Contact by Devon C. Ford

Author:Devon C. Ford [Ford, Devon C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Vulpine Press
Published: 2020-09-03T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

Deep Space Near Proxima Centauri

Nine Hours Later

“Keep her steady,” Torres warned the young man at the helm of the Ichi

The pilot was already being as careful as he could possibly be. The man was no Rogers, who despite being ordered to remain in medical, had tried to resume his post at the helm of the big sister of the vessel. His refusal to lie down and be examined led to him being sedated and kept in medical forcibly, which was where he remained.

“I’m trying, sir,” the standin pilot said nervously, but he wasn’t up to the task.

They had matched their speed and rate of spin to that of the tumbling frigate, the Norton, that still rolled end over end towards deep space. It seemed likely to do so indefinitely unless someone managed to stop them. Their power was out irretrievably. The gaping hole in their port side showed a gap right through the ship. This hole was exactly where their main power source had been before it broke free of its fixings and was sucked out into space. Now they needed a ship to dock with them externally to jumpstart them.

This meant they needed a ship large enough to stabilize the big frigate’s need for power, but also one that was small enough to dock with them like a transport vessel would. The Ichi was the obvious choice, but without Rogers at the helm, they couldn’t find a pilot with the ability to perform the stunt.

“Can’t we just… wake up Lieutenant Rogers?” Sarvanto asked Torres quietly.

“The man suffered delayed-onset G-LOC; G-force-related loss of consciousness from a negative three-G spin. He’s not going anywhere until his brain stops trying to swell its way out through his ears,” Torres explained just as quietly.

“People,” he said more loudly, “I really don’t want to have to call up the admiral and explain that we can’t save the ship that saved almost the entire fleet, just because we don’t have a good enough driver at the wheel…”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the current helmsman said in a high, wavering voice. “It’s just too gosh-darned difficult to get it right.”

Too gosh-darned… who the hell is this idiot? Torres thought to himself. He fought the urge to haze the kid right off his bridge and off his ship.

“Perhaps it’s just a matter of coordination?” Paterson asked via the live comm link to his lab.

“Say what you mean, Paterson,” Torres told him.

“I’m saying, Captain, that perhaps we should let someone with very good hand-eye coordination try it? Like, maybe someone with the best eyes money can buy? And hands, for that matter…”

Torres thought about it. Rogers would have another fit and probably rupture another part of his brain at hearing his natural gift of flying boiled down to simple hand-eye coordination. When he thought more, he realized that it was actually a good idea; wasn’t the problem just a lack of anyone’s ability to process the input fast enough to adjust the output?

“Ask him if he’s up to it first,” Torres said.

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