Star Treader

This is my unfinished novel – probably more of a novella (a cross between a novel and a short story – a long story?)
I know what the next part will be and have a pretty good idea of the end- but, I somehow can’t raise the enthusiasm to finish it.
Your feed back would be especially welcome here!
Is it worth the effort?
Or is this just yet another first novel that would be better off in the wastepaper bin?

Star Treader

Prologue

I2I.4  Robotics.

Most of the machines you will encounter on the Star Treader have, at least, some rudimentary intelligence. This ranges from simple load bearers that are programmed to take materials from one point to another, without colliding with each other or ship personnel up to the primary ship computer, code name: VERA. Since its early development, Artificial Intelligence has been a problematic area for mankind. it is all to easy to regard these machines as fellow personalities,  merely limited in certain aspects of their nature.    They are not.

At their most basic levels they will interpret their instructions in a very literal sense. More complex systems have usually been programmed by other machines. Their reasoning, while logical, rapid and very comprehensive, lacks any element of human intuition. In certain fields this will make them liable to error, sometimes on a massive scale. It also sets a limit on their usefulness in situations requiring judgement. Very large machines (e.g. VERA) will have safeguards hard wired into their operating systems.

The hyper intelligent systems required for gravity wave navigation (e.g. T3) are not able to be constrained in this way. Limits thus imposed would render them unable to perform their task of setting routes through interstellar gravity waves. (This enables ships to 'short cut' distances between the stars without exceeding light speed). Therefore, to avoid the danger of these systems becoming difficult to control, they are isolated from any physical contact with the ship. They are thought to be unaware of any presence on board, other than themselves. Their directions for navigation are relayed to a team of Drivers who interpret them and guide the ship on its course.
A careful sense of perspective is required when dealing with any Artificial Intelligence. Even in its lowliest manifestation.

TStar Treader Handbook. Chapter I4 Section 5

Chapter 1 – Plastic problems

The Star Treader was in deep space, riding the gravity waves that rippled across the galaxy. She traversed the great caverns of empty space between the stars. They were far, far away from the civilised core of worlds that formed the hub of the Empire, in a dangerous, deserted place. Earth colonies were rare at the Rim of the Empire and rumours of Aliens were a constant feature of the bar room gossip. Like all unknown territories, Man had peopled the Rim with dark monsters of his own imagining.
Sam Cooke the Senior Commercial Officer of the Star Treader had other worries. He was peering into the flat screen inlaid into his desk and idly fiddling with the keyboard. Rows of numbers, all too familiar to him, scrolled across the screen. He sighed and sucked the end of his stylus.
“Star Chart, Vera." He said. Vera the Ship's Computer whose ears were everywhere, responded instantly to her name and a three dimensional star chart appeared above the desk top beside the screen. Tiny lights sparkled in a black cube a metre square. Sam Cooke stared into the dark.
“Show me the class four colonies, Vera.” Then, as an afterthought, “And the class five.”
A disembodied female voice of impossible perfection spoke.
“Class four colonies are in red. Class five colonies are in blue.”
Gentle and sincere but with a quiet authority it was mother, sister, lover, wife all in one. So much a part of ship board life that it was no more noticeable than the taste of the air they breathed.
A few of the tiny lights turned red and blue. Not many and far apart. A green spot marked the ship's position. Sam pressed some keys and threads of light joined the ship to various red points. He stared again at the flat screen. He must have done this twenty times before. The numbers had not changed.
This stuff's so old' He thought. Fifty years some of it. A class four colony ought to be a good market for plastic. Even a class five would be OK. A lower price probably, hut still saleable.  Class three or above and the stuff is nearly worthless, they can make all they need. Class six and below, they won't have the technology to use it. It should be easy. Near the core it would be easy. But out here! Anything can happen. Colonies can progress a lot in fifty years. Or regress. Or disappear completely.'
Sam looked again at the cost line on his screen. The cost of deceleration alone. Plus getting into orbit and extra payments to the landside crew. Anything less than Four hundred a tonne and we will lose money.'
And he had six cubic hectares of the stuff. It had looked like a good deal when he had bartered the smelting machines for these plastic granules. The ship's gold reserves were good and the profit on the granules should be high.  In any case large gold transactions were unwise in these parts. Stories of ships carrying large consignments of gold tended to attract unwelcome attention. Unlike Aliens, Privateers were more than just bar room gossip.
He decided to make another attempt to involve Vera in the problem.
"Vera, Some of this information is very old. How far do you think the colony, on Beta seven will have progressed?'I He tried to sound casual.

“That is a matter for human Judgement. I could not possibly comment.” The voice was distinctly icy. Matra 3 class computers were notoriously touchy about that sort of thing. He tried again.

"Vera, what about the topography, what's the chance of natural oil being discovered?"

“The information I have is insufficient to make an estimate Sam." She still sounded a bit huffy, he would try again later. He could not put off a decision indefinitely. There was a board meeting scheduled next Friday and the Managing Commander would want an answer. There was talk from the Engineers about a major refit and they would need gold to pay the bill. Rather a lot of gold if the rumours his wife had heard were to be believed.

Rica was in a good position to hear the engineering gossip. She worked as a Driver in the primary control centre. A member of an elite corps. The Drivers interpreted the complex navigation information from the ships second, far more sinister computer known simply as T3. It was this intense artificial intelligence that enabled the Star Treader to plot a course through the gravity waves of space, rather in the way that a boring machine might travel through the body of a planet while above slower surface vehicles travelled a longer but more obvious route. Unfortunately such intelligence has its, dangers. T3 machines are isolated from all ship controls. The information they provide is read by the drivers. And T3s live out a lonely existence unaware that their metal carapaces are host to a swarm of biological life.

There was frightening talk among the Drivers; a two hour time slip on their last short trip. God knows how much on this long haul between the stars. Sam leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and stared unseeing at the wall. Rica's gamin face swept into his mind and smaller more pressing worries displaced vague concerns about a catastrophic time slip. Rica wanted a baby.

She was thirty five. A life could be extended to almost two hundred years, But a woman's instinct was as it had been since women first walked the Earth, and her instincts told her it was time. Sam was much older and although men seemed to be able to reproduce into their dotage, he had doubts.

'It's not the age difference,' he thought. 'Or even the other kids. After all I never see them. It's the Ship. More than the Ship it's this life. This is no place to raise a family.' Again he sighed. He had been born in a colony under a yellow sun. He had played under open skies and bathed in salt seas. On their small farm he had, what seemed to him, an idyllic childhood. The war had made him a Void Rider, it was now all he knew. But he did not love it and sometimes dreamed quietly of that yellow sun.

Rica was different. Born to the Void, her family were high in the ships hierarchy. Now she too had taken the mantle of aristocrat and was a Driver. Sam always felt a little uneasy in the company of her friends from the corps. He had the suspicion that their easy confidence implied a disdain for
Commercials in general and himself in particular. His own intimates tended to be of rather a lower status, easier going type. But Rica did not share or even understand his concerns. As she said:

“Darling how can there be a problem? Our child will have everything it needs.  There's the park, and the farm, and the lake. It's almost two hundred hectares. That's more country side than most colony city kids would ever see.  Not only that but look at Randolph's family, they’re strong and healthy, well adjusted.” And so on.

'It was all true,' thought Sam. 'But a child should know that the country does not naturally curve upward over his head, following the outline of a hull. It might be far away, and difficult to see through the clouds, but the land above your head should simply not be there. They should know that animals bite and insects sting and that the air could be too hot or too cold. That it rained in the day, and - that Vera was not always there to save you.'

But would Rica desert the Ship that had been her life and join him on a colony world? From Space Ship Driver, Rider of the Void, Star Treader, to farmers wife. He doubted it. Very much.

Chapter 2 – The Letter

Sam Cooke stretched, arms above his head and feet thrust out under the desk. “Clear down Vera.” The Black cube of the Star chart vanished and his screen went blank. He stood up and began to pace the room. Running his hand across his head he went to the large port hole and stared out into space. Fairy light stars sprinkled the dark. Still no inspiration came. He decided to call Rica and meet her for lunch. then remembered that the Drivers were on Extra Time. She would not be able to get away, and would not be happy to be interrupted. It was lunch time anyway; he would see what Greg was doing.

Greg Cohen was at his desk when Sam entered. Biologically they were the same age. Greg was a little taller and a little slimmer and quite improbably handsome, the ninety years that separated them were not immediately apparent, but to a practised observer there were clues. A little more dullness in the eyes perhaps, a certain economy of movement, a sense of wisdom, or was it weariness. As he watched Greg briefly from the door Sam noted the man intensely absorbed in something on his desk.

'It's the innocence.' He thought. 'You can wash out the toxins of age, repair the tissue, but you can't flush out the mind. It all just stays in there. The hurts, the disappointments, the tragedies, real and imagined. More than the human soul was designed to carry.'

Greg Cohen sensed his movement at the door and looked up. His face beamed a welcome. Sam's mood lifted, he was profoundly glad to see his young colleague.

"Hi Greg. Fancy some lunch? Thought we could try the new place down on C level.”

"Sure Sam, but I, er, would rather give C level a miss if you don't mind.”

“O.K. But what's the problem with C level?”

Greg flushed a little. “It's just there's somebody I'd rather not meet right now.”

Sam clapped the embarrassed Greg on the back.

“Oho! Not a lady by any chance, my friend! Not another one!”

Greg Cohen was regarded as quite a catch by the ladies in his circle. Particularly the older ones. Freshness and innocence were at a premium on the Ship, and in human society in general. The Ship officially adhered to a strict moral code. The family was paramount and sexual dalliance much frowned upon. This, of course lent additional pleasure to the many Affaire de Coeur that spiced the dull fare of shipboard life. Greg’s belief in, and at least superficial adherence, to this code made him an even more interesting target. Sam also took pleasure in Greg’s sexual dilemma; by teasing him mercilessly.

“So another heart broken, another pillow soaked with tears. Greg Cohen you are a heartless swine. Do you know that?”

“Lay off Sam. Look I've got a real problem",

“My God!” Mock horror. “You're going to have to do the right thing Greg. Make an honest women of her. I would be honoured to be your Best Man. And thank you for asking.”

“Please Sam. I mean it. Somebody left this thing on my desk. I can't figure out what the hell it is. What do you think?”

He held out an arm and opened his hand. Resting on his palm was a silver ball. Twenty five millimetres across, it sparkled in the light. Smooth and round it glistened as it lay, like the perfect egg of a lost and mythical silver bird.

“Never seen anything like in my life. What do you think Sam?"

“Well I'll be damned; I haven't seen one of those for years.” Said Sam. He picked up the silver sphere and weighed it carefully in his hand. Greg's impatience mounted.

"So what is it?”

“This, my friend, is a letter.”

"0h." Said Greg. His ignorance had only deepened. It was not a state he was used to or happy with. "O.K. Sam I give in. What the hell is a letter?"

“A letter.” Sam was revelling in his erudition. “Well, a letter is a message system. You record your message on this little silver ball and then whoever gets it can play it back.”

“Why in hell would you want to do that? Surely it'd be a lot easier just to leave a message with Vera. Not only that, but Vera would find you and give you the message.”

“They were used as a permanent record, particularly where there were no overall computer systems. Most of them were holographic and you could record a few answers to questions you expected to be raised. I remember. . .”

Greg was in no mood for reminiscences.

"O.K. But why should anyone bother with all this stuff when Vera can just pass the information onto the local computer system. And why would anyone want to send me a letter here on board ship.”

“That is very strange.” Sam abandoned his role as letter expert. “Are you sure it was meant for you?”

“I went out to the heads and when I got back, there it was!”

“What we need is a letter player. There must be one somewhere on the Trader. Vera is there a letter player on the ship.”

Unusually there is a momentary delay before Vera replies. This information must be buried deep in the computers massive memory banks, low priority and little used it sinks deeper and deeper as the decades pass. Now even the huge power of Vera falters for a moment as she searches long untraveled circuits in search of a dead technology. Once again a voice gentle with impossible perfection spoke.

“There is a letter playing machine in the level P library in Stanley road. It has not been used for many years but my initial inspection indicates that it is operating satisfactorily.”

“Level P, library.” Said Sam Cooke. “That's Jan Peters! Vera, tell Jan we're on our way.”

“Stanley Road, Level P.” Said Greg Cohen. “That's almost three kliks away!”

“Well we'd better get started now!”

All rapid transit systems on the ship were locked during voyage time, except in emergencies. Walking helped to reduce the tedium of space and occupied time that might otherwise have been spent eating, drinking or fighting. Sam normally enjoyed the exercise. But now he was fascinated by the gleaming ball and its promise of a mystery solved, and they set out at a brisk pace heading directly for the P level library.

Chapter 3 - Cawdor

The P level library was just ahead. Stanley road had a high vaulted roof that arched almost twenty meters above their heads. Central Financial Control had an impressive suite of offices on the main street and there were one or two coffee shops that brightened the place up a bit. It was basically a rather quiet backwater but it looked as if it might have had a grander past. The Star Treader had been operating for over three centuries now. Those years had seen many changes. The library entrance was just a small door beside one of the Cafes. Jan Peters was waiting for them.

Jan was an old friend of Sam Cooke. Despite his position in this provincial library he probably knew more of the history of the Trader than any man alive. He was the ships unofficial Archivist. It was not at all uncommon for Peters to receive calls or even visits from very senior engineering staff who needed to unravel some technical problem in a remote and seldom visited corner of the ship. Then his encyclopaedic knowledge would help them discover the builder’s intentions for a system and, hopefully the thousand modifications since made.

“Welcome Sam." Peters greeted them. "Vera told me to expect you and young Greg here. But she didn't say what it was all about. So what's going on?”

Sam rapidly explained about the letter.

“So you see Jan what we need is a player to find out what's on this thing.”

“A letter player eh! Well it's some time since I had need of one of those!
know I've got one somewhere. It must be near the Holo playing deck. Follow me.”

“Why don't you just ask Vera?" Said Greg innocently, and Sam winced.

“Ask Vera, ask Vera." Jan Peters was not pleased. “That's the trouble with you Crewmen. Not a thought in your stupid heads. Don't try to think, just ask Vera. No wonder you're all so dumb, you never even try to use your brains.”

Greg opened his mouth to answer but he caught Sam's eye and bit back a pungent response.

“Don't stand there gawping. Follow me.” He led the way to a small semi circular arena at the back of the library. There behind the seating he fussed with the wall panels until finally one slid aside to reveal a set of controls. He peered closely at the fine print alongside a series of buttons and a small round hole. They could hear him mumbling to himself as he studied the instructions.

"O.K. That's it. Give me the letter.” Sam handed him the silver ball with an odd reluctance. He had been cherishing the mystery. Now it would be over and it would be back to his plastic granules. All six cubic hectares of them.

Peters pushed the letter into the hole and pressed a few buttons. For a while nothing happened, and all three of them stood foolishly watching the little hole into which their letter had disappeared. Then the lights slowly dimmed and they scrambled quickly into the seats and waited for the show to begin.

In the small arena overhead lights blinked on. They projected the image of a small man seated at a desk. It was three dimensional and life size. He was wearing a conventional business suit, but he looked old, very old. Sam was intrigued. Although he sometimes saw old people on the rare occasions when they visited primitive societies, this was an unusual sight. In all advanced cultures people died young. Regardless of their age. He glanced across at Greg who was staring fascinated at this strange creature. Like a rabbit might stare at a snake.

"He's a bloody strange looking bloke,” he laughed across to Greg, it seemed to break the spell and Greg smiled weakly back at him. Sam was about to comment again, but the little man spoke.

“Good Afternoon Mr Cohen. My name is Cawdor."

Sam Cooke felt a chill run through his bones. He felt he had never experienced such evil. The tiny hairs along his neck bristled and he felt an overwhelming urge to hide away from this frightful man. But, unable to move he sat mesmerised as the letter played on.

“I have a message of vital importance for Sara Beaton your Managing Comander. The safety of the Star Treader and the lives of all her crew depend on this message.” The little old man leaned forward in his chair, Sam could feel himself recoiling. "Do you understand me?” There was a long pause. Greg had been stuck dumb. “I said : Do you understand me!” The voice was like a slap across the face, harsh and stinging.

“Yes.” Greg's answer was quiet and hoarse, but the player's sensors heard it.

“Excellent. Then convey my message to Sara Beaton at once. Bring her here to answer to me. Do not delay, your life depends upon it.”

The image became still. And while he still felt loathing for the small figure behind the desk, some of the paralysing fear left Sam Cooke and he was able to speak. He looked at Greg who was sitting with his mouth open still staring at the unmoving image of Cawdor. But it was Jan Peters who broke the silence.

“What in the name of Hades was that all about?”

“Now what do we do?” Replied Sam. “I'll be damned if I fancy going to the Managing Commander with a story like this!”

“That is the most evil little bastard I have ever met!” Greg had emerged from his trance. “What the hell do you think he wants?”

“He wants to see the Managing Commander.” Said Sam apprehensively “That's what he wants!”

As the tension gradually left their limbs they rose from their seats and drew towards the back of the room. While they could not resist the odd glance at the motionless figure of Cawdor nobody seemed to want to risk a closer look.
Nobody was also volunteering for the task of taking this unlikely story to Sara Beaton. As Managing Commander of the Star Treader she was the pinnacle of power. In theory any ordinary crew member had the right to an interview. In practise a fairy story about letters and little old men did not seem an appropriate item to exercise the privilege.

Then Jan Peters had an idea. He walked to the hologram and said in a passable imitation of the Managing Commanders voice:

“I am Sara Beaton. You have a Message for me.”

The image moved. The little old man raised his head and said in a voice soft and dripping with menace.

“This recording has a voice print of Sara Beaton. Do not play games with me. You are playing with your life, fool.” The voice grew harsh and loud. “Get me Beaton. Or prepare to die.”

Peters walked a little unsteadily back to his companions. He tried to hold his head up but his face was as white as paper. Even at the back of the room Sam and Greg had felt the steel in that voice. Peters had taken its full force and showed the strain. They helped Peters out of the room and sat down. Now it was Sam's turn. His idea was, predictably, more cautious.

“Vera. See if you can analyse the letter in the letter playing machine in the library. There is a protected section in the letter, encoded to the voice print of  the Managing Commander. Break the code and allow the message to play.”

“Brilliant!” Said Greg. “That should do it.”

“Congratulations my friend.” Said the still pale Peters. “An elegant and safe solution. I wish I had thought of it.” He added as a heartfelt afterthought.

Sam was still basking in his own genius when Vera spoke.

“The recording you refer to has a sophisticated protection routine that may
wipe the whole recording if unsuccessfully modified. The chances of a successful outcome are nought point nought three percent. Do you wish me to proceed?”

"NO - Vera -NO!” Sam stopped shouting. “No definitely not. Please wipe that last order.”

“Order aborted.”

“Well.” Said Sam “Looks like you got a sudden urgent appointment with the Managing Commander Mr Cohen."

"Sam, please. . .” Greg was pleading. “You've actually met her. You understand these top management types. That's what you always say.” It was pitiful, but Sam could take it.

“Give the boy a break Sam. Beaton will rip his head off.”

“Listen I'd like to go, but how can I? This Cawdor nutcase left the message for Greg, on his desk! Then he specifically mentions Greg by name in that holo. I'm sorry Greg but this one is down to you.”

Chapter 4 – Drivers

Rica Cooke was sweating. Her two hour shift was nearing its end and she was feeling the strain. Her red overalls, the status mark of the elite Drivers fraternity were stained with ugly streaks of perspiration. There were ten control capsules spanning the room. Eight were manned. Rica sat at her controls and her hands gripped the large chrome wheel as she span it left, then right. Her
eyes were fixed on a large screen that covered the front of the room. On this screen the information from T3, the navigation computer was displayed. Not that the information would mean much to the uninitiated. Sam Cooke had once been allowed to look into the control room, a special privilege allowed to the relatives of Drivers. He had been able to make no sense at all of the screen with its flashing bursts of light, strange nebulous clouds of gas and the thin lines of light that represented the conflicting thrust vectors that drove the ship.

Another tiny pinpoint of light appeared in Rical's sector and she wrenched the wheel hard to the left, at the same time her hand stabbed at the control consul by her side. The pinpoint of light was growing larger by the second as it appeared to fly directly towards the screen. Two red lights appeared on the consul and a low buzzer sounded as she flung the wheel further to the left. She made frantic adjustments with her other hand. A red light dimmed and turned green, she made small tentative movements of the wheel and the remaining light also went out and the buzzer stopped. The pin point of light was gone, another crisis was over. But a gas cloud was swirling ominously close to her sector and seemed to be starting to glow. Thank God it was nearly the end of her shift.

Warren Clarke, Chief Engineering Officer for the whole Star Treader was visiting the control room. This would normally have caused some interest, but today all attention was on the screen and Clarke was in deep conversation with Merle Anderson the shift supervisor. He peered out through the glass wall to the Driver's section beyond.

"This appears to be a difficult area, Merle. Do you have a fix on time loss yet?” He said quietly.

“Difficult! It's bloody impossible. I've got eight consuls working flat out. If this keeps up much longer I'll have to bring in a ninth. A normal shift is only five! What the hell is going on?” Merle Anderson was watching the Drivers. She could feel the tension in the room as they fought with the screen and its multicoloured lights. “These guys are worn out. Another half hour and I'll have to call out the last shift again to help out.”

“I know it's not easy, Merle. But it's just a bad patch. It won't last. They never do.” He lowered his voice. “Now, what about Time Slip?”

“Let me see," Merle bent across her desk and moved some papers. She punched a few keys on her computer. “We've gained 45 minutes.  Normally that would be bad, but. . ."

“Yes I know. So far this trip we've lost almost three hours.  This helps make up some of that deficit. Well done.”

"It's not the Drivers Mr Clarke. We try as hard as we can. Look at them! They're at the point of exhaustion.”

Clarke looked tired. His tall thin frame was stooped as if by some giant burden he was carrying. He stood up, ready to leave.

“Just keep it up, Merle. We've got to keep that Time Slip under control. If we don't. . ."  He did not need to complete the sentence. Merle knew all too well the consequences of time slip.

High speed motion causes time dilation. In the early days of interstellar travel these effects meant that returning space craft would find hundreds of years had passed on the planet they had left, while in ship time maybe only ten years had elapsed. The advent of Gyro drives and gravity navigation had enabled ships to control these effects using the Gyro engines. Universal Standard Time had been introduced and with it a whole new era of trade and travel was opened. Universal Standard Time was a huge advance for mankind and bought vast benefits. It was rigidly and ruthlessly enforced on all colonised worlds.

Merle Anderson looked out at the Drivers. The worst of the crisis seemed to be passing and no real damage done. But this was exhausting work, and if they could not correct the Time Slip by next planet fall. . .

Warren Clarke walked towards his office. The corridors were narrow here. About ten metres wide and 5 high. To an outsider the corridors on the Star Treader would have all looked very similar. But there were differences. Nobody could know all of the many thousands of kilometres intimately but one grew to know one's own section. Many of them had small shops or cafes. Most had at least one office complex, and over the many years the Trader had been cruising between the stars, they had developed characters as distinct as any colony city.

Clarke paused and looked in the window of a small toy shop. The dolls did not change much he thought, but the boy's toys seemed never the same. New spaceship models, new cars, and a sudden new craze for little mechanical men. As he peered into the window he had an urge to see Nina and Tareg his two children. Like most men who spent too much time working he longed to spend time with his family then was unable to relate to his children when he did.  

He knew that he must talk with the Managing Commander. He drew back his shoulders and started back the way he had come. At the Market Junction he turned right and headed for the Commander’s suite. Warren Clarke was one of the few people who did not need an appointment to see the Commander. But it was unusual for him to turn up unannounced. Sally Wu the Executive Officer showed him straight in to Sally Beaton's office. She was clearly pleased to see him.

“Warren, how are you? Sit down, sit down.”

“I am well Commander, but we have a problem that we must discuss.” Warren
Clarke was not noted for his easy small talk. Many years of dealing with his fellow engineers had made him blunt to the point of rudeness. Sara Beaton understood her Chief Engineer too well to let that concern her. But if he was disturbed so was she.

“You look worried Warren; I think you had better tell me about it.”

Despite their many years working together Warren Clarke was not entirely comfortable with Sara Beaton. True, she was not physically daunting. Short and plump with silver grey hair, her homely face would have passed for a contented suburban house wife on some quiet colony planet. But her energy was a fearsome thing. Two seconds of conversation quickly dispelled any illusions of domesticity. Amongst the small community of those who travelled in space and of those who were forced by virtue of their trade to have dealings with these strange gypsies, she was famous. Reputed to be old beyond reason, even for this long lived age, her reputation was for tough, fair, dealing. Mostly within the law. That the Star Treader was a wealthy ship was primarily due to her. But like all humans she also had her weaknesses. She did not like to hear bad news.

“It's the Time Synchro, Commander. We have a slip of almost thee hours .” He paused. “And I think it's going to get worse.”

Sara Beaton was very still. When she spoke it was softly. This did not imply calm, merely self control. It showed.

“Three hours!” She said. “Engineer, do you know what that means?” It was a rhetorical question, no reply was called for. “If we make planet fall with a three hour slip this ship could be impounded. We'll have a court of enquiry on our hands! They'll go through the records with a fine tooth comb. We could be delayed for months. Years even.” Her voice was rising. "Good God man! You are jeopardising the business and the livelihood of everyone aboard!”

Clarke sat impassively through the rising torrent.

“I am aware of the seriousness of the situation. That is why I am here.”

“What is the problem?” Beaton interrupted. “What do you need Warren? Say the word and it's yours. More staff, more drivers, is that it? We must.” She slapped her hand on the desk. “Must, get this under control. And soon.”

“It's not staff, although we will need all the drivers we can muster. It's the gyros. They're too old, we need a proper refit. I warned you after that last trip to Gamma Minor. Machines don't last forever; we are twenty years overdue for a full refit.”

“A full refit!” Beaton was quiet again. “Do you have any idea of the cost? It would take us to the brink of insolvency. All of the cash reserves, and additional borrowings.”

“I see no alternative.”

“Could we not get an overhaul, a proper one I mean? Just to buy us some time. . ."

She was interrupted by the voice of her Executive Officer, Sally Wu. Irritably she reached forward and touched a button. The holographic image of Sally appeared by her desk.

“Sorry to interrupt Commander, but I have a visitor. He says it's very urgent.”

“Hell's teeth! Sally, it can't be that important. Make him an appointment. I'll see him as soon as I can.”

“I've tried, Commander. He's very insistent. He says it's a matter of life and death. I don't think he's going to be put off. Sorry.”

Sara Beaton looked at her Chief Engineer, who just raised his eyebrows quizzically. She struggled with a moment's indecision, then said,

“Send him in. This had better be good.” She added, softly.

It was a long walk from K level to the Commander's suite. Sam Cooke was looking flushed and not a little sheepish as Sally Wu showed him into the office. His discomfort was not helped by the unexpected presence of the Chief Engineer. It was bad enough looking foolish in front of the Managing Commander; he did not need an audience as well. Sam stood awkwardly, despite
his rehearsals on the way here, he did not quite know how to begin.

“Well Mr Cooke, what is it?” Suppressed annoyance was evident in Sara Beaton's tone.

“This is going to sound pretty stupid,” began Sam, “but I think I just had to tell you." The story of the letter and Cawdor's demands were soon told. Sam had no answers to the various questions that Beaton and Clarke posed. As he said:

“That's all we could get out of the thing, now you know as much as I do!”

“Damn strange business. Damn strange.” Said Beaton, glaring at Sam as if he were in some way, complicit in the affair.

“I think Mr Cooke has done the right thing in reporting this to you Sara." His use of her first name gave his intercession a personal quality, and Sam thanked him mightily for it. “He has taken it as far as he can. He could do no more. His only course was to report it to you.”

“Yes, I suppose so. We had better go and find out what this Cawdor character has to say for himself.” She leaned over and touched a switch. “Sally, ask Ranjit Vaughan to meet us in P level Library in ten minutes.” She looked at Sam. “If this turns out to be some elaborate practical joke. . ."

Sam Cooke found himself hoping very sincerely that, whatever this thing was all about, it was not a practical joke.

Chapter 5 - Blackmail

Ranjit Vaughan arrived at the library before the Managing Commander and her party. He had perfunctorily introduced himself to Peters and nodded in acknowledgement of Greg. He now sat quietly studying the motionless hologram of Cawdor. He was alone. The other two preferred not to be in the same room as Cawdor, even as a hologram. They also found the company of Ranjit something they could happily live without. A view shared by many of the crew.

As Master at Arms his responsibilities included law and order aboard the ship. Although nobody in this position would have been universally popular. Vaughan's personality, shut tight against the outside world, made him especially isolated. It was not always so. He had been born open and
laughing but war had closed him. In the Colony wars he had seen things no man should see; Giant cruisers of ten thousand souls drifting helpless into red suns, lava flowing where once children had played, brave men cut in two by laser fire. These things had changed Ranjit Vaughan, and even now sometimes memories rose like monsters from the id to torment his sleepless nights.

A door behind him opened and Sara Beatons presence filled the small arena. She acknowledged Vaughan and stared at the holographic figure seated at its desk. “Ugly little devil isn't he.” She said and strode forward for a closer look. As she reached the perimeter of the hologram it flickered into life. The head lifted and stared directly at Beaton. It spoke with a voice full of venom and just as terrifying as Sam remembered.

“Get back!”

Beaton flinched as if she had been struck, almost tottered a few paces back, and sat down. She was white, but the others crowded round the door also felt the sting from that awful voice.

“Clever isn't it.” Said Vaughan. “The voice has been artificially processed to generate a fear response. It's very effective. But I think we can probably reduce the intensity quite a lot.”

“You knew about this!” The colour was returning to The Managing Commanders face.

“I didn't have time to warn you. Sorry.”

Vaughan's voice was bland; there was no pretence at sincerity. “I have no doubt the image is artificial too. It's all designed to keep us of balance. After all how many of us have ever seen a genuine old person? I suggest you introduce yourself Commander and we can get the show on the road.” The Managing commander cast a cold glance at her Master at Arms. There was a long silence, then,

“I am Sara Beaton Managing Commander of The Star Treader. Who wishes to speak with me?” Her voice was once again strong and clear. As the sinister figure started to move a low hum filled the room. Although Sam found the voice ugly and repellent it no longer inspired in him, or it seemed the others, the abject fear it once had. Vaughan had worked some ingenious trick with Vera and masked out the worst of this 'clever' effect.

“I am Cawdor.” The figure spoke. “I am here, Commander to offer you the chance to save your ship. Yes, that is correct, your ship and every man woman and child aboard are in mortal danger. Only you can save them.” Cawdor paused and sat back in his chair. “Are you familiar with the term Android, Commander?” Another pause, he was obviously expecting a response.

“Yes I am. They are a type of robot. Made in the shape of a human being.  Obsolete now.” There was a slight shimmering of the image as the player found the correct track.

“Well done Commander. They are indeed a humanoid robot machine. Their main use was military. Let me show you one of these beauties.” The image of Cawdor suddenly disappeared. After a few seconds delay it was replaced with a far more threatening figure. A tall metal man appeared. He seemed to be dressed in shining silver armour. Large metal spikes protruded from his shoulders and his helmet looked like a grotesque skull, four red eyes glowed inside. His knuckles were also spiked and Sam thought it was just about the most wicked looking beast he had ever set eyes on. It took a pace towards the seats, and even Ranjit Vaughan shrank back in his place. It lashed out towards them with a large gleaming fist, and the voice of Cawdor spoke.

“Yes Commander. This is a Military Android. Pretty isn't he. Machines of destruction without fear or conscience. Dedicated only to destruction. So frightful no army could withstand them. So dreadful they were totally banned centuries ago.”

The Android was now still and Sam had to admit it was indeed a fearful sight.

“Now Commander, to the point of this little chat. A container of military androids has been stowed away in your cargo hold. Even as we speak they are breaking free. They will roam your ship ravaging and destroying everything they find. And only I can stop them. I will stop them   for a price. And that
price is four tonnes of gold. The gold must be placed in loading bay seven, dock number two hundred and forty. This must be done by 0.1200 hours tomorrow. By that time you will have had a small demonstration of my troop of Androids. Do not forget; Bay seven, dock two hundred and forty. Nobody to be present and no tricks. By 0.1200 hours tomorrow.”

The hologram reverted to the image of Cawdor behind his desk. But it was still. the message was over.

"We can't do it, We don't have that much gold on board.” Beaton shouted at the figure. It shimmered into life again faltering slightly as the player selected the correct response track.

“You have four tonnes and twenty one point one kilograms. Do you really think me so foolish?” Sam shuddered at the contempt in the voice. Even masked the effect was very unpleasant. Another voice spoke.

“I'm not sure we can get it there in time. How can we contact you?”

"Mr Vaughn. How nice of you to be here. You have plenty of time as you well know. If you need to contact me I will have a Hyperwave receiver tuned to 0.0934. That concludes our conversation Commander. I will leave you with a final view of one of my troop. No doubt you will soon have the opportunity of meeting him personally.”

The Image of the military android returned and the Cawdor would not respond to any further questions. The show was over. For a long time they all sat in silence. Finally it was Sam who spoke.

“Now what?” He said. It may not have been a major contribution to the debate but it did have the effect of shaking the company out of its stunned state and into action.

"Vera, get me Barry Wu. Top priority.” Sara Beaton wanted to speak to her Cargo Master. Barry Wu was a fussy man but he knew the convoluted cargo holds of the Trader better than any man alive.

“Warren, you had better make sure the Engine House and Control Room are secure. We don't want any trouble there.”

“I'll get an assault team sorted out. Vera, get all four shift leaders to my office for a meeting in - Ranjit Vaughan glanced at his wrist. “Forty five minutes time. Now if you will excuse me . . ."

“Hold on a minute.” Jan Peters interrupted. “Before we all go rushing off like chickens with our heads cut off. Let's think a moment shall we. I know it's an alien concept on this ship but this strikes me as a serious situation. Calls for new methods.” he added sarcastically.” Sam tried to hide a smile as Vaughan glared at Peters and replied in kind.

"0.K. Mr Librarian what is your suggestion?”

“Well I suggest we ask Vera what she's got on androids, military androids in particular. Then maybe, Mr Vaughan, you will have some idea what your ‘assault force' is going up against.”

The Master at Arms stared at Jan Peters, then suddenly relaxed.

“It's a good idea.” He said, matter of factly, and sat down. Beaton who was about to join the attack on Peters said,

“Well done, Jan.” She looked at her Master at Arms “A cool head's worth something in a crisis, don't you think?”

Ranjit Vaughan grunted something. Next time he would make sure he warned her in plenty of time.

"Vera   please give us a short summary of what you have on military androids."  Said Peters rapidly. He had no particular wish to drawn into a feud between two important and potentially dangerous opponents. The central computer switched off the letter player and the image of the android vanished. There was another unusual delay while the data was compiled.

"Androids enjoyed a brief popularity at the beginning of the 32nd century. Their chief virtue was a high degree of versatility. For this reason they were used as personal servants and in military applications. Experiments were tried in the field of space exploration but failed. They were soon superseded by more specialised machines designed to meet specific needs. In effect their very versatility proved to be a drawback, they were to quote an expression; Jack of all trades, master of none. An acceptable position for a human being, but not viable for a machine.”

“But that sounds ideal for a military system. Were they banned by treaty?” Asked Peters.

“No they were never banned. Far more effective machines became available such as the NanoTank. But even before this the military android was in decline. The immense complexity of an android creates serious operational problems. I will illustrate.”

A military android of a different design to Cawdor's appeared. Full size, it was over two metres tall, heavier built, and finished in olive drab rather bright chrome. It still looked very frightening.

“Much of the outer skin was designed to create an intimidating effect. Under this, most of the mechanics were very similar. But also very complex.” The outer skin of the android disappeared to reveal a staggering mass of hydraulics, multicoloured wiring looms, sensors, electric motors and circuit boards. “If we look closely at just one feature: the hand." An enlarged image of a hand mechanism appeared. “In this hand alone there are thirty five sensing devices, thirty five hydraulic pistons, twenty separate bearings and a dedicated processor linked to the primary control centre. All this in a single hand.

This level of complexity created significant reliability problems, particularly under the stress of military action. Ten percent operational time was considered quite good. Average time between failures could be as low as two hours for some models. The second major problem was intelligence. A huge amount of processing power was devoted to simply operating the machine. This left very little over for intelligent behaviour. To the extent that most androids were controlled from a central station by radio and were capable of only the most rudimentary tactical operations without central direction. This in turn made them vulnerable to radio jamming or to the destruction of their central control point. I also have a record of the key vulnerable points of over forty models of military android. Do you wish me to present them?”

"No. Not right now Vera. Thank you.” Said Peters.

"Very interesting, Mr Peters.” Said Vaughan thoughtfully. “Thank you.” And this time he meant it.
“Gentlemen we have some important matters to discuss.” Said Beaton with masterly understatement. We will hold a special Executive Operating Meeting in my office at, she glanced at her watch, 0.200 Hours. That should give you time to get an initial report on the security situation Mr Vaughan." It was part statement, part question.

“I should have some feel of what's going on by then.” He acknowledged. “Now if you will excuse me I will brief my Sergeants on the situation."

"Of course, for the moment treat this situation as top secret. We will decide on the public safety aspects at our meeting.”

The Master at Arms strode purposefully out of the room. Looking, Sam thought, a little ridiculous. He was preparing to get back home quickly, tell Rica the news and watch the story unfold on the public networks. But Sara Beaton had other plans.

“I would like you and Mr Peters to join us. And your assistant . . ."

Greg Cohen, Commander.” Prompted Sam. Somewhat bemused by this invitation to such high councils.

“Yes, Mr Cohen. I will see you all again in three hours.” She was about to leave when Vera spoke. As usual the voice was a calm and serene.

“I have a report from Barry Wu the Cargo Master. He is in Cargo Area Fourteen and says that he and his men are under attack from armoured men."

Chapter 6 - Arms
Barry Wu, the cargo master, was a tidy man. Tidy in his work, tidy in his personal life and tidy in appearance. It drove the people who had to work with him crazy. Sam Cooke had endless tussles with him whenever he made a substantial purchase. They had almost come to blows over the plastic granules. So it was a nasty shock when his holo appeared.

The Cargo Master was positively dishevelled. Sam thought he looked as he had been in a fight. He had.

“Commander.” He was breathless. “We are being attacked by mad men. They must have been stowed way down in 9 Hold. God knows how they've survived for so long without us noticing. They're wearing some kind of body armour, they must have mechanical prosthetics, they're so strong!”

“We know about it Barry.” Said Beaton.” they're not men, they're machines. Robots. Androids. What is your situation?”

“There's not much we can do. They've got Batons. We're unarmed. We've tried building barriers with the cargo movers to slow them down, but they easily rip them down.” There was a crash away to left out of sight of the viewers. Wu flinched. “Robots you say. I've never seen robots like these things but that explains a lot. They got Wambi. I got him on a stretcher, He's probably in sick bay by now. . .” There was another crash, off to the left and a loud bang, like someone bursting a paper bag. “I got to .... “ He did not finish the sentence and disappeared from the Hologram. The empty light stayed on a few seconds then went out.

Sara Beaton was suddenly very worried. What was an amusing problem had become real and urgent with frightening speed. The Androids would destroy the ship. How could they be stopped? Barry Wu was knocked down . . . or worse.
How would she tell Sally that her husband was dead? . . .She recognised the symptoms of rising panic, and with an iron will, firmly put them down.

“Mr Cooke, Wu needs weapons and he needs them fast. Go to the Armourers and get something that will stop those bloody machines. Wambi is a good man. He'll have something. Then get them over to the cargo section as fast as you can.”

“Are you going to open the Rapid Transit System, Mam?” The Armourers was on A Deck, at least ten kliks away. Sam did not fancy the walk. The Managing Commander was thoughtful.

“No. Not yet. I know it's urgent, but if I open the R.T. System the whole ship will know something's going on. It's too soon for that. But I will release a buggy for you, can you handle one?”

“Yes Mam.” Sam said with a crispness he did not feel.

“Vera where is the nearest buggy.”

“There is a buggy on section twelve of this deck.” Responded Vera. “It is at Location P71. Five hundred and two metres away from this library.”

“Very well. Release it on my authority to Mr Sam Cooke.”

“Acknowledged. “

“I'll get going then.” Said Sam, hoping he could remember how to drive a buggy. It had been a very, very, long time since he last rode one. Fortunately it was a quiet time of day, so there should be few crew members about to run over.

Beaton turned to Greg Cohen, who had been silent but restless and fidgety through these momentous events.

“Mr Cohen.” She looked at him appraisingly, as if unsure about his suitability for the mission ahead. “I am going to the control centre. I would like you to go to the executive suite and talk to Sally Wu. She must know her Husband's situation.” She stared Greg in the eyes. “This requires great tact. I do not want her unnecessarily alarmed. Do you understand?”

It was not the heroic role Greg would have assigned himself, but Sally Wu was a beautiful woman. It could be worse.

“Yes Maam.”I He said and turned to go. He reached the door when Sara Beaton called after him.

“Mr Cohen.”

“Yes Maam?”

“Do not try to seduce her.” Greg blushed a spectacular red, from his toes to the tips of his ears.

“No Maam.” He replied, and left.

Sam found the store containing the buggy. Vera opened the door and let him in. The buggy was a completely flat platform, without wheels or any other adornments. There were no seats or controls visible. They had changed a lot since Sam last rode one. He was about to swallow his pride and ask Vera for help, but as he approached the buggy sensed his presence and unfolded a seat from its flat base. Sam thought he had got the idea and sat down expecting a control column to unfold itself.

But he had to ask. Only then did a steering wheel and small panel of buttons unfold from the base. The controls were not complicated, comprising mainly of an 'on/off' switch and a simple speed control. Soon the buggy rose a few centimetres from the ground and started to move.

Steering was not quite so simple. Sam had set the speed for what he thought was a reasonable fifteen Kliks an hour. But the buggy seemed to be going very fast. He was not at all used to speed over the ground. Sam either walked or, in dock, used the Rapid Transit System. The R.T.S. was totally enclosed. It created little sense of movement, no sense of speed at all. He swung the steering wheel and the buggy careered towards the wall, he overcorrected and It flung itself at the opposite side. Only the buggy's own reluctance to hit anything prevented a wreck. It automatically veered away from every obstacle Sam hurled it at. He was now sweating nervously as he wrestled with the buggy, and together they waltzed and pirouetted down the corridor.

He finally admitted defeat, and the buggy took one last graceful spin towards the wall as he took one hand of the wheel and pressed the 'off' switch. The buggy dropped suddenly to the floor with a loud crash and skidded a few centimetres. Sam Cooke slumped in his seat in profound relief and mopped his face with a handkerchief. He had not got very far. Without much hope he turned to Vera.

“Vera, can you tell me how to control this thing? It seems to have a mind of its own.”

“Yes   it has Sam. Although it's quite rudimentary. You just have to tell it where you want to go.”

“Hells bells! Is that all! And I nearly killed myself on the bloody thing.” He reached for the 'on' switch and gingerly pressed it. The buggy rose and again floated a few centimetres from the floor.

“Take me to the Armourers.” He said.

The steering column neatly folded away and the buggy spent a few moments digesting the order. As Vera had implied, it was not very bright. It started to move forward, this time in a steady straight line down the corridor. Sam started to feel his problems were over. The feeling did not last long.

Confident In its destination and using its sensors to scan the corridor ahead for obstacles, both human and non human, the buggy began to increase speed. Sam gripped the seat in alarm as the buggy swished along at a steady fifty kliks an hour slowing slightly round corners in the interests of passenger comfort. But its passenger was not comfortable. He even let out an involuntary yelp of fear as the buggy smoothly avoided a group of startled pedestrians.

By the time the buggy drew smoothly to a halt outside the Armourers, some of the initial shock had subsided, but Sam was still mightily pleased to be able to get off and feel firm ground under his feet again. As he alighted the buggy settled gently to the floor with a barely perceptible sigh. Sam glared at it, for a moment he thought about kicking it, then decided that would be beneath his dignity. And somebody might be watching.

The Armourers office was disappointing bland. Sam had expected it to be filled with bizarre and arcane weaponry. In fact it was just an ordinary cabin much like Sam’s own. Pierre Wambl himself was not exactly bizarre, but he was striking. Tall and black, his white hair stood out around his head like a halo.

He had already been told most of the story by Vera and was expecting Sam. He was still full of questions about androids and quizzed Sam endlessly.

“So that's what they are really like. I've heard of them. But I never thought I'd get to see one live.”

“I hope I never do either.” Said Sam. He found Wambi’s enthusiasm for these horrible machines in poor taste. “So what have you got for us to fight them with?”

“I can't see anything for it but standard issue Batons.” Said Wambi. “Can't use Lasers or projectile weapons on the ship. Have guys punching holes in the hull all over the place, 'sides those things are dangerous. Kill a man real easy. Big risk of accidents.”

The thought of someone being killed sent a shiver of fear through Sam. People died of course, eventually. But premature death was virtually unknown. Sickness was cured, war outlawed, violent crime, although not unknown on colony worlds, was vanishingly rare on the Star Treader. Fatal accidents did happen, but not often and when they did, deep shock waves reverberated through the Traders small community.

 It is a paradox that the longer we live, the more we value life. Life, in that long lived society was precious. Wambi  continued:

“You ever used a Baton? Know how they work?” Sam shook his head.
“Follow me.'*

They went through a door at the back of the office into a small warehouse. Racking lined the walls, but at the back there was an open area lined with thick layers of grey Hullmetal. It was a shooting gallery. Wambi walked to the wall and lifted a heavy life-size model of a man to its feet. He then went to the racking and took down a meter long thin silver tube.

“This,” He said proudly, “Is a Baton. Watch!” He pointed it at the model man. There was a loud pop like someone bursting a paper bag and the dummy was flung back against the wall. “It's an air gun. Collapses a column of air at the target. Sensor in the end works out the right power for the weight and range of the target . . . Then wham! Like being hit by a sponge locomotive. Bruise your body all over, put you in the sick bay for a few days, but it’s never been known to cause a serious injury.” He reflected a moment. “Hurts like hell, though.”

“But do you think it can stop an android?”

“Stop anything. Anything!” Wambi said as he swung the tube into his open palm. He stared at the fallen dummy quietly for a few moments, then said thoughtfully, “To be honest Sam, I don't know.” He walked to the dummy and pulled it to its feet. He came back and handed the Baton to Sam. He was suddenly earnest.
“Look, it should knock 'em down all right. But whether they stay down. . . That's a different story. Tell you the truth, I doubt it. But it's all I got right now. Try It.”
Sam pointed the Baton at the dummy and pressed a small panel on the tube. There was     a loud bang like a balloon bursting and he was astonished to see the dummy fly backwards.

“Nice one.” Said Wambi.

“I didn't know I was such a good shot!”

“Don't have to be. Just get it more or less right and the sensor will find the target.”

Sam was a bit disappointed. But he was more than a bit disturbed at Wambi’s admission that the Batons might not be good enough. He told the genial black man how serious that might be for the Cargo men struggling to delay the android advance.

“I know, I know.” Said Wambi.    “But like I said, it's all we got. Unless you want to go melting holes in the ship!”  

They loaded the Batons onto the back of the buggy, which obligingly strapped them in place. Sam climbed into the driver’s seat without much enthusiasm and turned to Wambi.

“You're supposed to be the expert, for God’s sake try to think of something. It could be your door these androids are kicking down next.” He spoke to the buggy. “Take me to the Container Cargo Area, see If you can find Barry Wu.”
He took a deep breath. “And, er,  I think you'd better make it. . . fast.” The buggy raised itself from the ground and started to accelerate smartly away. Sam Cooke closed his eyes gripped the am rests and prepared for the journey to come.

Chapter 7 - Contact

The buggy Sped along the corridors of the Trader towards the vast cargo holds. Soon it was travelling through the Container bays. The great majority of commercial freight carried by the Trader was in M pattern Containers. Although varying in size from a few cubic meters to many thousands, M pattern Containers could be stacked and racked to form secure blocks that stretched kliks high and wide. It was down these canyons that the buggy was flying.

As its radar peered into the distance, it could sense the presence of people. It silently checked the data with Vera. Yes, one of these was the man it sought. But some long unused part of its programme, akin to an instinct, was counselling caution. The activity was not normal. It did not fit with any template In the machines simple mind. It checked again with the central computer and, after another silent conversation, Vera confirmed It. There was danger ahead. The buggy slowed.

The men were still too far ahead for Sam to see. He wondered what was happening but the buggy, having no voice, could not tell him. When they finally came to a halt Sam could just discern some small, distant figures. He was about to ask Vera what was happening when he saw, now quite clearly, that the figures were running towards him. It looked to him as if they were running about as fast as they could.

Somehow, he could not just stand and wait. Although his instincts told him to join them in their flight, he walked uncertainly towards them. The leading two were soon on him. They slowed only slightly as they ran past, but they shouted at him.

“Run for your life, Friend There's some real bad guys down there!” In the next group he recognised Barry Wu, but only just. His normally neat flat black hair was ruffled, his tidy suit dirtied and torn, his face flushed from its normal calm, pale appearance. He recognised Sam. The group slowed with him as he stopped in front of the bemused Sam and the two who had just swept past came to a halt by the buggy.

“Sam Cooke! What are you doing here?”

“I've just come from the armourers. I've bought the weapons.”

“Batons!” It was an enthusiastic shout from the man by the buggy. “He's bought Batons!”

“Thank God you've come.” Barry Wu’s voice was trembling with emotion. For a horrified moment Sam thought he was going to cry. “We've been helpless. These things are so powerful. They just tear down anything we put In their way. I doubt if we've even slowed them up. Now we can show them a fight!”
He grinned a vicious, feral grin that took Sam aback. He had never suspected such aggression lurked in this little clerk. The men fell on the buggy and soon stripped it of its shining metal tubes.

“You just point it at the android, and press this little panel here.” There was a loud bang as Sam demonstrated. “You don’t need to be a great shot; the sensor in the Baton will take care of most of it. Just get it more or less on target.”

There were a volley of bangs as the men, now in a fighting mood after almost an hour of continual retreat, tested their new weapons. There was much confident talk about 'teaching these guys a lesson' and 'taste of their own medicine'. As excitement mounted at the prospect of battle, Sam took Wu to one side.

“Barry, what are these things really like?”

“Bad news Sam. They look terrifying. Big and ugly. They don't move all that fast, but they seem unstoppable. They've got Batons too. They don't seem all that quick to shoot them but when they do, they don't miss. The bastards got Jimmy.”

“Yeah, I heard. Is he 0K?”
'
“A stretcher took him to the Sick Bay. I haven't had the chance to check on him, but Vera says batons don't cause permanent injury.”

“The Armourer said the same - He also said it hurts like hell.”

“Jimmy went down very hard. He didn't look too good. I think. . .”  The Cargo Master was interrupted by a shout from one of his crew, a short stocky man called McGill.

“Android! Down the way. Look!”

He pointed in the direction they had retreated from. A single, large, metal figure was marching steadily towards them.

“Just one!” Shouted Wu. “Split up. Hide by the containers. An ambush is our best chance.”

Sam snatched up a Baton and ran for cover. He thought the chance of surprising an android, with its specialist sensors and, probably, radar, were pretty slim. But the men were eager for a fight and, frankly, he didn't have a better idea. He peered through a gap between the containers and watched the android approach.

It was big. Well over two meters tall and broad. Its dull silver body was ornate with spikes and curving knives. The head was small and skull-like with an array of tiny green lights set deep under an overhanging brow. As it walked it swung its head, scanning the road ahead. As it drew nearer the head stopped and stared at a point amongst the containers. After a moment it began to swing again, then stopped this time staring at a different section. Sam realised with a frisson of horror, it was pin pointing the men, one by one.

It was still twenty meters away when it stared directly at Sam. He looked back through the narrow slit in the container wall, into a row of ten small green lights and felt his mouth go dry and his stomach churn. It held him in thrall for long moments, naked and exposed, then turned to its next victim. Drained and fearful Sam cowered back. Then he heard a shout. Barry Wu stepped quickly into the open road. He shouted something and simultaneously fired at the android. It rocked back from a blow that would have lifted a man from his feet, and slowly toppled to the ground.

The crash shook the floor. There was a second of dead silence, then a roar of triumph from the men as they swarmed into the open. Sam stared bemused at the fallen colossus. Slowly and deliberately
it climbed to its feet. A startling volley of Baton fire sounded as the more alert men fired at the android. But this time It was ready. It leaned forward slightly to absorb the Impact of the blows, and shook as they hammered home. Without urgency it lifted its silver tube, and blasted three men to the ground in quick succession. As the rout began men fled in all directions. Two escaping down the road were hit as they ran, blown over like tumbling dolls.
The android moved forward a few paces it turned to the wall of containers opposite Sam and, with careful accuracy, blasted men from their hiding places. Sam Cooke saw four fall battered to the ground in a few seconds.

A local stretcher had sensed the disturbance and arrived amidst the 'battle'. It rippled under the body of an injured man, lifted him a few centimetres off the floor, and sped off, presumably towards the Sick Bay. The android, distracted for a moment from its brutal work, incuriously watched it go.

Sam wriggled desperately backwards through the gaps in the containers. As he moved deeper into the labyrinth, he glimpsed Barry Wu jumping into the open corridor and firing at the Android. He was quickly blasted to the ground.

As Sam struggled down the narrow, filthy gap sharp edges ripped at his body. His face was cut by a wire, loose from a container edge. But still he squirmed deeper into that refuge, at least secure in the knowledge that no Android could follow him. The bangs from the Batons had now ceased and Sam could no longer hear the screams and shouts of the Cargo Crew. He guessed the fight was over. The battered crew would be collected by Stretchers who could somehow sense injury and would appear from as if from nowhere. It would be a busy evening in the Sick Bay.

It was dark in this warren. Sam was hot and dirty, his face was stinging where his cheek was cut. He stopped and slumped down back against the metal wall, to take stock of his position. It had been a rout. That much, at least, was clear. The Armourer had been right. A Baton might knock down an Android, but only if it was unprepared, and only temporarily. The ship was in grave danger. They had nothing to stop these vile machines; they would run amuck until someone called them off. Rica
must be warned. He must get her to a place of safety. He must tell the Managing Commander and Ranjit Vaughn, the Master at Arms. Defences must be prepared.

“Vera. . .“ There was no reply. “Vera!” He shouted. But even Vera’s ears did not reach into the middle of a container stack in the middle of a cargo hold.
Suddenly Sam felt very alone. He hauled himself to his feet and forced himself on into the darkness. It seemed like a very long time before he saw a spot of light in the distance. He was finally reaching the other side of the container block. The light was quite dazzling as he stumbled into the wide corridor, and he felt an overwhelming sense of freedom after the claustrophobic tunnel he had just left. He leaned back against a container side and spoke:

“Vera. Vera, are you there!”

“Yes Sam.” To Sam’s huge relief, he was in contact again.

“How do I get out of here?”

“On the deck you will see six bands of colour, can you see them?”

“Yes.”    Six narrow ribbons of colour, painted on the floor, stretched away into the distance in both directions.

“If you follow the yellow band it will take you out of the cargo hold towards the main administration area on deck 15, it is. . .”

Sam was no longer listening. In the corner of his eye he had caught a movement. As his eyes followed the direction of the corridor, he saw a shadow move at the junction of a container block, and straining his ears he could just make out the heavy footfall of an approaching android.

Sam turned and ran. He ran as he had never run before. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that the pursuing Android was aiming its Baton. He flung himself into a small recess and felt the wind from the shot as it crashed noisily into the side of the container. Echoes reverberated along its metal sides and Sam covered his ears against the mighty drum that seemed to beat his failure. With a sudden clarity he realised he was giving up. Succumbing to the terror the androids were supposed to inspire. He shook himself and found a courage he did not know existed. Foolhardy maybe, but he decided if he must go down, he would go down fighting.

Holding the edge of the container with one hand he swung himself into the passage and fired at the androld. It rocked on its heels and crashed backwards to the floor like a felled tree. As it was falling Sam realised this was not the android they had fought with earlier. It was an olive drab colour. But now it too would know he was armed and it too would recover to a state of immunity to Sam’s puny weapon. Once again he ran for his very life.

Looking back he saw the android climbing to its feet, but although it seemed slow and ponderous its huge strides covered the ground surprisingly quickly.
Nonetheless it was falling behind Sam as he ran on. Soon it was lost from sight, and then even its deliberate footfall was fading. Sam stopped gasping for breath and slumped, his hands on his knees and his shoulders bent.

“Vera.”    He struggled. “Am I going the right way?”

“Yes Sam. Just follow the yellow band.”

“Tell Ranjit we have been beaten. Wiped out. The Batons are useless against. . .”

In the distance he could hear the rhythmic crash of metal feet. The Android was still following, and getting closer.

“Oh God.” Groaned Sam. “Just tell them, Vera.” And once again he started running along the yellow strip, away from that terrifying noise. He ran on, lungs heaving and legs aching, until the thudding footfall was no longer audible. Only then did he dare slow down and take a glance behind him. Once  again the android was far behind him. He leaned heavily against a container wall and tried desperately to grasp the breath to speak. Sweat stung his eyes as it coursed down his forehead, he was hot, hotter than he ever remember.

”Vera.”    He finally managed gasp.

“Yes Sam.” Vera’s voice was calm and gentle. Sam felt a sudden rage at that studied serenity. He was in mortal danger and this bloody machine didn't give a damn. And now, with horrifying clarity he could hear those heavy, steady footsteps again. He dragged himself to his feet and began a stumbling run.  Then, gradually he realised that he was running towards the sounds. He stopped at a junction of two roadways, hands on his knees and listened. There were two sets of footsteps approaching from two different directions.

“Oh God.” He sighed aloud. A terrible despair had filled him. He was exhausted, and now he must face two of these terrible machines. Then he had a sudden inspiration.

“'Vera.. Vera!”

“Yes Sam. “

“Vera, can you get me the buggy?”

“Yes Sam. It will be with you in about four minutes.”

“Glory be!” Said Sam, with all his heart.

He ran unsteadily on, away from the pounding steps. But he could not run fast enough for the sound to diminish. Instead it kept pace, or was it getting closer? He did not dare to look behind. There was a roaring in his ears and a red mist before his eyes, he almost missed the buggy as it slowed to a halt beside him. Then he half stumbled, half fell into the seat, and mumbled to the machine:

“Go to the Control Centre. Fast as you can.” The Buggy span quickly round and before Sam’s bleary senses realised what was happening sped off towards an approaching android.

It was a dull red, two and a half meters tall and heavy. It stopped as it saw the speeding buggy as if unsure what to do. It fixed Sam with an ugly stare from a large single white lens in the centre of its face and started to raise the silver tube in its claw. Sam shrank down in his seat, and tried to scream, but the Buggy simply accelerated harder, flicked quickly round the red apparition, and was gone. It took Sam a little while to realise his mouth was still open.
It seemed a very short time until the Buggy slowed outside the central control section. But something was different. Sam climbed wearily out of the Buggy, and saw the entrance. It was hull metal grey. Great Sheets of composite steel hung were the doors should have been. The Central Control Section had been sealed against the coming onslaught, and Rica was inside. Sam walked    to the massive shutters; he beat against them with his fists and cried his frustration to the steel.


Chapter 8 - To be continued (maybe)