Galaxy's End: Book One LeRoy Clary (dark books to read TXT) 📖

and noted the distance had been cut to a third of what it had been. “I see.”

Bert pinged the com and said, “No communication between the two that I can find.”

Kat said, “Why would they come closer? Won’t that tip us off that they are following us?”

“You’re right,” Captain Stone said. “They have been at the margin of where our sensors can see them. Now they’re well within the standard range as we pass each nexus.”

Fang said, “We’re at maximum speed.”

“And they cannot use their weapons,” Stone said. “It’s an interesting problem. They can’t attack, and only subspace radio will work for communications. Our Champers is dead, so there is supposedly no way they can speak with us.”

Kat said, “They may be trying to warn or threaten us.”

Captain Stone said, “No, I think they are going to attempt to herd us into another wormhole. Force us to go where they want.”

“Hard to do in a wormhole,” Fang said stiffly. “When they shouldn’t even be able to see us. This just tells us their technology is even ahead of what we imagined.”

Captain Stone settled deeply into her chair and allowed her thoughts to come together after waking. She realized there were two things to consider. First was if the other two ships were trying to direct them. The second was what would she do about it?

Bert pinged again. “Captain, we have received a subspace message from the Guardia and since you were busy with other important matters, I took the time to make the comparison of the cargo on your ship and this one. There are identical matches.”

Captain Stone gripped the armrests of her chair as her face pinched and reddened. Then she visibly relaxed and forced herself to present a calm exterior. Her controlled voice revealed none of the excitement she felt. “Can you direct me to the correct cargo pods?”

“I can.”

She turned to Fang. “You control the ship while I’m gone. You can reach me via Bert, but I suspect that won’t be necessary.” As she stood, she said to Bert, “Please contact Bill and have him meet me at the hatch with the fire extinguisher and cutter. He will know where they are located.”

She left the bridge at a sedate pace, trying to relay a confident exterior to any who looked her way—and failed. Fang waited until the last moment and winked at her in amusement. She slammed the hatch behind her. A brief time later, she entered the engine room, nodded to the chief engineer while wondering how he ever got the grease off the fur over his skin, and strode to the hatch.

Bill stood there, the two items in hand. He handed her the cutter and kept the extinguisher. The cargo space was still filled with air, the light for entry green, so she palmed the pad and waited. The hatch unsealed with the smallest of pops as the air pressure on both sides equalized.

She pulled it open and stepped over the knee-knocker. Inside, the lights came on with her movement. She said, “Bert, how many cargo pods and where are they?”

He rapidly spat the coordinates in standard hull ID, a combination of structural frames from the bow followed by degrees on a three-sixty division, and the last set of numbers that was the distance from the center hub. There were two cargo pods. Not together. That was odd since cargo pods were generally stored nearby for ease of removal at delivery.

She asked, “Different destinations?”

“Yes,” Bert said. “Two worlds. Both on the milk-run for this ship.”

A milk-run was a standard route a tramp ship might take, the same planets in the same order. She had assumed all cargo pods were of a single machine or load of equipment. Two delivery locations suggested something else; however, nothing came to mind. It was important and would remain an open question as she headed for the nearest cargo pod.

It was a large one. Stacked on top were more than a dozen smaller ones fitted together like an interlocking puzzle to avoid shifting while in transit. Even the smallest was too large for the pair of them to lift.

She told Bill, “Go get the engineer to help us.”

Meanwhile, she put the cutter aside and crossed her arms over her breast as she stood and thought. If necessary, she would cut each pod open and remove the contents until she came to the one on the bottom. However, the rails mounted on the ceiling above indicated a method of moving them that she was not familiar with.

McL, the engineer approached as if expecting her to punch him. Probably the expression she wore, and her general demeanor rightfully gave it to him. She quickly said, “Don’t mind me. How do you move your cargo pods?” She jammed a thumb into the air at the rails crisscrossing above.

“Ah,” he said proudly. “Built that myself, Missy Captain. Numbers on fore and aft walls, letters on port and starboard.”

She glanced at the walls and realized she should have understood without asking. “Not the grid, but how?”

He reached for a unit in a holder mounted beside the door. The buttons were self-explanatory, front-back, fore-aft, and the other buttons were up and down. Slings went to the eyebolts on each pod. As he pushed a set of buttons, a winch approached on the rails and paused directly overhead, which was C-6.

There were aisles open enough for the smaller pods and near the hatch was enough room for the larger ones. He noticed her gaze and said, “More room aft if you need it. Might take a bit of work to move one back there, though. We got a lot of cargo on this trip.”

She accepted the proffered unit and said, “You can stay if you want. I’d prefer you to. We might need some help.”

He hesitated, then