586.
Who are BG?
Digest or full-text?
Digest.
The BG are a mechanized race from the Grana system. Formerly at war with all planets in Federation space, but currently policing commerce in the core Federation worlds via the Re-Unification Accord of 2589.
What color are Federation uniforms?
Blue.
The girl, Voss, wore blue. So did the men on the beach at night. So did the men in the big hall…
Who is Ensign Voss, from Federation space?
There are 4,249 Voss’s in the Federation.
Women only, he said, trying to narrow down the search.
1,234.
This is ridiculous, he thought. Then he had an idea.
Under 50 kilograms.
723.
Blond hair.
318.
Beautiful?
Invalid parameter.
Display all 318 one at a time at 2 second intervals.
Women, mostly in the standard blue Federation uniforms, began flashing across the “screen” in his mind. Most he could rule out immediately. Too old. Too senior in rank. His Voss was younger, a new recruit. Some wore the gold-trimmed collar of a colonel or an admiral. Occasionally he screamed stop and nothing happened. Then he’d curse, say, stop in his head, then rewind. He thought he had her once, but she was a navigator on a Fed frigate and her first name was Marica. The name wasn’t right. He didn’t know how he knew, he just felt it. So he moved on.
Finally the images stopped and an end of query message popped up. He wanted to break something, but there was nothing to break, so he thrashed around. He pushed at the padding, just a few centimeters from his face, surrounding him like a cocoon, or a coffin. He pushed until his arms started to shake, then he beat it with his fists. The padding moved a little, and for a moment he had gained a few extra centimeters of space, but soon the padding regained its original shape.
He moaned for awhile. Then realized that his mouth wasn’t dry. Why wasn’t his mouth dry? He took a deep breath. The air near his head was moist. “Who put me here? Why am I here?” he yelled. He pushed up with his hands so his feet found the bottom of the tube and he started kicking. His boots hit metal and he could hear a drum like sound, like knocking the side of a gunboat, especially down in engineering where there wasn’t much insulation.
He strapped his chest to his bed. Deathbed, he thought. Just so he could feel his back on the padding. Like a bed. I don’t want to die in this can. He looked up towards the smooth porthole and he stared out into the blackness. He wanted to see something with his eyes. He wanted to taste real food. To feel sunlight on his face. To talk to the girl. I don’t want to die in this can, he thought.
A Moveable Feast
Deep space
For the second time he dreamed of the girl.
In his mind he made his way through the mess hall, then down into engineering. He carried a portable screen so everyone would think he was in the middle of a general inspection. The crew hated inspections, and he did, too, but HQ demanded it. And what HQ demanded, they got. Usually it was Filcher, the number 2, who ran around harassing the crew on the minutia of Fed gunboat protocol: lower deck air filters must be replaced once every six months, relay contacts on all critical entryways needed cleaning twice a year. After a run through a dense particle field the outer hull needed a visual inspection. Most of it was bull.
But it made great cover for the captain because everyone cleared out of his way if they knew he was coming with a port-screen. He made it down to the lower engineering quarters and stood in front of 4-B.
