The cargo ship Musk was well behind schedule. The behemoth had left Earth promptly and made good time to its first waypoint. But then the ship’s captain, a veteran sailor named Derby Rigg, grew cautious. She placed Musk under radio blackout and rigged her ship for silent running.
Rigg also altered her course, avoiding the usual shipping lanes. Her goal was to reach Mars safely and quietly, to deliver the much-needed supplies now filling Musk’s holds.
But Rigg’s precautions cost time. On Mars, time – like everything else – was in short supply. The port at Olympus Mons now listed Musk as one full week overdue. Outposts across the dusty planet checked in daily for an update, only to be disappointed.
She regretted the delay but deemed it essential. Better to deliver the supplies late than not at all, she reasoned. The League of Corporations reluctantly agreed.
Now Rigg paced the bridge of her ship. In ancient times, a ship’s command center was quite literally a bridge, a raised platform meant to give the captain a lofty view. Rigg’s command center had no windows, yet her view was superb. In the center of the room floated an enormous hologram of Musk and the surrounding space.
Curved walls held multi-function displays, offering a wealth of video and data. The displays synched to her eyepiece so she could access them and give orders from anywhere on the ship.
Yet for this wealth of information she felt blind.
“Talk to me, Dyson,” she said.
The first officer shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
Rigg circled the hologram, watching Musk creep through the dark of space like a hunted animal. Straight ahead lay a scattering of objects, each tagged by the hologram computer with a red question mark. The objects were small, perhaps a meter across, but they troubled her.
“We’re sure they’re not just asteroids?” she asked.
“Too uniform in size and shape,” Dyson replied.
Rigg crossed her arms. “Full stop.”
“Full stop, aye,” he replied, and brought the ship to a halt.
She rubbed her neck. The red question marks loomed. Dyson joined her at the hologram.
“Do you wish to change course?” he asked.
“How much time to go around?”
“Another day.”
She closed her eyes. “All those people, waiting.”
“So proceed ahead?”
“I didn’t say that.”
They stood in silence for a moment, bathed in the soft pulse of display light. The bridge always felt so empty and cold, even when Dyson was here, which was most of the time. A sterile room of data and light, it demanded so much attention that sometimes Rigg felt this place sucking the life from her.
She opened her eyes. “Plot a course around. They can wait a little longer.”
Dyson followed her command and soon they were once more underway.
The Musk, an Epic-class freighter, was a marvel of engineering. When fully loaded, like now, its hull bristled with nearly a thousand cargo containers. Once Musk entered Martian orbit, each container would cast off and descend to the Olympus Mons dockyards.
The cargo inside those containers had not existed when Musk left Earth. The ship’s interior held an automated factory, capable of building solar panels, microchips, dune buggies – everything an outpost might need. And on the way home, the ship would refine precious metals mined from Mars. The entire operation could be overseen by just two mechanics, bringing Musk’s crew to four.
Rigg watched her gigantic ship lumber, beginning a daylong arc around the ominous red question marks. Hang in there just a little bit longer, she silently urged the outposts. We’re coming.
A chill ran down her spine. The question marks had begun moving. They swarmed like a school of piranha.
Rigg had no doubt of their intention. They were coming for Musk.
“Dyson!”
“I see them. Sixty-two objects. Self-propelled and giving chase.”
“Can we outrun them?”
“Negative.”
She stayed calm and worked the problem. “Do we have any empty cans?”
Dyson consulted his manifest. “Container 632 is still empty.”
“Jettison it. Maybe it will be a decoy.”
Three objects fell for the trick, chasing the empty cargo canister as it drifted away. The rest stayed in hot pursuit. They overtook the ship and surrounded it. Then they slowed, forcing Rigg to cut her engines.
At this close distance they were easy to identify – mines. Musk had been snared by an explosive spider web.
“Ship approaching from astern,” announced Dyson.
“Great. Here comes the spider.”
A face appeared on one of the wall monitors. Rigg strode over and stood before it, hands on hips. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
The pale woman had short black hair, neatly parted on the left. She wore a white collared shirt beneath a black vest and jacket, as if she had just stepped from a board meeting. Dark eyes examined Rigg, then shifted to Dyson in the background.
“I am the owner of this minefield,” she said at last.
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