Sleeping in the Stars (Marston Chronicles Book 1) Page 6

  “Buster, do a flyby of the town, and get ground level, two hundred and five hundred foot reconnaissance video, including land between the town and volcano.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Once Buster completed the flyby, the quasi-A.I. resumed the heading towards the volcano, dropping altitude along the way. Reaching the lake inside the collapsed cone, Buster switched from the fusion drives to the chemical thrusters on the wings and began the descent into the lake. As the Griffin drew closer to the lake, the jets began boiling the surface and superheated steam began to rise, until cloud completely engulfed the ship. Once the hull touched the water, Buster cut the jets and allowed the ship to settle into the volcano’s lake.

  “Buster, scan the bottom. Is there anything that can damage the ship?”

  “Scanning.” After a moment, the AI replied, “there are a few rocks and small boulders, but nothing sharp enough to puncture the hull.”

  “Don’t extend the landing struts. We’ll let it settle on the bottom.”

  Krag sat in the flight chair and watched through the viewing port. As the waves washed over the super dense reinforced window he saw light streaking and refracting, splashing rainbow droplets on the nose. As the ship submerged, gold beams of light shimmered and wavered through the blue waters. Sinking deeper, the waters turned dark blue and only a dull luminescence was left to light the surroundings. Small and medium marine life scattered, darting away from the giant beast that had invaded their domain. Griffin touched bottom, groaned and settled into the silt. To the sturdy little ship, pressure from water was no more threatening than the vacuum of space.

  Checking his controls and status panels, Krag ordered, “Buster, shut everything down but life support. Then set up passive scanners and see what our tag-alongs are doing. I’m going to gear up and prep the shuttle. Let me know when they arrive in-system.”

  Before he left, Krag studied the scans of the town he was going to visit. As a watcher of twentieth century two dimensional videos, he saw that it reminded him of an old western town. It had the main street, lined with shops, surrounding homes and beyond, surrounding ranches. The chief transportation appeared to be ground vehicles, two, three and four wheeled. The captain began to plan his disguise.

  Various hummings and hissings began to quit. Lighting faded to a soft yellow throughout the Griffin. The consoles dimmed to dull glows. Temperature changes in the water and the force of gravity caused some creaking and popping as the Griffin cooled down and settled onto the lake bottom.

  Krag listened to it all, much like a mother would listen to the sounds of her home and children, verifying that all was well. For the ex-Federacy starfighter pilot, this was his home. It had been for the last three years. The previous twenty had been something entirely different.

  Krag Marston-Then

  Sometimes someone is born in the wrong place at the right time. Twenty-three years ago, Krag Marston was a sixteen-year-old farm boy on the heavy gravity world, Australia Minor, with a gravity that boasted forty percent greater than Old Earth. Working with his two older brothers every morning and evening in the fields and handling livestock, the six foot, three, raw-boned teen became country large and country strong. That made him an excellent farmer. But, despite his bulk, he grew up quick as a cat. Growing up, he sharpened those reflexes and further toned his musculature wrestling with the giant mastiffs that his family kept for security and animal control. Even as a child, his father would find young Krag in the yard on all fours lunging at the giant dogs, feigning growls and grabs. The animals, in turn, would lunge back, growling and snarling, feigning pack supremacy fights, but never biting or clawing.

  Of course Krag’s mother worried for her baby boy. But that is what mothers do. Krag’s father could only smile as he watched the violent interaction, Krag laughing, dogs growling, all jumping, clashing and generally being who they were – dogs and child. His watch young Krag, always loving physical activity, grow from a wild country boy into a top athlete throughout his school days, achieving top honors in wrestling and kick-boxing.

  And Krag had a high level of intelligence as well as a highly active imagination. His grades in school were some of the highest. This combination of strength, speed, intelligence and imagination made him the worst of all farmers – a boy with personal drive and a burning wanderlust. Being a farmer's son wasn't something that he could ever remain. With dreams of exploring the universe, protecting the Federacy and generally doing ‘good’ for people, Krag left his father’s farm and joined the United Federacy Space Force the year he became of legal age. The decision hadn’t set well with his parents, brothers or sister. They all felt betrayed, rejected. In their world, generations worked the lands, never leaving, never doing anything differently. But he had signed up before telling them. So it became a done deal. His departure was a mix of tears and anger, sullen silences broken by attempts at acceptance. The goodbyes were a forlorn affair, quickly finished with Krag marching through the spaceport gates.

  Boot camp proved to the instructors that they had someone special. They discovered a calculating risk taker who attacked each problem with analytical aggression. The star force academy thought they had a warrior in the making - a strong, emotionless technician that would drive unrelentingly towards any assignment he was given.

  On the fighting mat the young Krag would get into the same spring stance he used when playing with the giant dogs on his farm. Then he would size up his opponent and launch. If the plebe held his ground, the dense and country strong Krag would bowl him over. If the opponent tried to avoid the onslaught, Krag would land on his feet and close with combinations of kicks, blocks and punches. When inside the opponent’s defense, using his heavy gravity strength, he would grab, throw and slam his opponent to the ground. Then Krag would lock the unfortunate victim and proceed to punch and stomp him until the ref ended the match. With the hand and feet padding, Krag was able to fight all out and not worry about severely injuring anyone. The instructors never saw the looks of concern after each match. They just saw whom they wanted to see.

  Where the young farm boy truly excelled was in the starship simulators. His cognitive recognition and solution creation was faster and simpler than any of the other trainees by an almost exponential factor. That, coupled with his fast reflexes and heavy-world physical strength allowed him to attack each simulation heedlessly, almost joyfully. Krag Marston had no peers in his class. The other plebes were just fodder for his learning.

  The instructors fast tracked the young recruit. They transferred him from boot camp to flight academy. The first thing that they did was submit the newly designated trainee to pilot enhancement.

  The medical staff placed him in the surgical chair and injected the anesthetic. Once the plebe was unconscious, the assistant surgeon shaved Krag’s head, peeled back his scalp and removed the upper cranial portion of his skull. The lead surgeon then proceeded to insert the probes, covered the brain with the interface mesh and connected the bundle of leads to the junction box implanted at the base of the skull. His skull was closed back up, the scalp stitched back down and the young pilot trainee was sent to recovery to heal before his next round of surgery.

  Two weeks later Krag was back in the chair. This time his chest was cut open. The top five percent of his left lung was removed to create room inside the rib cage. The miniaturized computer incased in hardened steel alloy and wrapped in anti-EMP shielding, was inserted and anchored to the back of the chest cavity. Wires were snaked through to the junction box and connected, linking the cranial interface mesh with the computer. Again, he was closed up and sent back to recover. The trembler in the device guaranteed that it, and the weave, would never run out of power as long as it was in Krag and Krag’s heart kept beating.

  As the Federacy’s plans for this pilot-in-training weren’t for ground action, there was no strengthening of the skeletal system, muscle enhancers or injection systems to heighten reflexes and speed. But the young Krag did get the full suite of pilot enha
ncements. The corneas were replaced with synthetics that became the video screen for his computer implant. With the specialty software uploaded, he had low-light vision, magnifying vision and microscopic vision. Also, he acquired the ability to see through the entire light spectrum from the heat of infra-red to the cold of ultra-violet.

  The next two years were spent mastering his implants and building his personal interface, memory banks and flight/combat programs with his assigned artificial intelligence. The AI came in a portable battery powered housing that Krag carried in a shoulder pack. Whenever Krag was in a simulator, the AI was in the interface dock. Whenever Krag was in the classroom, the AI, with its external visual and audio pickups, recorded everything.

  Working on a farm gave Krag many evenings of boredom. Mostly he would don a headset, grab the controller and live in 3D interactive videos and games. When he became bored he would explore the galactic net for other entertainments. That was when the farm boy became hooked on twentieth century 2D vids. That was when he had discovered Buster Keaton, the little hobo. And that was how his AI got named-‘Buster’. The two years passed and Krag Marston became Mister Marston, first class, the newly graduated pilot, ready to fly the stars and become a new protector of the Federacy.

  While the young Krag Marston powered through his years of training and learning, another student fought just as hard, brilliant in his studies but average in his imagination-Theodore Weiskoff the third. His family being rich, and deeply in bed with the governing class had a few of its members within the upper echelons of the military command including his father. Theodore (he hated the name ‘Teddy’) competed and held his own in the same classes as Krag.

  Young Theodore came in first in strategy and logistics. But second in tactics and reflexive problem solving. He took the same flight simulations and Krag constantly mastered him. Theodore took the same physical training and there Krag constantly defeated him. Krag beat him at everything except for most of the academics. Theodore watched as instructors and coaches singled out the blond-haired farm boy. Theodore did his studying and passed his tests with high marks as he watched the academics recognize this inferior dirt digger as someone to be given special attention. And Theodore grew to despise him, resent him, hate him.

  Seventeen years later, the non-descript man with powerful family ties had become a Vice-Admiral commanding a carrier fleet that patrolled the Federacy. And Vice-Admiral Theodore Weiskoff the Third still hated.

  Seventeen years later, Major Krag Marston retired. He was burned out, disillusioned, angry, resentful, and hated the Federacy. But he still loved the stars. So he didn’t retreat to a planet, revert to his farming roots. Major Krag Marston (retired) continued to do what he did best. He continued to do what he was born for. He continued to be a space pilot, a traveler of the stars.

  Krag Marston-Now

  Now with Earth-like gravity, Krag walked normally to his captain’s quarters, just behind the bridge. Not being in a hurry, waiting to see what the police did, Krag undressed and went to the grooming cubical to scrub away the sweat, grime, stress and fatigue. While going through his cleaning ritual, he decided on the ‘prospector’ look.

  He donned an outfit of rugged safari pants and shirt, vest with a lot of pockets and reinforced military boots. He slipped a modern version of the Glock nine millimeter pistol into a holster strapped to his right hip, loading extra clips into vest pockets. Krag preferred a slug thrower over any beam or particle weapon. The thought of electronic countermeasures rendering his weapon useless was a thought he didn’t want. Thinking this, Krag added a handheld, low yield, electro-magnetic pulse rod to a wrist pocket strapped to his left arm, under the shirt sleeve. He slipped a cuff sheathing a commando knife on his left. A telescoping hardened steel baton went into a thigh pocket in his pants. After clipping a small wireless speaker to his pocket, he finished his outfit with his space marine gilly hat. Grabbing his pack and personal data pad, he took one last look in the mirror and headed towards the shuttle.

  “Buster, any sign of our friends?”

  “They have entered the system and are currently scanning.”

  “Let me know if they become dangerous. I’ll wait at the shuttle until we know what they’ll do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Krag spent the next hour checking the status of the shuttle, the planetfall gear and survival supplies. He shook the straps, insuring that the quad-wheeled land rover was securely bound to the small storage bed at the rear. Everything looked ready to go. He also filled out a requisition list on his personal data pad, including energy modules.

  Buster came on line. “Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  “One of the cruisers has scanned the planet but we weren’t located.”

  “It’s a good thing they didn’t have military grade scanners. If they had been Fed-Mil we would have been screwed.”

  “The three cruisers are following the drone trail, towards the singularity. The last one should be clear in about ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Buster. Let me know when I can launch.”

  Ten minutes later, Buster came back on line. “You are clear to launch, Captain.’

  “Seal the launch bay, increase the air pressure to keep the water out then lower the ramp.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Krag waited in the shuttle’s pilot seat and watched the gauges as the air pressure increased to a greater degree than the external water pressure. Once that was accomplished the back of the Griffin opened like a clam, a seam in the tail emerging, with the upper half of the cargo hatch swinging up and the lower half swinging down.

  Griffin’s shuttle followed the explosion of bubbles out the hatch. Krag slowly lifted through the lake, rising with the storm of air and followed the explosion of air to above the volcano’s mouth. Hovering for a minute, Krag got his bearings then headed at a leisurely pace toward the town. The first half of the flight took him over heavily forested rolling mountains. Looking at the downward-pointed viewing screen, he saw brightly colored and dark birds of all sizes flashing through the canopy, winds causing the leaved branches to sway as though the forest listened to music that man would never hear.

  A good-sized river ran through the forest. Krag saw wide portions with slow moving water, a narrow area with rocks being splashed by the fast rush of white water and a swollen portion, almost like a mini-lake. The forest and lake took Krag back to his time as a youth. He remembered the days when he would take his favorite hunting hound, his compound bow and the old revolver pistol that his father had given him on his tenth birthday. Ammunition was sparse and expensive. So the gun was only for emergencies. With his sleeping roll and a few survival stuffs, the young Krag would hunt the forest for a few days. He’d proudly return with a string of small game and birds for his mother to prepare and show his father that he hadn’t lost or damaged any of his arrows.

  A harsh demarcation line defined the cross-over from the terra-formed wilds to the domesticated farmland. Krag flew his shuttle over a checkerboard of grain fields, orchards and livestock country. Watching a large cattle herd graze brought back memories of sweaty toil, managing the small herd of livestock or repairing weather-worn buildings and aging equipment. He remembered the sunsets and suppers, the quiet evenings of mellow tranquility, just letting life roll by.

  The time of his youth had been loving and healthy but unfulfilling. The memories were soothing but Krag was glad he had left. Still, the life of peaceful existence still tugged at his soul.

  After reaching the small space port, Krag unloaded the quad and grabbed his pack. Releasing the straps, he did another walk around of the quad, a four wheeled, electric powered basic ground vehicle. It seated two with a storage bed in back. A metal roll cage and corrugated roof kept any sun off but did nothing for the elements. Krag re-adjusted his gilly hat, slipped on a set of wrap-around hunter’s glasses, climbed in and started up the quad.

  The short drive to the outskirts of the town was on a road was some sort o
f tar, sand and gravel, obviously constructed from local materials. A constant wind pelted the quad with light sand, blowing grit into Krag’s hair and onto his clothes. He didn’t pass any vehicles, so Krag surmised that the space port wasn’t used much. After passing some store fronts lining the main road, Krag pulled up to a huge supply warehouse, shed gilly and wrap-arounds then climbed out. Upon entering, he quickly located the clerk behind the counter. The counterman said something in a language that came out as gargles and many glottal stops.

  “I need some supplies. Can you fill this?” Krag asked in English, showing the data pad screen to the man.

  The clerk held up a hand in the universal gesture of ‘wait’. Moving over to a terminal with an antenna, he adjusted a nob and flipped a switch.

  “Do you understand me?” the clerk asked.

  “Yes. And on the first try. Good guess.”

  “I thought that was Aussie English. I haven’t heard that since I was a kid. Everyone on Tolimar speaks Galactic English. They start learning it as soon as we hit pre-school. Switch to English?””

  “Works for me. You’re not from here?”

  “Nope. Born on Mars. My parents came out here to get away from the domes and back to the sky. I’m John. John Decker. People call me ‘Deek’. I own this place.” Decker waved a hand accenting the floor-to-ceiling inventory then reached over and switched off the translator.

  Krag saw a large, solid, middle-aged man, hair shot with grey, hands gnarled from heavy work.

  “Krag Marston.” The two shook hands.

  “Let me see the list, again.”