Computer, what is the total time in days.
43.4 days.
How long since last timestamp check?
1.37 days.
And I remember the last day, he thought. The burn, the noise, the stars in the porthole. The girl named Voss. The chief with the mech arm.
The girl, Jaylen Voss. Her name is Jaylen.
Computer, search for Jaylen Voss, Federation military.
No data.
Search again. She was on a Fed boat. My Fed boat?
No data.
Why doesn’t she show up? I want to see her again, he thought. But not in a dream. I need light. I need a nav! He started feeling with his hands carefully for a switch, a lever, something he may have missed earlier when he was freaking out. There’s got to be a nav on this thing. Maybe it’s got manual controls.
Computer, what are the parameters by which you can id a space craft?
Size, place of manufacture, military or civilian… and it went on for a few minutes, until …manned or unmanned, manufacturer id plate…
Computer, stop. Where are manufacturing plates located?
Select ship type.
Any manned, escape pod or c-tube smaller than a shuttle.
Federation guidelines dictate a 10 centimeter by 5 centimeter plate must be present in the forward cone, inner hull.
Display all escape pods, c-tubes or any craft smaller than a shuttle made in Vellosian space for the last 100 years.
No data.
Rerun the search. Omit place of manufacture.
There are 53,974 matches.
Great, here we go again, he thought.
Add parameter: single-manned.
25,922.
Made within last 50 years.
14,137.
He unfastened all three belts and gingerly floated up towards the cone. His hands felt for the porthole and he could just barely reach to where the padding ended and his fingertips could feel the bare metal of the inner cone. He tried to go a little further but felt a sharp tug in his arm. The IV. He hung that arm down and reached up with his other, but only bought himself a few inches. He traced his middle finger along the cold inner hull, just above the padding, all the way around. It was a smooth, seamless design, but he couldn’t reach up high enough to feel an id plate. Then as his hand made it almost all the way around, back to where he started, his finger caught something. It was a flat piece of metal with rounded edges. He couldn’t feel how tall it was, but it might be 10 centimeters long. It had to be the id plate.
He settled back down, strapped the waist belt, and checked the IV again by feel. Still okay. Even if I could touch the plate, I can’t see in the dark. And then another idea hit him.
Computer, are id plates stamped with raised numbers, or etched?
All space craft before 2479 are stamped, per Federation guidelines. 2480 to present are flat etched.
What year is it?
Unknown.
Most recent date at creation of last timestamp.
2599.
He fastened his chest belt so he could pretend he was laying down to think. This boat feels old, he thought. It was still quiet in the tube. “I’ve got no memories to back this up,” he said aloud to himself. His hands behind his head. “Just my gut. But I’m willing to bet this is an old boat. If it’s stamped I can read the numbers with my fingers, then query the computer about it. Find the nav. Find the overrides. Find out where we’re going. He laughed. Hey computer, he said aloud, I said ‘we.’”
Are you with me, computer?
Invalid parameter.
The Dreams of a Frog
Bakanhe Grana Homeworlds
Beyond the outer reaches of Federation space
Warumon 5, Humanoid Synthesis and Production Facility
Merthon padded quietly on the cold, metal halls on his soft green feet—feet made to run and swim in a Vellosian home planet half-submerged in water. A world that no longer existed, thanks to the Bakanhe.His feet hurt, his skin was dry, and no saturation tank could make his body feel right again. He felt torn in half. He thought a good ending would be to stand up to a BG warrior, maybe brandish one of their prized energy weapons in front of a high-ranking lord. They would kill him and put an end to the misery that had become his life. But then he thought of Jamis. He said the only thing to do was live. Now live, he thought. He could not leave Jamis.
So he trudged on towards the birthing pods where his friend waited. They were the last of their kind, the Vellosi, trapped on Warumon 5, a prison planet, to do the the Bakanhe Emperor’s bidding.
One of the tall Bakanhe warriors passed, shiny black armor and one long, glowing red slit where eyes should be, and Merthon quickly bowed, thumbs together, placed on his forehead. “Bakanhi jan sama,” he mumbled. He shuffled his feet and kept bowing in the direction of the tall warrior until he passed.
He found Jamis in the birthing room hunched over a tank.
“Has he made it there, yet?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did you get him out?”
“It seems a relic Racellian pod from a frigate the Bakanhe conscripted was deemed a health risk. So I had it dumped into deep space with the rest of the trash.” Merthon smiled proudly at his ingenuity, but Jamis stayed on point.
“Will it make the journey?”
At this Merthon paused. It was an old escape pod from the Ralcacine wars back when minerals on the Ralcine planets were in demand, back before jump technology was perfected, back when you were attacked by a stronger force you had to abandon ship to live instead of just jumping to another sector like captains did now. The Racellian pods were the highest quality,
