Spinward Fringe Broadcast 7: Framework (11 page)

When he thought of Ashley or Oz – and he
thought of them often – it was with some regret. He never let Oz
know his role aboard; it would have gone against his orders, but
Larry was sure it would have been to his benefit. When he let
Ashley in on his secret, he mismanaged the whole thing. He could
have had her trust, selectively let other important crewmembers
know his real position, and a diplomatic solution would have been
found when the Carthans took possession. The Triton would be
crewed. Unfortunately, his hands were still tied. He was an
observer, and he’d broken enough rules by killing several West
Keepers. Even if the ship was stuck in port for five years, his
duty was to watch human behaviour and chronicle the story of the
ship.

Even still, he wished he could just engage
the computer core and reveal to the galaxy that he was the true
master of the Triton. He missed the crew, especially members like
Agameg and Finn, though he was starting to like Jason, who reminded
him of his brother. Even if he wanted to turn the lights on, it
took two command level codes to bring the primary computer core
online, a fact that he’d kept from Ashley, and the main reason why
it hadn’t been active since the ship was allowed to be stolen from
Kuiper Drydock. If another officer were assigned to the Triton and
made the journey from Earth, then they would bring the main
computer core online, and they’d begin a new mission.

It was something Larry sometimes caught
himself dreaming of. The chances of that were slim. He fully
expected to be aboard or near the Triton for the next thirty years
before being summoned home. The fantasy he let himself indulge in
sometimes was of the crew who had adopted and honoured her
returning to take the Triton back. With Terry Ozark McPatrick in
the lead, they’d break through the Carthan seals, start the ship up
again, and to everyone’s surprise, he and Ashley would bring the
Triton back to full functionality for the first time in
decades.

It was nothing more than a fantasy. Any
attempt would be a brash display of heroism and stupidity, but it
didn't stop him from wishing something would happen. The fantasy
didn’t hold boredom off for long. Sometimes he’d retract the
headpiece of his vacsuit and come out of stealth just to see if the
Carthan guards would come running, or even step out of the shadows
in stealth suits of their own. No one was watching. They had the
ship locked down tight, sealed along every hatch and seam.

No one would scold him for not leaving the
ship and send him down to Tamber, where he could reunite with the
Triton crew and offer the good news. If he did so on purpose, it
would be a severe breach of orders with Citadel Command. Leaving
was not an option. He’d have to wait and hope that Ashley found her
way back to him. He’d apologise and find a way to tell her how to
issue a command code to someone he trusted. That way he could be
indirectly responsible for the revival of the Triton, and perhaps
avoid a harsh sentence from Citadel.

No matter how he planned, or how he
fantasised, he was still stuck aboard. The ship began to take on an
entirely new character after the lights went out. The slightest
sound echoed down the darkened halls. Thick bulkhead doors sounded
like rolling thunder, bringing on a fresh wave of hyper-vigilance.
Every time he thought he'd made enough noise to trip a passive port
sensor, he was wrong. The ship wasn't meant to be empty. She had
been built to house thousands of working men and women.

After a week in the utter stillness, Larry
realised he wouldn't last much longer. He didn't even blame Ashley
for her rash act, or for leaving him fully exposed. He was
conscious and free before the Carthans found him, and his place was
with the Triton anyway.

It was time for him to sit and watch
quietly, to wait. He tapped into the Triton's passive sensors, and
didn't attract notice from the port. They didn't need enough power
to register, since they were designed to operate while the ship was
cloaked.

His direct connection to the sensors was
made in one of the officers' quarters, and he found the days he
spent there more comfortable. Avoiding the halls, the vault-like
central areas. and the all too silent concourses seemed to be the
key to maintaining sanity. After he was sure everyone was gone for
the long term, he tried sleeping in a bed. It was a fitful sleep,
and he woke with a start in the middle of the night, not knowing
why. When he replayed the recording taken by his comm unit, he
burst out laughing as he watched the slumbering image of himself
wake suddenly after a particularly deep snore. For reasons he
couldn't understand, the laughter became weeping. It had been seven
weeks since the crew of the Triton left the ship.

"You're trained for this. Citadel agents
must thrive in isolation and civilisation alike,” he told himself.
“Contemplative and watchful while at peace. Cunning and swift in
war. We are Citadel - defenders of balance and enablers of the
righteous," he recited through tears. He buried his face in his
hands, noticing how rough his stubble was against his palms. "When
did I stop shaving? Was it last week? Two weeks ago?" he idly asked
himself.

Larry leapt to his feet at the sound of his
command and control unit vibrating a warning signal against his
skin. He hurriedly activated the holoprojector, which transmitted
its images directly into his eyes. "A crush gate? Tainted with
temporal radiation? Why would the Victory Machine be coming
here?"

His self-pity and loneliness lifted from him
as quickly as a flock of startled birds. In seconds he strapped on
his weapons and pack, and had his stealth suit sealed. He knew that
port control would pick up the stirrings of strange energy. He only
had a few minutes before the exit of the wormhole fully manifested,
and he ran as hard as he could towards the botanical gallery, where
the Sol Defence software he'd installed on his comm unit predicted
it would appear. He made surprisingly good time, but by the time he
ran through the heavy protective doors of the botanical gallery his
lungs and his leg muscles were burning.

He ran across the long grass, down paths
that had already begun to become overgrown and finally into a
clearing near one of the large ponds. A spike in ambient energy
gave him just enough warning to cover his eyes and turn away from
the exit of the wormhole only metres away. A violent flash of light
announced the arrival of the crush gate traveller.

Larry braced himself before turning around.
Crush gates were highly compressed wormholes that were severely
directional, forcing the traveller through it at speeds many people
failed to survive. It was still experimental when he left Mars
years before, and was being hailed as the future of travel. One
could travel dozens of light years in the space of a few days. To
the traveller it would seem like only seconds had passed. The
Victory Machine dumped most of its waste energy into a crush gate
generator the creators had built in, and there was a limit to how
much it could contain before the bearer had to create a gate and
travel.

To Larry's relief, no temporal radiation was
leaking from the bearer's suit or the small box containing the
Victory Machine, and he turned around. "You, you're not supposed to
be here," rasped the man in the old, heavy containment suit. He was
face down, struggling to push himself upright.

“You mean, on the Triton?” Larry asked,
hopefully. He loved the ship, but freedom would be a sudden and
joyous blessing.

“No, with me. You’ll get caught. You have to
run, keep hiding."

Larry crossed the space between them and
helped the man by propping him up against a tree. His face was
ashen, and there was no strength left in his frame, which looked
like it was once sturdy, even powerful. "My control unit has a
basic medical treatment component. I can try and get you on your
feet before the Carthans get here," Larry said.

"Don't bother. There's something wrong with
the containment suit. Been dosing me with temporal rads since I
gated from Mount Elbrus. At least now I know why I've been sick
these ten years,” replied the traveller.

It was an awful, mysterious truth of
temporal radiation. One dose in the future would make you ill in
the past, a paradox even the brightest minds on Earth couldn't
fully puzzle out. The Victory Machine had a nine year reach by
default, so it only made sense that this man was ill for nine years
before he was exposed, inasmuch as anyone could make sense of
temporal radiation. "What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed
to be?" asked Larry, desperate for direction. "Am I the next bearer
in line?"

The man began to laugh but coughed violently
instead. Once it passed, he shook his head. "No, the bearer who's
been passing me information from the future is here somewhere. They
never let on who they were, but I think I know where they want me
to be. At least I’m sure the rogue element is nearby. I don’t know
much about you though, except you’re not supposed to get caught
with me."

"There's nothing I can do to help you?"

"No. We're working a bigger picture, the
next and me. You get to wander around doing what you're doing until
you get a better idea. Just don't try too hard,” replied the
traveller.

"How is the next bearer going to get his
hands on this thing if the Carthans are busy studying it?"

"Who says the next bearer will be a man?
Besides, with the suit serving as secondary containment, there's no
way anyone but the bearer will pick this thing up. It's not like
the Carthans, or anyone out here, for that matter, know how to
repair this thing. No one's built one for a few centuries."

Larry looked at the weary man for a moment.
"How long am I going to be here?"

"What, alone? Don't worry, you'll come out
fine. Just think of me next time you're feeling you got an unfair
hand, that'll set you straight," the bearer chuckled ruefully. "Now
get going. You have a place, Larry Nevil. You'll see where you're
needed when the time comes. For now, it's time for you to forget
your birth name and embrace the one you chose when you left the Sol
System. That's all I can tell you."

The tip wasn’t as satisfying as he’d like,
but it was better than nothing. "Thank you for your service, I'll
remember you," Larry hesitated a moment. "I never got your
name."

"Roman. Just call me Roman. I gave up my
birth name over twenty years ago."

"Thank you, Roman," Larry said as he
activated his stealth suit. The Carthan port guards were close, he
could hear them in the garden. "I'll wait," he said, knowing no one
could hear him. "I'll be ready when the time comes." It was a
resolution he didn’t need anyone else to hear.

Jonas was still trying to process the idea
of boarding the ship that would take him and his engineering team
to All-Con Prime. Academy training was supposed to prepare you for
it - the departure, the adjustment - but it didn’t do the whole
job.

Everyone knew the war raged on there, and
that he was a very small part of Freeground’s final, all-or-nothing
push to win a war that had cost too much in lives and resources.
That ship, the Courser, was going to be his home for a long time if
the war continued to draw on. Past the boarding ramp, he could see
the thick, battered hull. There were signs of repair all across its
three-quarter kilometre length, and seeing some of that up close
was as daunting as it was amazing.

He’d seen big ships up close before, but
this was a war ship, with rail cannons so big he could walk through
one of their barrels without crouching. His father noticed him
staring open-mouthed and Jonas caught him smiling.

“Sorry, first time I’ve seen it this close
up,” Jonas said.

His father waved his comment off mildly with
a calloused hand. “This trip will change you.”

Other recruits in tan and grey moved up the
boarding ramp past them, all carrying everything they would depend
on in a backpack and a case. He hid his long coat in the bottom of
his backpack, refusing to leave it at home. The excitement of
embarking on a long journey to another world was almost
overwhelming. Though he wanted to skip the awkward goodbye his
father would initiate, Jonas owed him that much.

His father was a great engineer, a man who
respected a solid day’s work, and something built much more than
something bought. He turned towards him and, to his surprise, found
his father’s steady hand on his shoulder.

He offered his hand and Jonas shook it,
trying to match his father’s grip. “I’m proud of you,” he said, his
voice steady and thick with emotion.

They remained there, frozen for a couple of
seconds before his father nodded as if sure he’d said all he needed
to then let go of his son’s hand and turned away.

The academy had been hard, but he’d
graduated with high marks. He was a terrible shot, but got through
boot camp and the physical training all through his mandatory
period of conditioning, though there was never much indication that
his father cared enough to track his progress. They didn’t talk
about it, and Jonas even suspected that his father didn’t approve
of him joining the Freeground Fleet.

But what his father said changed everything. He
didn’t only have his father’s approval, but he felt he’d proven
himself. He was ready to board the Courser, to do something
important in the galaxy.

The perfect memory faded, and a flood of
information assaulted him. He lived every moment as Jonas right
until he saved the First Light by surrendering to Vindyne. His
memories as Jacob began then, starting with his rough birth aboard
the Samson.

They weren’t just memories, they were the
ultimate recollection of being. He
was
Jonas. Suddenly, that
entire set of experiences fit with who he had been for years, Jacob
Valance. He hadn’t felt like he was one man, living one life since
he’d discovered the hidden mental storehouse of Jonas’ memories,
but something had drastically changed, and he felt integrated.