First Impressions Read online

First Impressions

  Kira Bacal

  Copyright 2003 Kira Bacal

  First Publication in Another Realm, 2003

  I knew I was in trouble when I won the hand at poker. I’d programmed the computer myself and while I might be a rotten card player, I’m a very good programmer. I shouldn’t have won. Not seven hands straight. For one thing, my luck’s not that good.

  So when the computer bleeped in defeat yet again, I got nervous. I was in a singleship running cargo between two forsaken colonies far from everywhere in the known galaxy. If my computer had a problem, I was a long, long way from help.

  Four hours of hacking later, I knew what was wrong. Eight hours later, I knew I couldn’t fix it.

  At that point, my options narrowed to the intolerable and the unbearable. I briefly considered hopping out the airlock – why prolong the inevitable? -- but my mother had taught me never to give up.

  Of course, that sage bit of advice had earned me more lumps than anything else the old bat had ever counseled, but it was too late for me to change the habits of a lifetime now. Especially when that lifetime appeared to be drawing to a rapid close.

  In the end, I gritted my teeth and activated the communications system. Eventually the view screen flickered into life. A heavyset face, complete with blue-tinged jowls, scowled out of it. “What do you want?”

  “It’s nice to see you too,” I cooed sweetly.

  “Drop the pleasantries and tell me what you want. I’ve got enough problems already without your demands on top of them.”

  I suppressed a sigh. It was depressing to think this was the person who’d most mourn my death. I obviously needed to widen my social circle.

  “If you think you’ve got problems now, wait until I’ve finished. The computer suffered a fractal cascade, and it got to the core. All the protected archives are dead and the cascade is spreading. I can’t reinitialize because the core files are gone, and within a few hours, all the higher computer functions will be gone.”

  His eyes had bugged out during my litany. I’d like to think it was due to his concern for my person, but his first words quickly laid that notion to rest. “The cargo! How’s the cargo?”

  “It’s fine,” I snarled, resentful that he couldn’t even feign a fleeting interest in my welfare. “I told you – only the computer’s higher functions are affected.”

  He glared at me. “What the grik does that mean?”

  Hard to believe he’s not a throwback to some earlier era, isn’t it? How anyone could survive today with so little understanding of basic technology? “It means,” I told him with exaggerated patience, “that pretty soon the computer will be reduced to the level of a blithering idiot. It will become unable to initiate actions or analyze data. It will still do what you tell it, but it won’t do anything on its own. Life support, engines, food supply will all work, but the computer won’t be able to respond to any changes independently. For example, if we get too near a solar flare and cabin temps start to rise, it won’t adjust automatically – or even warn of the change. And it means that the automatic pilot, navigation console, long-range scanners, and first alert systems won’t work at all. Not to mention the overdrive.”

  “How could you let this happen?” my ever-loving partner raged. “Do you know how much we need this cargo? And boost that Thrumsnarfing signal! I can barely read you.”

  “That’s because the directional beam is going too,” I explained. “And the reason this happened is because some space dust or micrometeorites got into that open panel on the outer hull. You know, the one I wanted to fix before this hop, but you said there wasn’t time.”

  He shrugged off my pointed reminder with only a twinge of guilty unease. He was never one to dwell on his old mistakes. Mine, on the other hand, were recounted at every opportunity. “Okay, okay. Whatever. How it happened is unimportant. What matters is what we do now.”

  “That’s easy,” I interrupted. “You send a rescue vessel to pick me up.”

  He recoiled. “A rescue vessel! Do you know how much those cost? Plus, you forfeit all cargo to those bandits!”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t have much choice, do we? None of our other ships are anywhere near me, and it’s not likely any other vessels will pass by this deserted corner of space.”

  An idea struck him. I could see it light up his beady little eyes. “Now wait a moment,” he purred, suddenly oozing reassurance and concern. “You did say the cargo is safe, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I answered cautiously. “It’s stored in the holds, good for months. But I’ve only got air and supplies for a few more days – maybe a week if I use the emergency packs – and without the computer, I can’t use the overdrive. It’ll take me months to reach the nearest outpost.” I had an awful suspicion I knew where he was going with this.

  “Well, I’ll try to arrange for rescue,” he promised earnestly, “but you know how hard it can be to ensure a timely arrival. Now, what did you say your coordinates were? And your course?”

  “You scavving slug-bag!” I yelled, erupting in fury at his transparent machinations. “You’re not going to send a rescue ship! You’ll wait until one of our own ships is free and send them for the salvage! Never mind that I’ll be long-dead; the cargo will be fine!”

  “You knew the risks,” he snarled back. “Our profit margin —“

  “I don’t care about the grikking profit margin! This is my life we’re talking about!”

  “With that sort of cavalier attitude, it’s clear why I’m the senior partner,” he sniffed. “Without a healthy profit margin, we’re all dead.”

  “No, you’ll be poor. I’ll be dead!”

  “It’s typical of your selfishness that you not consider anyone other than yourself,” he retorted primly. “Think of the savings if I send one of our own vessels.”

  I dropped my voice to a menacing growl. “Listen, you heartless goon, if you want to keep enjoying unlimited oxygen through an intact windpipe, you’ll send a rescue ship at once. Not next month or next week or tomorrow. NOW!”

  “All right, all right,” he waved dismissively. “You made your point. Now hurry – you’re fading out; what’s your position?”

  What choice did I have? I knew the likelihood was that he’d just sit on the info until he could safely and cheaply retrieve the ship, but what if he had a rare moment of compassion and decided to send help sooner? I told him, repeating my threats in a variety of colorful ways – none of which fazed him.

  “Right-oh! Well, good luck! See you later!” he signed off, looking much more cheery than he had initially.

  The troglodyte had reason to be pleased. By sentencing me to death, he’d rid himself of a troublesome partner without sacrificing my lucrative cargo of Delphidian flame-crystals.

  I tried the comm station again, hoping to raise a rescue vessel myself, but by that time the directional guidance was off-line and without it, my signal quickly dissipated in the endless void of space. Besides, rescuers would rarely accept direct appeals from stricken craft; they required a request from the ship’s main owners, complete with a guarantee of payment. These guys weren’t in it out of altruism. No money, no rescue.

  My ex-partner would never stand surety from my safe return. Ever since we’d teamed up, it had been an uneasy alliance, born of economic necessity and suffered poorly by both of us. Now, thanks to that open panel, he’d had his salvation handed to him on a decorative tray… with my head as the garnish.

  Granted, in one sense it was my own fault. I should have known better than to take the ship out when its hull wasn’t intact. On my last trip I’d gotten a little too close to an asteroid belt and part of the ship had been buffeted. Th
e shields absorbed most of it, but one panel had been wrenched off. I’d wanted to repair the damage as soon as I’d made port, but had been dissuaded by arguments of the ephemeral value of the Delphidian flame-crystals. “Hurry up!” he’d ranted when I proposed a short delay in my return leg. “The market’s rising! It’s sure to peak soon and then we’ll be stuck with a bunch of gaudy rocks.”

  I’d let myself be persuaded, thinking that there were no critical components under that panel and that in a pinch I could always reroute systems around it.

  Minor problem: I’d overlooked the fact that the main computer relays were one layer below the affected panel, and somehow, someway they had gotten damaged.

  Well, stupidity in space is often a capital offense, and I’d earned my fate. Of course, that didn’t stop me from wanting to rip out that cheap shplud’s intestines and feed them to the nearest carnivore.

  Okay. I could sit here, bemoaning my fate like a sensible sort, or I could determine to do whatever it took to wreak