“Fine,” said Merthon, staring off at the endless beehive of birthing tanks, water bots hovering over, making sure everything was just so: temperature, tube fittings, leak checks, electrolyte levels.
“Is that all?” said Jamis, eyeing his friend.
Merthon nodded, but secretly he worried about the big dent in the hull right where the life support tech was located. He’d checked it, run the diagnostics, stolen the fuel cells from a shuttle, filled the water reservoir even though it could generate its own. But Jamis’s questions cut through his confidence. He wasn’t sure the old pod would even fire after it was dumped. He couldn’t track it once it launched. If it launched.
But this was their best chance. They were watched and tracked. But not the man. The BG didn’t know he existed. He was the only free creature on this wretched planet. Whatever his fate, it was better than living like this, thought Merthon.
“Did you implant the mission?” Jamis said, shaking Merthon free from his moment of weakness.
“Yes, of course, you worrisome, dryfoot.” Anger is a good antidote for useless worry, thought Merthon.
“Will it stick? Remember what happened last time.”
“It will stick. I did not send him to fail, Jamis. I gave him a few, uh, upgrades. He has everything he needs. And quite honestly your lack of faith concerns me,” Merthon said, hoping to sound confident—maybe arrogant.
“Upgrades?” said Jamis, standing up to his full height, eyeing Merthon suspiciously again. “No, don’t tell me. I’ll just worry more. But did you make it believable? He’ll enter Federation space with no communication.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Listen, Merthon. This is no game we play. The BG are going to kill us as soon as we are finished here. I can’t stall them any longer. They’ll also kill us if another batch, uh, accidentally dies out. This must work.”
“It will, my brother. It will. There are a few on the ground sympathetic to our cause.”
“Let’s hope he makes it to the ground.”
96 hours
Escape pod
Deep space
The man in the tube couldn’t sleep. He fought with the restraints all night, or what he thought was night. He just wanted to see the girl again. Jaylen. Why was she not in the damn computer database? But what did it matter? He didn’t even know where in the worlds he was.
He came fully awake and checked the computer’s timestamp. It was 54 days since time began, according to the computer, 11 days since he discovered the plate above his head that he couldn’t reach.
He looked up through the porthole into the blackness. He was tired of the dark, tired of dreaming, tired of tubes sticking out of him. He wanted to run. Just run like a child. But his angst wasn’t his biggest problem.
He loosened the chest strap and touched his skin: taught and dry. Then he noticed his tongue was sticky. He took a deep breath of air and his throat was scratchy. He felt the tube going into his arm, wondered if he could feel it if fluids were flowing through. He ran his fingers along the thin tube, it flexed just like it did before, but he couldn’t tell if fluids were actually moving into his body. Then he touched his arm near the IV. The skin was dry. His body didn’t feel right.
He looked up into the blackness where the little plate was stamped to the inner cone. He strapped himself into bed again to assess his situation.
Computer, how long can a human last without water?
96 hours on average, depending on body weight, age and other factors.
He held onto the IV line. Massaged it with his fingers. 96 hours, he thought. He sniffed the air again. Was there moisture like before? He licked his lips and his tongue wasn’t wet with saliva.
Life support was down, he thought. It was still quiet in the tube and he wondered if his little pod was dead. He’d hold this speed forever. A tiny little ship with a dead guy inside hurtling through infinite space for all eternity. Maybe that was the plan. To keep him alive long enough to wake up, to feel he was alive. To dream of the girl. To want life. And then to die slowly in a C-tube.
He screamed and his voice was hoarse and he coughed. 96 hours. 96 hours if the oxygen didn’t run out first. I don’t want to die of thirst or lack of air. It was worse than drowning. This can’t be my fate, he thought. I’m supposed to die with a gun in my hand. The gun. He instinctively reached under his left arm, but it wasn’t there.
The gun had a wooden handle and was made of steel, not like they used on the seamless alacyte blended hulls, but real steel like the early boats, before the Vellarsus brought their fuel technology to the old worlds.
I had a gun, he thought. Not an energy weapon. Lead projectile, kinetic force. He lay there for a few more moments playing with the IV line. Then finally he wrapped a finger around the thin tube and yanked it. He felt a sharp little prick of pain, then put the tube to his lips.
Nothing.
Fine, it needed to be done. He unfastened the straps and gently glided up into the cone. This time he could make it all the way,
