Chapter Fifteen
Carter gripped the edge of the copilot’s seat and held to a stoic expression to avoid revealing how much each jolt of the small craft hurt. He’d expected his wound to have stopped bleeding by now, but it continued to seep.
“We’re approaching the Sibulan Refuse Field,” said Brock, who was piloting the pod.
“I can see it.” A garbage dump of obsolete rockets, rusted out PeeVees, space station debris, toxic waste, and spent fuel cells sprawled out over a fifty-million-mile-wide area. The Sibulans bought castoffs on the cheap, skimmed off anything usable and/or resalable, and dumped the rest. Passing the buck to the Sibulans wasn’t the eco-friendly way to rid one’s home world of garbage, but as the least expensive option, less affluent worlds took advantage of it.
“We have two choices. Go around, adding another 22.45 hours travel time—or we navigate through all the junk.”
“No brainer. Go through.”
“Are you up to it?” Brock eyed him. “All the twisting and turning?”
“Hell, yeah.” Carter scowled. “It’s just a scratch.” He downplayed the deep gash and puncture wound he’d sustained while rescuing hostages captured by Quasar. One of the pirates had managed to get a jab in with his bayo-blaster. The blade had slid between his ribs, and then the fucker had twisted it. Nanocytes would repair the wound, but it had bled a lot, and it hurt like a mother. Still, nothing to be concerned about.
Beth was another matter.
Four days had passed since he’d left her at Aym-Sec. The nature of his mission hadn’t allowed contact. This morning he’d finally been able to shoot a message to her PerComm, but she hadn’t answered, and he was getting worried. The rest of the Cy-Ops team aboard Cyber-1 was returning the hostages to their respective home worlds. He and Brock had taken the smaller vessel to return to headquarters.
“I’m sure Beth is fine,” Brock said.
Even when they weren’t communicating via wireless, Brock could just about read his mind. “What if she had a delayed reaction to the photon blast?” Carter said.
“That almost never happens, and if it did—she’s in the right place to get help,” he replied.
“What if she’s pissed I left with little explanation and didn’t contact her?”
“Then you’re screwed.” He laughed. “Seriously, you worry too much.”
Guilty. He did worry too much. So she hadn’t responded to his message. Any number of reasons could account for that. There was no logic for this sudden discomfort, other than a gut-churning hunch.
“Warning! Warning! Debris field ahead! Perform evasive maneuvers.” Brock had switched to manual piloting, but the computer sounded the alarm as they entered the refuse field. He silenced the AI. Had they put the tiny ship on autopilot, the computer would have avoided the sector altogether.
Brock banked left to avoid a Malodonian fighter craft hull then swerved right to miss the remnants of a biodome. Carter sucked in a breath and pressed his hand to his ribs. Something sizable thumped against the side of the craft.
“That wasn’t good,” he said.
“No.” Brock peered at a screen on the console. “No damage, though.”
The pod wended among some unusual conical and cylindrical structures. The insignia, still visible, revealed the objects originated from defunct political divisions from Terra: North Korea, China, Russia, India, the United Kingdom, Pakistan, France, Israel, and the United States of America. “Any idea what those are?” Carter asked.
“No clue.” Brock reactivated voice command with their ship. “Computer—analysis required. What are the objects nearest to the craft port and starboard?”
“Objects are nuclear warheads. Originated on Terra, produced in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.”
“Well, now we know what happened to all the weapons after the worldwide disarmament in the twenty-second century,” Carter said. He peered out the view window, his cybervision and microprocessor counting to four hundred sixty-seven just on the starboard side. That was what he could get a visual on.
A bomb marked North Korea flew at the craft’s nose. Brock banked hard to avoid it. Carter winced as pain stabbed between his ribs. Getting through the Sibulan Refuse Field was dicey at the best of times. Due to his injury, he wasn’t in shape to command the vessel, and he couldn’t fault Brock’s piloting skills, but he still wished he controlled the craft. “Good flying,” he said instead.
“I don’t want to hit any of those. Some of them could be active still.”
“Eighty-five point six percent of the three thousand six hundred and forty-two nuclear warheads are active,” the computer said.
They were navigating through a minefield.
“Sixty-two percent of the 3,117 active warheads are earth-penetrating weapons, designed to detonate underground.”
Carter twisted his mouth. “I feel better now. That only leaves 38 percent or 1,184 that can hurt us if we run into them.”
“Affirmative,” the computer replied.
Brock steered clear of a weapon from Pakistan. “If the AOP isn’t going to get serious about finding and stopping Lamani, maybe they could do something about the refuse field,” he said. “Clean this mess up.” He paused. “I’ll talk to Pia. She might be able to form a committee and get something started.”
“Form a committee and get something started? Aren’t those two things mutually exclusive?” he joked then sobered when the craft adjusted course to avoid another bomb. “Perhaps some of these weapons should be moved to the Galactic Museum of Antiquities.”
“An exhibit to show how close Earth came to annihilating itself over political, cultural, and religious differences?” Brock asked.
“Exactly.” He peeked at his wound. Rather than slowing, the bleeding appeared to be flowing more freely. Nanos should have stopped it and begun to repair the gash. He ordered more microbots to the injury site.
“Will people recognize the parallels between what occurred hundreds of years ago and what Lamis-Odg is doing today?” Brock asked.
“Most, no. But a few? Yes. Those are the ones we need to reach.”
Keeping his hands steady on the control stick, Brock glanced at him. A grin tugged at his mouth. “Mr. Aymes, I do believe you’re an idealist. You and Vincere have something in common after all.”
“Now, you’re being insulting.”
Brock laughed.
As a younger man, Carter had set out in pursuit of the impossible dream that one man could change the galaxy for the positive. Since then, hundreds of operatives and support personnel had joined him. They hadn’t been able to achieve the ultimate aim yet—capturing or terminating Lamani—but they’d saved the lives of thousands and sustained the hope that the impossible might be achievable. He wasn’t so idealistic he assumed removing the terrorist mastermind would end the galaxy’s troubles. New villains would emerge. Maybe they already had. The pirate syndicate Quasar had allied with the predatory Ka-Tȇ and was gaining power.
He’d be lying to himself if he pretended he didn’t want to chuck it all some days. Be selfish. Find an uncharted planet or moon in a habitable zone and live out the remainder of his life growing hydroponic tomatoes or raising wooly monicats. Lamis-Odg probably wouldn’t be able to conquer the entire galaxy in his lifetime.
But, what would that leave for future generations? For his children, if he ever had any?
Giving up wasn’t an option. It would be nice if, in between battles, he had someone to come home to. Someone soft. Concerned. Caring. Someone like Beth.
Not someone like her. Her.
He activated his wireless and checked his communication feed again. Still no reply to his message. Why hadn’t she responded?
It took about two and a half hours, moving at a suboptimal speed, to get free of the warhead field. Flying through the graveyard of old ship hulls, spent energy cores, smashed space station panels, and miscellaneous trash went easier. In another hour, they cleared the Sibulan Refuse Field completely.
“That was like a slalom course.” Brock switched to hyperdrive and let the computer take over.
“Good job,” Carter said.
“It saved us a lot of time.” Brock eyed him. “Swain should take a look at the wound.”
“Thanks, Dad, but I’m fine. My nanos will take care of it.”
“Quasar may have tainted the bayo-blaster. Doesn’t it seem strange they stabbed you rather than shot you?”
“The idea occurred to me, but I get my nanos upgraded regularly, and if the tip had been poisoned, I’d be sick by now. I’m fine. By tomorrow morning, I’ll be healed.”
“Will you wait that long to see Beth? Or are you going to show up bloodied and injured and scare her half to death? A few minutes in the regenerator or an injection of hypernano serum could have you back to normal a lot quicker.”
“I’ll go see Swain.”
* * * *
They landed on Cy-Ops’ private airfield, and the PeeVee picked them up as soon as they popped the hatch. Blood soaked Carter’s shirt. His body’s natural coagulants, boosted by nanocytes, should have staunched the flow, but something wasn’t working. Brock had been right again. The Quasar bayo-blaster had been tainted.
The PeeVee delivered them into the secret garage at the Galactic Trade Center where they boarded the vertical transporter. He shot another message to Beth’s PerComm. I’m back on site. I’m anxious to see you, but I have to take care of something first. Are you free for dinner?
Light-headed already, he swayed as the transporter descended, the swift vertical movement not helping his balance. He flattened his palm against the wall, leaving a bloody handprint.
Brock’s voice faded in and out. “Fuck, you’re not just bleeding, you’re hemorrhaging.”
“Yeah. I think so,” he deadpanned. His cyberbrain had signaled an alarm warning of hypovolemic shock.
The doors opened to the Cybermed floor, and he staggered off. Brock grabbed his arm. “Let’s get you to medical. Did you alert Swain?”
“Doing it now.” Just arrived on site. I was stabbed with a poisoned bayo-blaster. I think I’m bleeding out, going into shock.”
His legs crumpled, and he started to fall, but Brock caught him. “Medbay 1 is right up here. Can you get there?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
I’ll meet you. Where are you? Swain replied.
On the way to Medbay 1.
Gray fog closed in. His ears buzzed. His legs had turned to Arcanian tar. Carter willed his failing nanos to keep him conscious. Leaning on Brock, he was hardly of aware of where they were going.
“This is it,” Brock said, and steadying him with one hand, reached around to palm the access pad.
No! Not Medbay1! Swain fired back. Use Medbay 2.
His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “The doc says…he says go to—”
Medbay 1 opened. Carter’s blurry gaze shot beyond Swain to Beth. Her horrified expression was the last thing he remembered before he keeled over.