Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Terran Date: May 9, 2259

"Pretty, huh?" The private lifted his hand out toward the engine room portal. Huge streamers of ignited plasma were shooting out from the number five spike as the Horizon slowly burned off her black hole mass in preparation for system entry.

Mahlon Stewart politely looked out the portal, but soon returned to his work. As the ship's third class stellar drive engineer, it was his duty to maintain consistent mass conversion to all six spikes, and the task required most of his attention. Besides, he had been stationed on the bridge when he was Chief, and had seen five spikes radiating. Still, for a recruit on his first deep space chase, this would be very impressive.

"Yeah, it sure is, Keane. Grab that tabinal and punch in the latest readouts, okay?" The private tore himself away from the awesome sight and called up the diagnostics routine on the tabinal. He aligned the core memory with the ship's and nodded. Mal nodded in approval."That was a real quick alignment, kid. You're getting pretty good."

"I've had a good teacher, Mal."

"Yeah? Well, buy me a beer when we pull into Vermilion, and we'll call it even." His eyes glanced over the multiple readouts and he made a slight adjustment to the containment field bulging around spike two. "Okay. Calibration in five… four… three… two… one..." The tabinal and display toned as one and quickly numbers began shooting through. There were no discrepancies and they toned off less than forty seconds after starting. Mal nodded again. Stewart was a taciturn man, and Keane understood the engineer's nod as being the equivalent of someone else's jumping around and shouting wildly.

"All right. Everything's on the beam. The ball's at 34% mass with maximum extension and bleed through will be complete at just over one hundred au from Pluto's orbit. After that, we glide in." Keane frowned.

"A hundred au from the system? Maybe we should bring the ball in closer. That's a pretty long glide, Mal, just for system reentry."

"Sure is. We might even need to fire up all engines, instead of just number one. Better that, though, than ripping up Pluto. Look at your charts, Bobby. Pluto's almost in our way, less than 75 million kilometers from our system reentry point. Even a ball at fifteen percent mass would tear up the planet's crust pretty bad."

"But we'll be at zero mass long before then," Keane corrected, "if nothing goes wrong."

"We plan to be at zero mass. Kid, something always goes wrong. If your engineer ever believes different, it's time to get a new engineer. So we collapse the ball further out and stroll on in from there."

There was a soft tone as the Captain called down.

"Mal?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"How's the bleed coming? The Chief seems to think we should be sloughing mass at point nine oh eight." Mal casually glanced at his numbers and gave Keane a questioning look. Keane, startled at being given a chance to handle the responsibility, nervously looked over the display. He silently pointed at the mass to energy sloughing ratio and gave the universal okay sign. Mal in turn pointed to the ship's velocity, distance from system, and the regional space debris indicators. Keane continued to stare at the numbers, his lips moving slightly as he rechecked his decision.

"Mal?"

"Sorry, ma'am. Giving my recruit a chance to answer."

"Captain?" Keane tried to keep his voice calm, but he sounded more like Mal had him by the throat.

"Yes? Private Keane, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am. We're currently sloughing at point eight eight one. We think that.."

"I don't want what 'we' think, Private. I want what you think."

"Yes, ma'am." Had he a gun, Mal would have shot the young man out of pity. The Captain's voice was pleasant, but her selection of words always showed the steel and high expectations underneath, and it could be unnerving for those unprepared for it. "I recommend we maintain eight eight one. We're at FTL-18.4 and it's 412 au to the Hoboken Junkyard. Going to nine oh eight would slow us down too quickly and we'd risk going sub-light while still in the Junkyard."

"I see. The Chief says we're at 34% on the ball and even at nine oh eight we should be well clear of the Junkyard before ball collapse. Please adjust the slough to nine oh eight. Bridge out."

"But, Captain!" Keane protested, but the comlink had already gone dead. Mal groaned.

"You, Bobby my lad, just got lucky." Mal motioned Keane to the opposite console where the two could begin adjusting the slough conversion rate. "You never argue with the Captain over a comlink. She'll take it face to face, but you were about to pop off to her in front of the bridge crew."

Keane swallowed hard, realizing his mistake. He pressed on nonetheless.

"But Mal, eight eight one is the optimum slough! We'll enter the Junkyard at FTL-15.4 and exit at 12.5." He ran his fingers over the version panel. "Nine oh eight sloughing gets us out of the Junkyard at eleven point three. If we drop below eleven point two times the speed of light in the Junkyard, the ball collapses and the ship gets the pounding of its life. That's too close."

"Aye, it is, kid. But nine oh eight probably won't kill us. The Junkyard thins out the last sixty aus, so we shouldn't have a problem even if the ball does collapse. But it's the Captain who decides."

"But.."

"There ain't no but, kid! She decides and we do it. Don't worry, we'll be fine. She's a sharp one, and if we drop below FTL-12 too deep in the Junkyard, she'll go back to eight five oh or maybe even eight hundred. And she'll keep in mind it was you who recommended the lower slough rate in the first place."

"It was your recommendation though, Mal."

Stewart snorted. "I didn't say anything. You said it, kid. She wanted your opinion and what she heard was your opinion. She knows I agree with it, or I would have slugged you. But when I gave you over to her, it was your rep on the line. But like I said, don't worry. For a Terran, you did fine."

Keane was finally satisfied and concentrated on his panel. Mal and Captain Carlson had been serving together for over thirty years, even before there were ball chasers. They had bounced about the solar system on a dozen different ships, everything from old freighters to transports to the sleek, five man gunships that Earth used to patrol the system. They had been among the original crew of the Horizon when it had been commissioned as the first faster than light ship. She had signed on as First Officer and he'd been the Chief Engineer.

Now, fifteen years and eight missions later, they were the only remaining members of that crew - not counting Fred - and she was the Captain while Mal had stepped down to third class engineer, the lowest ranked officer on board. It was a known fact that he could have the Chief Engineer's post in an instant - Mal had forgotten more about chasing the ball than anyone else had ever learned. But the Intersystem Transport Authority, the governing body of all twenty-four ball chasers currently commissioned, felt the best way to train new ball handlers was to demote the more accomplished Chief Engineers and use them as teachers. This allowed the new Chief to gain experience while still offering both the Chief and the ship's captain a resource that could drop his teaching duties at a moment's notice. Keane certainly appreciated the arrangement; he'd learned more from Mal on this two year journey to 18 Scorpii and back than he'd learned in six years attending BCU in New Jersey.

He tapped out a final sequence with a flourish and looked expectantly at Stewart for approval. After a casual glance over the figures, Mal nodded and Keane engaged his model. This was the moment Keane lived for; that instant when a crew, a one hundred and twenty meter ship, and a singularity buried in another reality obeyed your - and only your - commands.

The ship shuddered slightly and slowed down as the mass to energy conversion ratio slipped closer to even. Keane knew it could never reach one to one, though. If it did, the Horizon would be venting pure energy into space instead of burning plasma, and the resulting temperature increase would melt first the spikes, then the subspace field control rod. The ship itself was safe from the heat for the very simple reason that without the subspace field constantly holding and pushing the artificial black hole less than half a meter in front of the bows, the Horizon would instantly "catch the ball", and be sucked into its namesake; the event horizon. An easier and quicker death than burning alive, to be sure. But dead was still dead.

There was a flash of light from the portal as the plume coming off spike five billowed and flared. Keane's display panel told him the other five spikes were doing the same. Anyone in the solar system that had their telescopes trained on this area of space was in for a rare treat when the light rays reached them in five or six days.

"All done! We're drifting up to nine oh eight slough and should be there in about two minutes."

"How long to the Junkyard?" Mal asked quietly, not looking up from his display.

"Uh… adjusted time to arrival at the Hoboken Junkyard is three hours, twenty five minutes. Time to travel through the Yard is almost exactly the same; three hours and thirty minutes. After that..." Keane's voice drifted off with a shrug.

"After that, it depends on when the ball collapses." Mal stood up and stretched. "Then we'll really be on leave, cause it'll be up to the fusion crew to handle the engines, which is fine by me. All right, it's 1500 now. We're out of the Junkyard around 2200 hours. Show up at 1930 hours and we'll nurse it in from there. 'Til then, you've got a little free time, Bobby. Catch some shuteye. Or hit your books on bridge etiquette. Just be ready to get back here on the bounce if I holler. See ya."

Mal coded off the control panel and made for the forward lift. The engine room took up the aft portion of decks three through five - there being ten decks plus the bridge on the Horizon - and he was getting too old to use the ladders for fun.

The antigravity eledisc quietly took him up to deck two, the first complete deck above engineering, and he strolled aft down the tight corridor to his quarters. The light came on, simulating a misty New England morning, and he could hear the all but muted pounding of the surf just beyond the far bulkhead. He'd never been to the actual coast, being born and raised on Mars, but the thrill of ocean going ships still appealed to him greatly. He closed his eyes and imagined he could feel the ship rocking gently as it made its way to port, going into a slight head wind. The seas would be running about two meters, not enough to be dangerous, but enough to put a little bite in the bows, and make one feel alive.

He took a deep breath, but the ocean scent he'd brought had played out three months ago, and now he had only the lighting and sound to take him to the rocky coasts. And his whiskey. Smiling with anticipation, Mal took down a glass from his shelf, checking to be sure it was fairly clean. He poured in three fingers of whiskey from his last bottle. The Horizon was not a dry ship - it was just a little stupid to send a crew on a two year journey without the creature comforts - and Mal always stocked a fine supply of both Terran and Martian whiskey.

He carried the glass over to his hammock and flopped down, an action that truly marked him for the experienced ball chaser that he was; anyone trying to flop onto a hammock without a great deal of experience doing it was in for a rude landing on the deck and months of ridicule if anyone ever found out - which they always did. Even in the simulated Martian gravity, the hammock barely swayed, and Mal lay there, contemplating both the ceiling and his future. Both looked quite barren.

He was finishing his eighth voyage on the Horizon - every one she had logged - and was also concluding his fortieth year as an engineer. He didn't know how many more years he had left in him officially; ITA never forced anyone into retirement but the fact was that no engineering officer had served past the age of sixty. And Mal was fifty-six. Worse, he looked every year his age. His sinewy body was still in good shape, but the seams on his face were deep, and his once toner black hair was somewhere between gray and silver. His ears and nose were thick from too many fights when in port during his younger days, and he had about him that gnarled, grizzled look he swore he'd never have.

It was his eyes that betrayed him the most, though. He'd been told more than once that his hazel eyes always reflected his experience. Still sharp and clear, he nevertheless could not keep them from showing the knowledge he had acquired over the decades; knowledge that had never and could never be recorded in a book or on the net. Mal was considered by all to be the best engineer in any fleet, military, corporate or civilian.

And what would it ultimately get him? Free passage throughout space for life and a modest pension that should keep him pleasantly drunk in some of the less seedy bars in most ports around the system. There had been a time in the past when that kind of worry free retirement appealed to him. Now that it was fast becoming a reality, he knew he needed more.

He shook his head to clear it, and stared at his empty glass. Nothing like a shot of aged one hundred proof to start a pity party. He knew that part of his melancholy was the letdown that always happened at the conclusion of a long mission, but before the euphoria of getting into port hit him. That this had been a successful tour, with the establishment of a small colony on 18 Scorpii's third planet, only deepened his gloom. What he needed was some company.

"Computer, what's the time?"

"It is 1537 hours," replied a soft female voice. ITA, always looking for ways to improve morale, had voiced the computer like this for the voyage. He'd liked that voice a lot when this trip started; the computer sounded like she was trying her best to seduce him. After two years, though, she'd become very tiresome, being only a one trick pony, and he was going to personally throttle the idiot who'd coded that voice. Either that or put him on a two year voyage with this voice. He'd probably end up throttling himself.

He slipped easily out of his hammock. He really did need company, and he knew Pam would be taking off for a few hours. She was always on the bridge when the Horizon dropped below the safe zone of FTL-20 and she'd certainly be back in the chair when they entered the Junkyard, and would remain there until the ball had collapsed and the switch over to the fusion engines was complete. That meant she'd been on duty for sixteen hours, and would be on for at least another six before long. He snatched a second glass and the bottle and made his way for the lift.

He passed by about a dozen enlisted on his way to the Captain's Quarters, and each one saluted. He either gave them scowls or ignored them, and they continued on, quite used to this from him. Despite his sometimes grouchy exterior, Mahlon was genuinely liked by nearly everyone on board because he listened, and people trusted what he had to say and they trusted what he wouldn't say to others.

He stepped onto the lift and requested the bridge. The disc soundlessly raised him up the two decks to his destination. It stopped and he stepped off. Not wanting to really talk to anyone but Pam, he quickly turned to his right, then right again, hoping to get off the bridge and to the Captain's quarters without comment.

"Stewart?"

Mal shuddered. Chief Engineer Soldano's voice always carried the smallest hint of superiority in it. It was probably unintentional - he was a good man and a fair engineer - but it still grated. He thought about ignoring it, but decided against it. No point in getting the Chief upset. He turned back, conscious of the whiskey bottle in his hand, but not really caring what anyone thought.

He eyed the Chief carefully. He was seated at his station, on the forward starboard bulkhead, dressed in his still crisp green and gold uniform, complete with the deep gold shoulder tassel that marked his rank. Behind him, Mal could see the billowing plumes of spikes six, one and two, and in front of that, the massive, cone shaped forward shields. The entire bridge hull was composed of aligned titanium and was crystal clear, allowing an unobstructed view into space.

"Yes, sir?" Mal always put respect in his tone, which the Chief deserved both because of his station and because of his skill.

"I notice that the slough is at nine oh eight and deceleration is going nicely. Good work." Mal made no reply to the lame compliment. Soldano's eyes glanced down at the bottle and glasses in Mal's hand. "I'm not sure that the Captain is up to receiving visitors. She just went off duty and will be going back on in three hours."

"Yes, sir. If you don't mind, sir, I'll ask her myself."

Soldano's face tightened slightly. Mal could only just suppress a smile. He really did respect the man and his rank, but this was Soldano's first voyage as the Chief, and even after two years, he still hadn't mastered the relationship between the Chief and the unique position of the third engineer. There were some privileges that could never be taken from Mal, and one of them was his unrestricted access to Captain Carlson.

Not wanting to force the Chief into an uncomfortable position in front of the eight other bridge crew, Mal chose to interpret the Chief's silence as dismissal. He saluted and turned back down the short corridor. He reached the end and knocked on Pam's door, the weird thoom! of the energy door giving a small echo.

"Come in," came a muffled voice. Mall stepped through the ghost door's planed simulated matter field and entered the Captain's quarters.

Taking up the aft portion of the bridge module attached to the top of the Horizon's main cabin, the Captain's quarters was a combination living area and meeting room. The starboard section, which Mal was in now, contained a beautiful polished maple conference table and a dozen chairs. The center of the oval table had a suspended holo occupying nearly half the table. It could display virtually anything, from standard ship readouts to holoized communications to generated images. Currently it displayed the positions of the Junkyard and the Sol system. Small pinpoints of light marked the individual planets and their moons, with a cottony haze showing the position of the Junkyard and the asteroid belt. On the outer edge of the holo the Horizon was marked by a flashing green light, moving slowly toward the Junkyard.

Scattered about the remainder of the room were comfortable chairs and small tables. Except for the aft bulkhead, the wall was covered by various paintings and sculptures. The aft bulkhead itself was aligned titanium, and the view was stunning. For a dozen kilometers off the stern of the ship, all six plumes could be seen, burning bright and huge. Because the plumes were slowing down faster than the ship, they were bright yellow close on to the stern, but dropped through the prism quickly to deep red. At only twenty kilometers they disappeared entirely as the still burning plasma dropped below the speed of light and were left far, far, behind.

The port side of the quarters, on Mal's right as he faced aft, were the Captain's private rooms. Containing only a bedroom, study and bathroom, they were still larger than any other quarters on the ship. And since her aft wall was part of the clear hull, the view was unmatched. Mal couldn't actually see into the rooms, they were divided from the section he was in by a standard wall, but he had been there many times before. As he looked toward the doorway, Pam came out.

They'd known each other for thirty four years, ever since the day she'd signed on at the Vermilion space port at the age of sixteen, a runaway from a home she rarely spoke of. They served their first four years together on the freighter McFarland, a piece of ancient, overworked metal that struggled to make the Mars/Earth/Moon run in less than a month. He'd been the Chief, and Pam the ship's astronavigator's assistant, a useless position for the most part - the astronavigator himself spent most of his time arranging contraband deals for the ship's twenty crewmen. He soon turned even his nominal duties over to the wide eyed Pamela, and with Mal's guidance, she was soon learning everything there was to know about pushing an eighty year old freighter through space. And when the navigator came up three tons and one blaster shot short on his last deal, Pam was the natural selection for his vacancy.

Now, all these years later, she was the Captain of Earth's first faster than light ship, and was the best officer Mal had ever seen. Just past fifty, she and Mal were very similar. Her once blond hair had slowly drifted to gray, and her once beautiful face would now be called handsome. Of average build, she nonetheless could still throw anyone in two out of three matches, you choose the terrain, and then sit down and be the perfect lady in the most formal of settings. That she preferred to toss a liter back with her shipmates at the closest bar came as a surprise to anyone who had the pleasure to finish a mission with her.

They'd both come a long way, she further than him, and they were inseparable, fixtures in every spaceway in the solar system, and now branching out to the stars. For thirty-four years, Mal had known Pam. And for thirty-fours years, he'd been in love with her. He held up the two glasses, giving them an inviting clink.

"I've got about half a bottle of whiskey left, and I wonder if the Captain might want some of it."

She laughed and plopped down onto the nearest comfortable chair.

"How thoughtful! I was beginning to wonder if I had to come down to your quarters and beat you up to get my share."

"Yeah, well, the Chief slowed me down a little."

She picked up the glass Mal had poured out for her and held it up, the amber liquid sending sparkles onto the small table top. There was only a swallow in each glass, as according to their custom.

"To the Horizon," she said.

"To the Horizon's engines," Mal countered. They tossed them off and banged down the glasses. Mal poured out a more generous amount in each glass. Pam picked up her glass and smacked her lips appreciatively.

"Good stuff, Mal. Martian, six year old, right?"

Mal nodded. "Yup. Save the best for last. We can always catch the ball on the lousy stuff when we pull into port." Pam laughed.

"Yeah, I've been putting together my list of things to do when we put in next week, and going to Jonesy's with you and the crew is number one."

"So we are going to Vermilion?" Mal asked. Vermilion, Mars' second largest city and most active spaceport, was almost always the put in port for ball chasers, but the word was never official until the last couple of weeks.

"No, we're not. Orders came through this morning. Vermilion for a week, then Earth." Pam looked at Mal to get his reaction. Anyone else might have been disappointed, but she took his raised eyebrows as near shock.

"Earth? Why would ITA want us at Earth? Most of the crew's from Mars, so they won't want to go. And we can't be making another run so soon after a 2 year trip, can we?" Pam shrugged.

"That's what I asked. ITA said only that we were to retain the original crew, resupply at the Bearden, then head to Earth. I'm supposed to be hearing from a Reed Matheson of Harting Enterprises."

"Harting? They're the hov freighter builder. The only vacuum ships they have are the shuttles and tugs. Why would they be interested in a ball chaser?"

"Don't ask me," Pam said with a trace of irritation. The tone wasn't aimed at Mal but at the frustration of not being told enough to suit her. "I'm just the Captain. Anyway, he's coming on board shortly after we achieve Terran orbit."

"Terran orbit?" Mal was even more surprised. "Not lunar?"

"I know. Go figure. But that's what they said. Keep it to yourself, by the way, Mal. There's a few members of the crew that aren't going to be too happy about having their tour of duty extended, and I want to be the one to tell them." Mal nodded.

"You're the Cap'n, Cap'n. That's why I like third engineer. I don't have to break the bad news to anyone."

"Speaking of which, how's Private Keane coming along? He seemed a little high-strung earlier."

"Aw, he's doing fine. I think one more trip will qualify him for second class. He's just a little too sure of himself. He wanted to argue with you over the com."

"I know. I heard him sound off before I terminated the link. The Chief wanted to com back and let him have it."

"I wondered if you caught that," Mal chuckled. "Like I said, he's a little too sure of himself, but for good reason. The Chief had better watch his butt, 'cause Bobby'll be ordering it around in four, five years."

"Is he still giving you grief, Mal?" Pam asked, referring to the Chief Engineer.

"Not really. He just never found even keel when working with me. I don't hold it against him. It's gotta be tough. I'm glad I never had a third class engineer who knew more than me."

"Nobody knows more about the ball chasers than you, Mal." She laughed, the soft tone of her comfortable voice making Mal's heart ache. "Remember that time twelve years ago, just outside Saturn? When the subspace field jammed at one third operating volume, and Captain Tesler asked you if the mission had to be aborted? You just said, 'No, we'll just pack the ball tighter.' I thought he was going to have a stroke!"

Mal laughed. "Captain Tesler was a little jumpy. I just meant we'd be moving the ball in closer to simulate a larger size until we corrected the field."

"Uh-huh. But at the time, the Horizon wasn't able to adjust the distance of the ball from the ship. You took a potential problem and came up with a solution that increased the upper limits of the ship's speed by fifty percent. Pure genius."

"Pure luck. Luck and applied experience. It's what got us to where we are, girl."

Pam looked at him, suddenly thoughtful. Mal looked into her eyes, and even through the years of maturity and experience, could still see the bright, eager young woman of long ago.

She looked back at him, feeling much the same, seeing much the same. Mal had always been there to support and encourage her. He'd done everything for her. He'd been her tutor in the early years, her chief engineer during the hey day years, her sounding board in the later years, and first and always her friend. He'd taught her how to cold prime a rickety ion drive and how to cold cock an abusive drunk. He'd even cold cocked her a couple of times, when she'd taken on more than she could handle and didn't know it. He'd always been there.

"Where we are," she echoed quietly. She stared out into the black of space, completely devoid of stars, decorated only by the beautiful blossoms of the Horizon's black hole burn off. She noticed that spike four, the keel spike, was burning a little brighter than the others. As she watched, the color faded, and became consistent with the others. She looked back at Mal, who was also staring out the wall.

"Where are we, Mal?"

He turned his head and looked at her thoughtfully. In the windows of his soul, Pamela could see he was thinking many things. To nearly everyone, Mal was always controlled. He could be formal, friendly or fiery, but he was always controlled. He never abused the privileged position he had with the ship's Captain, but he had never denied it, either. He had a quiet confidence that all her fellow captains envied. Yet in that moment, she wondered if she saw the faint stirrings of doubt in his eyes.

"I've been wondering that myself, Pam. You're doing fine. Captain of the Horizon and senior officer on the line, with fifteen, twenty years of service still open to you. But I'm going to be 57 next month, and ITA never lets us engineers work past sixty. So I'll probably take one or two more trips with you, then eleven two my career."

"You're not serious, are you?" she asked, a little disappointed he hadn't addressed the question with her in mind. "I'm sure ITA will gladly overlook the age problem. At worst, you could move to command, Mal. You'd make a fine first officer."

"Me?" Mal asked, surprised. He laughed, then shook his head. "No, I don't think so. You're the chief in our little twosome. I'm just a brave.

"But it's not that so much. I'm beginning to feel restless. The Horizon's a good ship, but I've been on her too long. I know her too well, and that scares me, Pam. It scares me because once you know your engines too well, you begin taking them for granted. You start thinking nothing will go wrong. And that's.."

"That's when it usually does," Pam finished, understanding.

"Uh-huh. So before that happens, I'm calling it quits. At least for the ball chasers. I don't know what I'll do, but I've a tidy sum set aside. And ITA gives me free passage to anywhere, as well as a generous pension. It's just that I didn't think this day would ever come."

"And it still hasn't," she said firmly. "You've still got this mission to finish, as well as one or two more. We've still plenty of time to think about what we're going to do."

Mal's head jerked up at her inclusion and he saw her sparkling eyes and faint smile. He'd never thought..

"Pamela! You can't..." his voice broke off at the sound of the comlink tone.

"Captain?" Duane Stoddard, the First Officer called through quietly.

"Yes, Duane?"

"The Chief thinks that we're sloughing a little too fast, and that we'll drop out of FTL while still in the Junkyard. Since we'll be in the less dense section for only about ten minutes, his opinion is that nothing will go wrong."

Pam and Mal looked at each other quietly. Mal began gathering the glasses. With a sigh, Pam stood up and straightened her captain's blouse. She gave Mal a last quick smile and began walking toward the bridge.

"All right, Duane. Let's take a look, shall we?"

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