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Over on the Badger, Dr M’Mullen asked a little boy where the wounded were taken, and was shown to the cockpit, a dim, cramped, triangular space, wedged into the bows far below the waterline, and accessible only via a ladder. The place smelled like a cross between an abattoir and a distillery. The wounded were laid out on the deck above in the order they had arrived. “Dr Foster,” Patrick called down from above, “I should be happy to assist if you would like.”
Whatever reply Foster may have made was drowned out by the rising scream of the man whose leg he was then driving his saw through. Patrick climbed down the ladder, slipping on the blood on the bottom rung and accidentally knocking into Dr Foster as the surgeon finished his cut. “Get out!” said Foster, picking himself up and wiping bloody sand from his hands, “get out now!”
“I beg your pardon,” began Patrick, “I merely thought -”
“Get out!” roared the surgeon again, this time reaching for a heavy surgical knife, and Patrick retreated up the ladder.
Back on the deck above, he looked at the wounded as they lay there. Perhaps he could do some good here. One man, with a massive chest wound and surrounded by a pool of blood, was already dead. Of those remaining he judged that all of them had survivable wounds, though one man, recently brought and bleeding from a thigh wound, needed immediate surgery if he was to live. He placed his hand into the wound, feeling for the severed artery and pressing on it. “You there,” he called to a passing sailor. Once he had the sailor’s attention, though, he paused, considering his options.
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Sunday, August 23, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
STO'B 37
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Several thoughts flew through Philip’s head. He would never see Angela again, Lt Grey would have command of the Badger, the irony of being killed by his own command, the extraordinary clarity of the water, and why hadn’t he ever learned to swim? He had meant to learn - Jevons had tried to teach him, once, in the old Illustrious, but they had been interrupted. Why had they been interrupted? Had an enemy appeared? He couldn’t remember. He struck the water.
A tremendous splash erupted beside him. The jerk of the Citoyen Pierre coming to a halt had also broken her foretopmast, sending most of it into the water as well, and its associated canvas and rigging plunged into the water beside him. He reached out, grasping a rope, saving himself, but his clothes were so terribly heavy in the water, and for a moment it was all he could do to drag himself over to a broken spar - the foretopsail yard, he guessed - and wrap his arms around it.
A shout broke him from his reverie. “It’s the Captain,” Needle cried from his place on the bows. His axe was raised to chop the anchor cable free, and to cut the shrouds and running rigging of the broken foretopmast free, too, as the broken spar had tangled itself in the anchor, pinning the merchantman as effectively as the anchor itself; but he lowered the blade and gestured, “come on sir, come on!”
Philip wrestled with the spar, but his clothes hampered him, and he was swallowing a lot of water. “Come on, sir,” called Needle again, though he sounded so very far away. My boots, thought Philip, recalling one of the few things Jevons had had time to teach him, I must kick them off. And my coat. He was wearing an old woolen coat, lighter than the broadcloth of a uniform jacket, but still heavy, and he struggled with it in the water, alternately draping one arm and then the other over the spar beside him and finally freeing himself of the garment. He shed his boots next, and his shirt, and free of the dozens of pounds of sodden clothing he felt his strength return.
But the Citoyen Pierre could not wait for him forever. Already the floating spars had given her one shrewd knock, opening a hole below the waterline, and she could not suffer another blow without the danger of sinking.
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GLOSSARY
Several thoughts flew through Philip’s head. He would never see Angela again, Lt Grey would have command of the Badger, the irony of being killed by his own command, the extraordinary clarity of the water, and why hadn’t he ever learned to swim? He had meant to learn - Jevons had tried to teach him, once, in the old Illustrious, but they had been interrupted. Why had they been interrupted? Had an enemy appeared? He couldn’t remember. He struck the water.
A tremendous splash erupted beside him. The jerk of the Citoyen Pierre coming to a halt had also broken her foretopmast, sending most of it into the water as well, and its associated canvas and rigging plunged into the water beside him. He reached out, grasping a rope, saving himself, but his clothes were so terribly heavy in the water, and for a moment it was all he could do to drag himself over to a broken spar - the foretopsail yard, he guessed - and wrap his arms around it.
A shout broke him from his reverie. “It’s the Captain,” Needle cried from his place on the bows. His axe was raised to chop the anchor cable free, and to cut the shrouds and running rigging of the broken foretopmast free, too, as the broken spar had tangled itself in the anchor, pinning the merchantman as effectively as the anchor itself; but he lowered the blade and gestured, “come on sir, come on!”
Philip wrestled with the spar, but his clothes hampered him, and he was swallowing a lot of water. “Come on, sir,” called Needle again, though he sounded so very far away. My boots, thought Philip, recalling one of the few things Jevons had had time to teach him, I must kick them off. And my coat. He was wearing an old woolen coat, lighter than the broadcloth of a uniform jacket, but still heavy, and he struggled with it in the water, alternately draping one arm and then the other over the spar beside him and finally freeing himself of the garment. He shed his boots next, and his shirt, and free of the dozens of pounds of sodden clothing he felt his strength return.
But the Citoyen Pierre could not wait for him forever. Already the floating spars had given her one shrewd knock, opening a hole below the waterline, and she could not suffer another blow without the danger of sinking.
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Saturday, August 15, 2009
STO'B 36
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The snow proved to be the Citoyen Pierre, one of the vessels named the Chasseur’s late captain’s orders. Under Philip, she gathered way again, setting for the English brigs, and Philip climbed onto her bowsprit, steadying himself with the forestay. The fort had continued to fire on the brigs, and had done considerable damage. Badger’s foreyard was missing, and her smoke funnel had several holes - smoke filled her waist and lower sails. The Chasseur was actually on fire - the fort must have switched to heated shot. Several men clung to her starboard bow with pikes and axes, chopping and prying at the still-glowing red ball at the center of the slowly spreading flames. Two of the men leaned back, back; the ball pulled free, splashing into the water and sending up a pillar of steam. The men retreated back over the rail and water began to splash down from the scuppers above - the pumps must be going, Philip reasoned, with the other scuppers blocked off to divert the water to the fire.
The Citoyen Pierre approached the English brigs on the starboard tack, and with her fire now all but out, the Chasseur’s guns began to speak. Philip frowned. The English guns could not hope to hit the fort, perched as it was high above the water; what was Lieutenant Grey thinking?
The disintegration of the Citoyen Pierre’s cathead and the subsequent splash as her anchor fell into the water answered his question: Citoyen Pierre still flew her French colors, and Lt Grey must have assumed that Philip’s boarding party had failed. Another ball smashed into the Citoyen Pierre’s foretopmast, cutting it almost in half.
Had there been a cable bent to that anchor? Philip leaned out over the Citoyen Pierre’s side. Yes - there was the cable, plunging from the hawse hole into the water below. The harbor could not be deep, and at any moment the anchor would hit the bottom. “Cut away the anchor cable!” he cried. “Needle, Pope, cut the cable,” but as he spoke the Citoyen Pierre’s jerked to a halt - not a terrible jerk, but enough to throw him off his balance. He grabbed at the bulwark, missed, and to his horror he fell over the side.
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GLOSSARY
The snow proved to be the Citoyen Pierre, one of the vessels named the Chasseur’s late captain’s orders. Under Philip, she gathered way again, setting for the English brigs, and Philip climbed onto her bowsprit, steadying himself with the forestay. The fort had continued to fire on the brigs, and had done considerable damage. Badger’s foreyard was missing, and her smoke funnel had several holes - smoke filled her waist and lower sails. The Chasseur was actually on fire - the fort must have switched to heated shot. Several men clung to her starboard bow with pikes and axes, chopping and prying at the still-glowing red ball at the center of the slowly spreading flames. Two of the men leaned back, back; the ball pulled free, splashing into the water and sending up a pillar of steam. The men retreated back over the rail and water began to splash down from the scuppers above - the pumps must be going, Philip reasoned, with the other scuppers blocked off to divert the water to the fire.
The Citoyen Pierre approached the English brigs on the starboard tack, and with her fire now all but out, the Chasseur’s guns began to speak. Philip frowned. The English guns could not hope to hit the fort, perched as it was high above the water; what was Lieutenant Grey thinking?
The disintegration of the Citoyen Pierre’s cathead and the subsequent splash as her anchor fell into the water answered his question: Citoyen Pierre still flew her French colors, and Lt Grey must have assumed that Philip’s boarding party had failed. Another ball smashed into the Citoyen Pierre’s foretopmast, cutting it almost in half.
Had there been a cable bent to that anchor? Philip leaned out over the Citoyen Pierre’s side. Yes - there was the cable, plunging from the hawse hole into the water below. The harbor could not be deep, and at any moment the anchor would hit the bottom. “Cut away the anchor cable!” he cried. “Needle, Pope, cut the cable,” but as he spoke the Citoyen Pierre’s jerked to a halt - not a terrible jerk, but enough to throw him off his balance. He grabbed at the bulwark, missed, and to his horror he fell over the side.
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Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Oops
I accidentally reposted installment 35 here, so I've now deleted it and will post installment 36 once it's done.
- B
- B
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Space-6
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Once the data dump was complete, Finn hailed the mystery ship, which responded, “Received. Please Stand By,” in the same voice that had originally hailed the Amanda Ray, and then fell silent.
“Try them again,” said the captain fifteen minutes later. By now Kershaw, the senior comm-off, had reached the bridge, and it was his portly fingers that danced over the communications console. “Received. Please Stand By,” replied the mystery ship, falling silent again.
Captain Leigh drummed her fingers in a moment of indecision. She was tempted to scan them, but that would be seen as a hostile act, wouldn’t it? Or would it? And there was something strange about that voice on the mystery ship, too. Something not human.
Ten more minutes passed. “Scan them,” said Captain Leigh.
Several moments passed as R & S scanned the mystery ship and formulated their report. “Approximately our size,” read the sublieutenant. “Strong energy signatures, though they seem suspended or attenuated. Possible life readings. Weapons are present but don’t seem to be activated. Shields are up but low - as if they were using their docking shields rather than combat shields. R & S can’t identify it, but it doesn’t look malignant - malevolent, I think they mean. But that’s the best they can do.”
“That’s it?” asked the first lieutenant.
“Few of them have ever scanned a vessel, lieutenant. Most of the folks in the original department have died.”
“Very true, I was forgetting,” replied the first lieutenant, sulkily.
Several more miutes passed during which the mystery ship said nothing, did nothing. “Send a CQD,” said Captain Leigh, finally. “That should get their attention. And put the whole thing through on the speakers.”
“Working,” said Kershaw as he processed the captain’s order. “Coming though now.”
“All Stations, Distress,” said the Amanda Ray’s automated distress signal. “Amanda Ray Requests Emergency Assistance.”
“Greetings Amanda Ray,” the mystery ship immediately replied. “Please State The Nature Of Your Emergency.”
The voices were the same.
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Once the data dump was complete, Finn hailed the mystery ship, which responded, “Received. Please Stand By,” in the same voice that had originally hailed the Amanda Ray, and then fell silent.
“Try them again,” said the captain fifteen minutes later. By now Kershaw, the senior comm-off, had reached the bridge, and it was his portly fingers that danced over the communications console. “Received. Please Stand By,” replied the mystery ship, falling silent again.
Captain Leigh drummed her fingers in a moment of indecision. She was tempted to scan them, but that would be seen as a hostile act, wouldn’t it? Or would it? And there was something strange about that voice on the mystery ship, too. Something not human.
Ten more minutes passed. “Scan them,” said Captain Leigh.
Several moments passed as R & S scanned the mystery ship and formulated their report. “Approximately our size,” read the sublieutenant. “Strong energy signatures, though they seem suspended or attenuated. Possible life readings. Weapons are present but don’t seem to be activated. Shields are up but low - as if they were using their docking shields rather than combat shields. R & S can’t identify it, but it doesn’t look malignant - malevolent, I think they mean. But that’s the best they can do.”
“That’s it?” asked the first lieutenant.
“Few of them have ever scanned a vessel, lieutenant. Most of the folks in the original department have died.”
“Very true, I was forgetting,” replied the first lieutenant, sulkily.
Several more miutes passed during which the mystery ship said nothing, did nothing. “Send a CQD,” said Captain Leigh, finally. “That should get their attention. And put the whole thing through on the speakers.”
“Working,” said Kershaw as he processed the captain’s order. “Coming though now.”
“All Stations, Distress,” said the Amanda Ray’s automated distress signal. “Amanda Ray Requests Emergency Assistance.”
“Greetings Amanda Ray,” the mystery ship immediately replied. “Please State The Nature Of Your Emergency.”
The voices were the same.
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Monday, August 10, 2009
Richmond Rail Heist #6
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CHAPTER TWO
Getting to Marietta was the first step, and it did not prove easy.
Two great obstacles stood before them. The first was simply getting into rebel territory, and for this the men split into small groups. A group of twenty men moving south would be obvious, and suspicious, so James had advised them to split into small groups until they were well beyond the front lines. The second part, as James had pointed out, was keeping out of the rebel army. Cover stories that addressed the first trouble only exacerbated the second, for if they were on the run from Federal troops, then didn’t it make sense that they’d want to join the armies assembling against those same damned Federal troops?
“What was your cousin’s name again?” Will asked his big traveling companion as the three of them (Jones was still with them) crested a hill and a rebel check point appeared at the crossroads in the valley below, “the one in the rebel army?”
“David Porter,” answered Rufus, tugging at his clothes. “He’s a sergant in the Georgia 63rd.” During the night they had found wash hanging on the line, almost dry but not quite, and they had discarded most of their northerner’s clothes and uniforms for the homespun shorts and trousers worn by most southerners. Jones, a soldier in the U.S. Army (like the rest of the men, except for Will and perhaps James), had been unable to replace his uniform trousers.
Since the night, the sun and heat had increased, and a haze had set in, and the clothes were now damper than when the men had found them - damp with sweat. And they fit poorly. Will hoped that the rebels wouldn’t look too closely. “How far would you say we are from the front?” he asked.
“Ten miles? Twelve?” Rufus replied.
“No more than four or five” said Jones confidently.
“We’ve been walking for hours,” Rufus said. “It has to be at least ten miles.”
Jones shook his head. “It’s only because we’re miserable that it seems so long.”
“Miserable?”
“It’s hot, humid, our clothes don’t fit-”
“My clothes fit fine,” said Rufus.
“Then why are you always tugging at your waistband and collar? No, our clothes fit poorly, the weather is uncomfortable, and we’re traipsing into the enemy’s home. It feels like its ten o’clock, or eleven, but it’s no more than eight or eight thirty at the latest.”
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CHAPTER TWO
Getting to Marietta was the first step, and it did not prove easy.
Two great obstacles stood before them. The first was simply getting into rebel territory, and for this the men split into small groups. A group of twenty men moving south would be obvious, and suspicious, so James had advised them to split into small groups until they were well beyond the front lines. The second part, as James had pointed out, was keeping out of the rebel army. Cover stories that addressed the first trouble only exacerbated the second, for if they were on the run from Federal troops, then didn’t it make sense that they’d want to join the armies assembling against those same damned Federal troops?
“What was your cousin’s name again?” Will asked his big traveling companion as the three of them (Jones was still with them) crested a hill and a rebel check point appeared at the crossroads in the valley below, “the one in the rebel army?”
“David Porter,” answered Rufus, tugging at his clothes. “He’s a sergant in the Georgia 63rd.” During the night they had found wash hanging on the line, almost dry but not quite, and they had discarded most of their northerner’s clothes and uniforms for the homespun shorts and trousers worn by most southerners. Jones, a soldier in the U.S. Army (like the rest of the men, except for Will and perhaps James), had been unable to replace his uniform trousers.
Since the night, the sun and heat had increased, and a haze had set in, and the clothes were now damper than when the men had found them - damp with sweat. And they fit poorly. Will hoped that the rebels wouldn’t look too closely. “How far would you say we are from the front?” he asked.
“Ten miles? Twelve?” Rufus replied.
“No more than four or five” said Jones confidently.
“We’ve been walking for hours,” Rufus said. “It has to be at least ten miles.”
Jones shook his head. “It’s only because we’re miserable that it seems so long.”
“Miserable?”
“It’s hot, humid, our clothes don’t fit-”
“My clothes fit fine,” said Rufus.
“Then why are you always tugging at your waistband and collar? No, our clothes fit poorly, the weather is uncomfortable, and we’re traipsing into the enemy’s home. It feels like its ten o’clock, or eleven, but it’s no more than eight or eight thirty at the latest.”
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Thursday, August 6, 2009
STO'B 35
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Two sailors and a marine grabbed the grapnels, tossing them up over the snow’s bulwark. Two of the grapnels caught and as the third was tossed up a second time, Philip grabbed the nearest rope and began hauling himself aboard. They would have to be quick, to take the merchantman before the battery smashed them all to kindling.
They would also have to be quick if they wished to climb aboard the snow before her crew cut the grapnel ropes. Philip’s rope quivered, and looking up he saw a striped-shirted seaman chopping away at it with an axe. The man lifted his axe for another stroke, and another, but now Philip was up, one foot scrambling for purchase on the snow’s smooth side but the other in her main chains, and his pistol reaching over the bulwark, toward the man with the axe. “Rendre!” he cried, “Rendre!”
But the man already had his axe raised, and he turned to Philip, swinging the axe at him. Philip ducked, firing the pistol and falling back, down into the boat, on top of the two men behind him on the rope, and a moment later the rope itself, finally severed, fell on top of them.
Philip looked at the other two boarding ropes. A marine was still working to get catch one on the snow’s deck, the other was choked with climbing men. He had to find another way aboard.
“Axes!” he cried, and a marine placed one in his hand. He reversed it, swinging the pick head deeply into the snow’s side. “Another!” he said, and he swung the next blade into place, higher up and slightly aft of the first. An explosion sounded next to his ear as he wound up with the third axe, deafening him, partially blinding him, but with what was left of his vision he made out a body toppling from the snow’s bulwark, still gripping a pistol. Philip nodded to the marine beside him, busily reloading his carbine, and climbed up his makeshift ladder, swinging yet another axe into place for the next step.
Philip climbed, cautiously peering through a scuttle. Two or three men were involved in a scuffle near the bow, but otherwise there was little activity on deck. He hoisted himself up on board. “‘Vast fighting, there,” he roared at the fighting men, “she’s struck!”
This was sophistry - the snow’s French merchant’s flag still flew from her ensign staff, but the knot of men in the bows fell apart from each other, one of the Britons politely, formally accepting a belaying pin from the surrendering French sailor. All other resistance had already stopped. One of the Badgers stepped aft to actually strike the French colors, but Philip stopped the man - the French fort was not firing on them, and while Philip did not know why, he had no intention of provoking them unnecessarily.
“All prisoners into the hold,” ordered Philip, repeating the order in a bastardized French, and the surviving Frenchmen - all four of them - stepped into the darkness below. Four more French bodies lay on the deck, two of them moving, and a marine reported that a ninth man had escaped in a boat. The English, with the exception of one man clutching a bloody arm to his chest, were uninjured. “Kent, take the tiller - head her for the Badger,” said Philip. “Needle, Pope, see to the injured. The rest of you, sheets and braces.”
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Two sailors and a marine grabbed the grapnels, tossing them up over the snow’s bulwark. Two of the grapnels caught and as the third was tossed up a second time, Philip grabbed the nearest rope and began hauling himself aboard. They would have to be quick, to take the merchantman before the battery smashed them all to kindling.
They would also have to be quick if they wished to climb aboard the snow before her crew cut the grapnel ropes. Philip’s rope quivered, and looking up he saw a striped-shirted seaman chopping away at it with an axe. The man lifted his axe for another stroke, and another, but now Philip was up, one foot scrambling for purchase on the snow’s smooth side but the other in her main chains, and his pistol reaching over the bulwark, toward the man with the axe. “Rendre!” he cried, “Rendre!”
But the man already had his axe raised, and he turned to Philip, swinging the axe at him. Philip ducked, firing the pistol and falling back, down into the boat, on top of the two men behind him on the rope, and a moment later the rope itself, finally severed, fell on top of them.
Philip looked at the other two boarding ropes. A marine was still working to get catch one on the snow’s deck, the other was choked with climbing men. He had to find another way aboard.
“Axes!” he cried, and a marine placed one in his hand. He reversed it, swinging the pick head deeply into the snow’s side. “Another!” he said, and he swung the next blade into place, higher up and slightly aft of the first. An explosion sounded next to his ear as he wound up with the third axe, deafening him, partially blinding him, but with what was left of his vision he made out a body toppling from the snow’s bulwark, still gripping a pistol. Philip nodded to the marine beside him, busily reloading his carbine, and climbed up his makeshift ladder, swinging yet another axe into place for the next step.
Philip climbed, cautiously peering through a scuttle. Two or three men were involved in a scuffle near the bow, but otherwise there was little activity on deck. He hoisted himself up on board. “‘Vast fighting, there,” he roared at the fighting men, “she’s struck!”
This was sophistry - the snow’s French merchant’s flag still flew from her ensign staff, but the knot of men in the bows fell apart from each other, one of the Britons politely, formally accepting a belaying pin from the surrendering French sailor. All other resistance had already stopped. One of the Badgers stepped aft to actually strike the French colors, but Philip stopped the man - the French fort was not firing on them, and while Philip did not know why, he had no intention of provoking them unnecessarily.
“All prisoners into the hold,” ordered Philip, repeating the order in a bastardized French, and the surviving Frenchmen - all four of them - stepped into the darkness below. Four more French bodies lay on the deck, two of them moving, and a marine reported that a ninth man had escaped in a boat. The English, with the exception of one man clutching a bloody arm to his chest, were uninjured. “Kent, take the tiller - head her for the Badger,” said Philip. “Needle, Pope, see to the injured. The rest of you, sheets and braces.”
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Space-5
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The mystery ship’s upload took almost a hour to complete. Partially this was due to limitations in the Amanda Ray’s communications systems (they had been damaged in the fight that had disabled her, and some of what had remained had been shut down to conserve power), but a lot had happened in the past 30 years, as Captain Leigh and her crew discovered when they started to sort through all that had arrived.
In the short term there was little else to do, as the hadn’t been able to send any messages since the data dump had begun. So, the sorting started almost as soon as the data stream had been identified as positively benign, with the crew standing down from quarters less than five minutes after they had been sent there. Word spread that this appeared to be the first part of their rescue, and a relaxed, jovial attitude prevailed, infecting even the first lieutenant, who in discovering two crewmen engrossed in reading up on the exploits of various sports teams, rather than attending to their sensor arrays, had merely frowned. The frown had been enough to return them to their duty (merely the lieutenant’s presence was enough for that), but the lack of any discipline (delivered or even promised) or even any harsh words added to the sense of holiday.
Throughout the Amanda Ray people discovered that the war with the Sasquinaw was over, or apparently over, since no one had heard from them in over 20 years. Allied forces found Sasquinaw sentinel ships vanished, their stations abandoned, even whole planets suddenly depopulated of Sasquinaw life. No clue remained as to what had become of humanity’s greatest threat for the last century and a half.
“Listen to this,” said the sublieutenant, reading in the Times Digest, “‘the crew of the Astoria encountered Sasquinaw station Bravo 3 shuttered and riding without its Anti-Collision beacons. On entering they discovered most systems intentionally powered down, with the exception of the anti-wander system and the A-C beacons. These had apparently failed when rats got at their wiring, leaving the station dark. Rather than repair the beacons for them to fail again, the station was towed to the nearest star for disposal.’ I never thought of the Sasquinaw as having problems with rats.”
“It’s a problem we all face,” said the captain. “They get into everything they can. Mr Finn,” she said to the comm-off, “any luck contacting someone aboard that ship?”
The comm-off coughed before responding. “No, ma’am. I still can’t get a signal past the fu-, past the data dump.”
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GLOSSARY
The mystery ship’s upload took almost a hour to complete. Partially this was due to limitations in the Amanda Ray’s communications systems (they had been damaged in the fight that had disabled her, and some of what had remained had been shut down to conserve power), but a lot had happened in the past 30 years, as Captain Leigh and her crew discovered when they started to sort through all that had arrived.
In the short term there was little else to do, as the hadn’t been able to send any messages since the data dump had begun. So, the sorting started almost as soon as the data stream had been identified as positively benign, with the crew standing down from quarters less than five minutes after they had been sent there. Word spread that this appeared to be the first part of their rescue, and a relaxed, jovial attitude prevailed, infecting even the first lieutenant, who in discovering two crewmen engrossed in reading up on the exploits of various sports teams, rather than attending to their sensor arrays, had merely frowned. The frown had been enough to return them to their duty (merely the lieutenant’s presence was enough for that), but the lack of any discipline (delivered or even promised) or even any harsh words added to the sense of holiday.
Throughout the Amanda Ray people discovered that the war with the Sasquinaw was over, or apparently over, since no one had heard from them in over 20 years. Allied forces found Sasquinaw sentinel ships vanished, their stations abandoned, even whole planets suddenly depopulated of Sasquinaw life. No clue remained as to what had become of humanity’s greatest threat for the last century and a half.
“Listen to this,” said the sublieutenant, reading in the Times Digest, “‘the crew of the Astoria encountered Sasquinaw station Bravo 3 shuttered and riding without its Anti-Collision beacons. On entering they discovered most systems intentionally powered down, with the exception of the anti-wander system and the A-C beacons. These had apparently failed when rats got at their wiring, leaving the station dark. Rather than repair the beacons for them to fail again, the station was towed to the nearest star for disposal.’ I never thought of the Sasquinaw as having problems with rats.”
“It’s a problem we all face,” said the captain. “They get into everything they can. Mr Finn,” she said to the comm-off, “any luck contacting someone aboard that ship?”
The comm-off coughed before responding. “No, ma’am. I still can’t get a signal past the fu-, past the data dump.”
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