Devana Files, Part II: Chapter 17
Devana Files, Part II: Chapter 17
Jibe Ho (Part II)
If you like this series, be sure to share, forward this email, restack and spread the love. 🌞
This is Part II. The Seventeenth chapter. You may find earlier chapters here: https://wyattwerne.substack.com/s/kate-devana-series.
I am excited to bring chapters of the new Kate Devana series.
Space 2074: The lunar colony is the new Wild West. Sheriff Kate Devana is away on a deep space supply shuttle, wrangling a fugitive con artist who bilked retirees for billions. But robots are glitching, killing people, and Kate is the target of an FBI Agent looking to avenge the death of his former partner. Bodies are piling up. Again. On the moon, Kate Devana is the law.
While this is the 3rd novel in the series, each is designed to be read independently.
For accessibility, there is a voiceover for each chapter.
APRIL 9, 2074
NYS VEGA,
TRANSLUNAR ORBIT
For fifteen seconds, Vega’s undocking thrusters fired, threading the ship through the whirlpool of containers Kate jettisoned into space. The thrusters were called teakettles, and Vega’s were weaker than most. They spit and coughed like a raspy pneumonia patient, slowing Vega down just enough to nudge it away from the debris field. The decelerating force was barely palpable, even in microgravity. The change in velocity only registered after the decimal place on the status display. Not even the dust loitering in the bridge’s purple starlight took notice.
The aft engines, two beefy-for-its-generation Gen-1 Hanabishi nuclear thrusters, were spooling up to send her home. Electric buzzed inside the walls. This would likely be Vega’s last trip. But before the Hanabishis fired, she needed to spin the ship; and before that, the safety manual called for a five-kilometer margin between the ship and any trash. A collision, even with garbage, would be catastrophic. The manual envisioned trash, though, as a small package weighing a few hundred tons, not five hundred and sixteen loaded shipping containers weighing maybe a million metric tons. Five hundred containers multiplied the risk exponentially, so she wanted a twenty, or better yet, a thirty kilometer gap.
Vega’s bridge lights switched to yellow. The teakettle’s coughing fit stopped. Their burn had completed. 3:00 appeared in crimson in the status window. Bridge lint lingered, watching the countdown, waiting for the teakettles to fire again to rotate the ship.
The sun was behind Vega, lighting the debris field as it pinwheeled away. She tapped her fingers on the armrest, wondering what was in the seventy-eight containers still aboard.
2:44 to go. The collision alarms stayed silent, and everything on the status screen stayed green. Fuel, go. Hydraulics, go. Electrical, go.
She didn’t think she needed to search all seventy-eight containers. One, container 35, had Lebofield and his parents. Of the remaining seventy-seven, Captain Ward had omitted twenty-six from the manifest.
Vega’s navigation computer startled her, deadpanning, “Please fasten restraints. Stow and secure all loose items. In two minutes and thirty seconds, the ship will experience moderate turbulence including centrifugal forces and gravity.”
The announcement was in her voice. When did Vega sample her voice? The red warning in her hud confirmed that the malware aboard Vega hadn’t penetrated her suit. Leyna said it wasn’t on the ship’s computer, which put it on a server inside a container. One tied to the ship’s electrical grid. One with power. She didn’t need to search all twenty-six containers, just those drawing current.
Pipes hissed and clanged under the floorboards. She quickly forgot her unease about the announcement. Besides, maybe it was a coincidence that the ship sounded like her. She lost her native San Antonio twang in the military. There was nothing unusual about her accent.
2:19. She sighed slowly and raggedly. Vega’s noises began to fray her nerves. Countdowns made time slow, and there was nothing for her to focus on except Vega’s geriatric whining. She could feel the electrical thrumming from the fuel pumps in her suit’s breastplate. Vega’s metal frame shrieked and moaned, although they weren’t under thrust yet. Ducts inside the walls vibrated with a deep bass foghorn like a bullfrog.
Somewhere behind her, outside the bridge, something crashed, like a crate of hammers that fell off a shelf.
The navigation computer beeped. Two minutes to ship rotation. She opened a window and thumbed through the security feeds. Most of the corridors had live video. She saw abandoned corridors lined with miles of silvery ductwork and conduit. She found the yellow and brown recycler leaks she’d tramped through before, still puddling on the floor, and the fuel leaks, still fogging the air. Through the lens of the security cameras, Vega resembled a creaky ghost ship on a forsaken patch of sea. Muddy footprints on scuffed metal floors traced her trail to the bridge. Some were sandy. She looked at her feet and they were dusted in silver sand.
She hadn’t noticed it before. Silver sand was finely ground quartz, or silica. It had hundreds of uses. It contained the critical silicon needed for semiconductors and solar panels, and oxygen to breathe. But silicon was the second most abundant element in Mars’ crust. Oxygen was first. Mars was stuffed with silica. So were the moon, where most microchips were made now, and Earth. There was no need to waste rocket fuel transporting sand hundreds of millions of kilometers.
The banging and humming and clanging on the bridge frazzled her nerves. She shivered. She liked rollercoasters. Well-maintained ones that weren’t derailing and crashing.
1:46 on the countdown. She couldn’t get off this ship fast enough.
On the security camera feed, the corridor outside the bridge was deserted. She’d left the crew doors open after she searched the cabins. The metal doors thumped on their hinges. She didn’t have time to go out and close them. The g-forces of the turn and burn would keep them shut. She hoped.
She followed her sandy tracks, but couldn’t identify where she’d first picked up the sand. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t picture it. Why would someone waste the money and reaction mass to transport sand to Mars?
1:31. Only one container had an active video feed monitoring the interior. She read the thumbnail, lizard farm, and flipped an imaginary coin in her head. Heads, she’d watch the feed.
On the forward observation display, the swirling debris field had shrunk to a disc the size of her fingernail. The gray blob was ten-point-one kilometers away and steadily receding. The collision alarms were quiet. Nothing threatened to batter Vega.
She clicked the thumbnail for the container’s video feed and laughed. Lizard farm was Captain Ward’s code for the Lebofields, container 35. He’d been spying on them. What made Ward nickname the Lebofields lizards? The biggest rule in space: don’t piss off the Captain. Lebofield was too dumb to know this rule, or too entitled to care. He was probably halfway to getting spaced in an airlock. Lizards. She was starting to like Captain Ward. When she caught up to his escape pod, she wasn’t sure whether she’d arrest him or high five him.
Vega’s bridge lights changed to red. The ship’s computer announced, “T minus one minute. Ensure all items are secure.” The announcement was in her voice again, which chilled her.
Pipes gurgled and hissed below her feet. The teakettles were fueling, preparing to swivel the ship towards the moon.
Her imaginary coin came up heads. She didn’t want to get involved with whatever shitshow Lebofield was broadcasting. She peeked at the feed anyway.
Lebofield’s compartment was like a luxury RV, about thirty-seven square meters, or four hundred square feet. The spy camera was positioned midway, with a view of the living area and kitchen station. On the right wall, his parents were glued to their tablets and strapped into brown suede space recliners. Lebofield sat with his back to her, hunched over his laptop at a far wall desk. His bushy black hair flared in all directions around his headphones. The kitchen station—an oversize microwave, electric range, fridge, and zero-g wash station—were on the left behind a counter. The bedrooms and bathroom were out of view. She’d seen these mobile space cells docked at the colony spaceport. Celebrities and podcasters used them like motorhomes, pursuing influence on location throughout the solar system.
She had a great view of Lebofield’s laptop. Little icons bubbled and floated across his screen. He was nodding, either to music, or to the beat of the hearts, thumbs up, claps, and gold coins drifting across his podcast. He’d found more suckers. Space’s potential seemed to generate an infinite supply. The gold coin icons meant his viewers were sending him money. The signal to Earth and back had a four second delay, but he was scamming in real time. His accounts were supposed to be frozen.
0:30. The fuel pumps growled and Vega’s loose metal floorboards clanged. The status gauges stayed green. Good volts. Good oxygen. Good fuel pressure. All systems go.
“Gently,” she muttered, clicking off Lebofield’s video feed. Gently, without vibrating the ship to pieces. She wanted to turn up the g-forces and goose Lebofield on the turn and burn, but it would probably shake the ship to pieces.
On the observation monitor, the blob of debris had melted into the stars.
“Lunar Spaceport, this is NYS Vega. Teakettles fueled and go for rotation maneuver. Fifteen seconds on my mark,” she said.
“Roger NYS Vega. We show debris cloud at eighteen kilometers receding at 6-point-six kilometers a minute at heading one-eight-zero from your present course. Cleared for rotation.”
“Copy. Fifteen seconds. Mark.”
The electrical thrumming inside the walls escalated until it transitioned to motors whining. The bridge door rattled on its hinges.
Her pressure suit gauges were all green—except for the lone flash alerting her to the malware’s relentless advances. She had two spare oxygen cannisters on her suit, and two more strapped into the copilot’s chair, along with her other gear and rifle. She clenched.
Two…One…Zero. The teakettles coughed, heavier and more throaty this time. The floor shook. Something behind her cracked and hissed. Vega’s two-decade-old weary metal frame groaned.
Centrifugal force pulled her legs forward. Her chair’s restraints bit against her torso. Without them, she’d launch into the purple star cloud on the observation monitor. Crumbs liberated themselves from the vibrating console. They rolled forward and clutched the console’s edge as if afraid to fall forward. They held on as long as they could, but the g-force increased, sending them through the air.
The stars on the observation display scrolled as the ship turned. A ghostly crescent rotated into the screen. The sun, out of sight, lit only a thin sliver of the moon. A larger blue and white crescent, Earth, shadowed the moon. Next, a pumpkin orange starburst came into view behind Earth. The sun.
The vibrating halted when the moon was in the center of the display. Her restraints slackened, and she felt weightless again. She exhaled, but too soon.
The Hanabishi’s fired. Acceleration’s invisible hand shoved her deep into her seat. The dust and crumbs adhering to the front display hurled towards her like a cloud of gnats. It felt like a linebacker stomped on her chest. She’d only set the burn to three-quarters of Earth’s gravity, but after more than a year of living under the lunar colony’s relatively weak one-sixth Earth’s g, her joints complained fiercely.
Vega’s status lights stayed green. The turn and burn had shaken and stirred the ship, but it seemed to be intact. As Vega settled into gravity, its metallic creaking and groaning died to a slow grumble.
She wasn’t dead, which seemed miraculous. The inside of her visor steamed from one long exhale. Vega’s speed declined. Nine hundred sixty-six kilometers per minute. Nine sixty-five. Nine sixty-four. The electrical hum inside the walls subsided. Thrust from the Hanabishis seemed to soothe Vega like a heavy blanket. Nine fifty-nine. Nine fifty-eight. The bridge clatter disappeared. Nine fifty-two.
When she unclicked her restraints, gravity kept her in the seat. She cautiously opened her visor and took a breath of the ship’s air. The stale garlic food smells persisted.
In forty-four minutes, the engines would cut out and Vega would return to microgravity. In zero-g, she’d be swimming around the corridors. It was always faster to climb through and search a ship under acceleration.
She had forty-four minutes, twenty-seven containers, and two priorities. She needed to arrest and secure Lebofield and his parents. Before that, she needed to find and disable the malware. The sand vexed her. Why were they transporting it, and where had it spilled? She kicked it off her boots. It didn’t belong on a ship. It got into every nook and cranny and dusted every surface.
Climbing down from the chair and lowering herself through the bridge door into the corridor, it occurred to her that no one would question a pile of sand, or dig through it. It was good for burying things. Like contraband. Or dead bodies. She decided to follow her sandy tracks first. Maybe whatever the Captain was hiding, like the reason he’d fled Kuipers, he’d buried in the sand.