USCSS Casimir: Outer Rim Territories

Aboard the USCSS Casimir, a hypersleep pod opened with a hum and a quiet hiss. One of seven. Fausto Vidal regained consciousness slowly, both groggy and confused; pulled from stasis in a state of disorientation and anxiety. Yet that was to be expected. Emerging from hypersleep at faster-than-light speeds warped the psyche of the human mind. Neurological disorders such as paranoia, epilepsy, delusions, and worse, were the primary reason such technology was created in the first place.

Even so, Fausto did this on purpose and not for the first time. So long as he kept his activities brief the risk to his sanity was marginal. At least that's what he told himself. The Cuban was rash enough to carry out foolish notions on a whim and apt at rationalizing bad ideas into good ones.

Around him lighting within the octagonal hypersleep chamber was minimal. Amber indicator lights, ensconced in the walls, blinked softly like flickering candles.

For long, agonizing moments Fausto could not remember where he was? Concurrently dizzy and nauseated, bewildered and distressed. Is this a dream? Is this even happening? He pondered within the sickening feeling that he had already asked himself those same questions before. All his thoughts felt like echoes. As he sat up, he felt something in his palm, small and cylindrical.

“¡Luces!” He grunted, demanding light from the ships A.I. in his native spanish.

Apollo complied, brightening the chamber several steps up all at once. Fausto hissed, grimacing as his eyes squeezed shut again. “¡No tanto, hijo de puta!” He cursed hoarsely. The light subdued slightly. He peeked at the device in his palm.

It was a small medical inhaler, and though he could not remember holding it when he went into the pod, he was aware of what it was and why he used it in the past. The potent cocktail of stimulants, anti-psychotics and stress hormone inhibitors were designed to help him focus and keep one foot firmly planted in reality. Breathing in the powerful hit of drugs sent his heart racing as a dull headache set in behind his eyes.

After his head stopped spinning, Fausto clambered out of his pod wearing only undershorts. Icy cold floor decking sent a comforting shiver through his nerves. He welcomed it. Suffering reminded man of his frailty and humility. The sensation of consciousness in hyperspace was surreal. Fausto was convinced it brought him closer to god. Whenever he felt the urge to embark on an interstellar vision quest he reprogrammed the ships A.I. to override his pods medical computer.

Fausto was in his mid thirties, balding with a partially shaved head and thick stubble across his cheeks. Dark, troubled eyes gleamed brightly under a serious, ponderous brow. Not particularly tall, he had a strong brawlers build and a short, thick neck. Christian saints were inked across his chest and shoulders along with bizarre calligraphy and arcane symbols. Lower around his midsection the artwork grew more macabre and sinister. There were demons, foul beasts, scenes of corruption, suffering and sin.

Splotched and criss-crossed beneath the tattoo's were burns and scars, marks of wounds suffered in religious cult rituals, most of which were self inflicted. Steadying himself, blinking his eyes, Fausto stumbled towards the chambers single exit. His robe and rosary hung from a peg across the threshold. Grasping the cross in his hands, he raised it to his lips muttering a prayer.

Oh Dios mio,

confiando en tu

infinita bondad y tus promesas,

espero obtener el perdon

de mis pecados,

con la ayude de tu gracia,

y la vida eterna,

por los meritos

de Jesucristo,

mi Senor y Redentor.

Amen

Slipping on his robe and slippers Fausto looked back at the other sleepers still safely cocooned. His elder brother, Captain Yago, a man he loved and respected. Yago's beautiful wife Seleste, who was also his brother's Executive Officer, and their younger son Vicente. Vicente was an assistant to Bartimaeus the greek, the ships Engineer who was also Yago's oldest friend. Bartimaeus' daughter, Sophelia, was the ships Navigator. Together they were as much a family as a ships crew, and a smaller crew than a ship this size usually required. Still they wouldn't have it any other way.

It was the seventh sleeper than concerned him. The stranger they took on board on Torin Prime who introduced herself as Marion Shelly. Something about her eyes unnerved him. Not an easy thing to manage against a lifelong sinner and career criminal like himself. She had a killers stare tainted with weariness and fear. The look of a hunter who had become the hunted. He recognized her type immediately. She was either a contract killer or a bounty hunter. Someone with a lot of money hidden away after a long career preying on other human beings. It seemed fittingly ironic to him that someone like her was forced to spend a fortune to stay one step ahead of her enemies. Las ganancias mal habidas conducen a fines mal habidos. He was fond of saying. Ill-gotten gains lead to ill-gotten ends.

Her name and I.D. were fake of course. Fausto could recognize that sort of thing fairly quickly. Out here in the outer rim territories lots of people were running from something. Such desperation only made her more dangerous. As a general rule, unregistered passengers were a bad idea to have on board. They were probaby smuggling something. Drugs, weapons, stolen goods, etc. Whatever they intended to move from place-to-place with no one the wiser was an added risk for the rest of the crew.

Marion also insisted they make no other stops or detours on route to Ashkelon Station, which pretty much guaranteed she was hiding something. She also refused to speak and interract with the crew, insisting on privacy and a rule of no-questions asked.

Red flags like that were as clear to the captain as they were to himself, yet Yago had the notion to profit from it regardless. Easy money! he had said. Whatever business she was about needn't concern them. Out here, ships logs and manifests for cargo and passengers were were not kept as exact as they would need to be in the core systems. ICC customs inspections and Colonial Marshals could be avoided without too much difficulty. So long as they were well compensated, there didn't seem to be much harm serving as her interstellar taxi. Except that Fausto was pretty sure she knew who he was.

As a former prince in the Marielito criminal underworld of Havana and Miami, Fausto was involved in cyber crime, contract killing, corruption, extortion, stock manipulation and money laundering. All those activities created a lot of enemies.

Though his official bounty was pulled a few years ago, Fausto was no fool. His head would always fetch a hefty price on the black market. The concerns he had for the stranger were simple. Was she on the run and desperate because her money was running out, or because no amount of money was enough to keep her safe? If it was the former, Fausto expected she would try to collect the price on his head once they arrived at Ashkelon Station. That would put the rest of the crew in peril as well. He could not abide that.

In most matters of judgment, these days, Fausto heeded his gut or the words of the scripture. He had no conscience of his own, raised as he was in such a ruthless crime gang. Scars from lessons of cruelty and obedience stripped the humanity right out of him. Five years ago he would have killed her already if he suspected she was a threat. Now he was loathe to take a life without just cause.

Leaving Earth, abandoning the core systems, was the only way Fausto could escape and ensure survival for his remaining family. Accepting his brothers forgiveness, and guidance, in the true Catholic faith changed him. He lived by the light of grace and biblical principles now. The Casimir was his church as much as it was his home. He would not tollerate the possibility of any more grief coming to his family. If Marion had reason to come after his head, he would strike first.

Purposefully, the former gangster began to walk through the lower corridors of A-Deck, past the locker room where his clothes and boots were neatly stored. Much as he would prefer to pause and put on proper clothes, he didn't have the luxury or comfort of time to spare. The inhaler was only good for so many doses, and the drugs didn't last long.

Past the locker room was another octagonal chamber, the companionway, with its ladder leading down to B-Deck or up to the upper level of A-Deck where the topside observatory would be found. Fausto preferred to make his prayers in the observatory. With the protective overhead panel retracted it provided the best view of the stars anywhere.

Thinking of those stars sent visions through his head of all the prayers he made. His head was swimming and he lost his balance, tumbling forward. Caught in the moment of wrenching hopes and fears his reflexes were slow and clumsy. As he reached for the ladder to catch his fall he missed. The wrist of his right hand impacted against the metal and bent at an abrupt angle. Immediately there was pain, shock, and the secondary impact of his forhead bouncing off the rung before he fell to the deck.

All at once he was moaning, crying, gasping and rolling side to side cradling his injured hand. The nausea returned. It took all his willpower not to throw up. God he was thirsty! Pain and thirst. Thirst and pain. For about a minute that seemed like all there was to the universe. Yet there was anger as well, and with that anger came renewed clarity. ¡Levantarse! He scolded himsef, reaching for the ladder with his left hand, pulling himself again to his feet.

For a moment he was tempted to head straight for the infirmary. It was just around the corner on the other side of the companionway. A quick injection and the discomfort would ebb away. That seemed like such a great idea until his mind was awash with flashbacks to Miami where he was entertained like royalty. A prince of the Marielito crime gang was accorded a great deal of status and respect. Drugs, women, and a wild nightlife were there for the offering. For a time anyway, until his gains and efforts at criminal enterprise ceased their upward trajectory.

After that, he had no peace. Skilled as he was getting results for the gang there was never any end to the demand for his services. In the extortion business, putting pressure on the rich and corrupt only went so far. Everyone had a limit, and eventually they had nothing left to give. Yet the expectation that he could always find more money was a portent of his downfall as much as it was a sign of great success. When he finally failed to match those expectations his backers abandoned him. Former partners became rivals. Others betrayed him. There were attempts on his life and attacks made against personnal associates.

Unable to rest he began to roam the streets and alleys near his old haunts and nightclubs. Shunned from the limelight he became a creature of the gloom, seeking to instill fear in others. Only then did he feel strong enough to survive. In between outburst of violence and crazed antics, he lost himself in the bottle.

Those were dark and desperate times. Remembering that brought a bitter frown to his face. It also reminded him there was a bottle of rum in his locker. How delicious that would be to ease his thirst and drown his sorrows.

The headache behind his eyes reminded him this was not normal thinking. He concentrated on that, flexing his right hand, clenching his jaw at the renewed agony. Weakness angered him. That was his pride again, shaming him. All these years he spent humbling himself aboard the Casimir, letting go of that anger, seemed to flit away. Memories of his former life as an exceedingly cruel, manipulative brute hounded him like a shadow. One slip and he would be that man again. In that moment Fausto felt the need to pray but there was no time.

Gritting his teeth he put one foot on the ladder, then another, descending to B-Deck. There was another locker room near the forward air lock where Marion had stowed her personal possessions and clothing. That's where he should start his search. Normally he would not hesitate, yet his own growing anxiety made him think twice. His head wasn't feeling right. Moving about the ship was much harder than simply kneeling and concentrating on prayer. He wasn't confident he could carry on for much longer.

Besides, if Marion was hauling a fortune in cash it wouldn't be in her locker on B-Deck. It would be inside the coffin she brought aboard in the cargo hold. Down on C-Deck. Fausto would have to settle for that and hope it provided the reassurance he needed. Rung after rung he descended, slowly and awkwardly with the use of only one hand. At one point a slipper came off and fell away from him prompting a frustrated curse. Without it the rungs of the ladder were very cold. His bare foot began to ache and cramp slowing his pace even further.

Worse yet, once he reached C-Deck at the bottom of the ladder he could not find the errant slipper. Lighting was sparse around the lower decks to begin with, but the fact his headache blurred his vision didn't help. Muttering angrily, Fausto began to walk along the corridors with just one slipper.

The Casimir was a large ship, made even larger by the fact the corridors did not stretch between compartments in short direct paths. Getting to the cargo hold required changing direction no less than six times. By then the skin on the sole of his foot was rubbed raw and made numb by the cold metal grating.

Along the way, visions and memories of the sorry, sinful, sprawling cities of Earth plagued him; both confusing and aggravating his fragile state of mind. The corridors seemed to stretch on and on like a trick of mirrors. Every step felt slower and more sluggish than the one before. Occasionally he took puffs from the inhaler, but he wasn't entirely certain it continued to have any affect. Panting and limping, Fausto finally reached the hold at the end of his patience.

Lighting within was next to non existent but he could still make out the coffin, strapped down beside the cargo lift. The sight of it should have urged him on and restored some of his energy but that was not the case. All at once wretched and weary, Fausto was overwhelmed with memories of his nephew's funeral. Fausto closed his eyes, summoning what strength and focus he had left.

After a minute, he reached for a utility tool kit attached to a wall beside the entrance. Inside was a sturdy flashlight. He flicked it on illuminating the coffin's titanium-alloy skin with its hues of gold and copper reflected within a pervading polished silver-grey. It was badly scratched, scuffed and dented.

Esta pobre alma ha estado en un viaje difícil, Fausto snorted remarking inwardly at how much of a rough journey this poor soul must have had. However, in truth, the battered state of the coffin only served to reinforce his belief there were no remains inside. Fausto did not share many words with the stranger, but her cold, depressive, personality didn't foster an impression that she cared enough about anyone to haul their body across the Outer Rim.

Larger in fact than it needed to be, the coffin was designed to hold a body in cryo-stasis for extended intervals. In that way it functioned like a hypersleep pod, except for the fact that it was only designed to prevent a body from decomposing, not slowing the aging process and sustaining life. A coffin like this was the only permissible means to carry a corpse between star systems and they did not come cheap.

Tamper-proof seals from the ICC and various port authorities had been applied to the coffin, certifying that it's systems were checked and space worthy before she was allowed to bring it through customs. Fausto could not help but wonder who she had to bribe not to look inside? In that, a lot depended on the attitude of the individual customs officer. Some things should always hold sacred.

Fausto kneeled down, placing the flashlight on the deck before he began to work the straps securing the coffin. It wasn't easy one handed, but he managed. Status lights and temperature readouts on the control panel indicated cryo-stasis was active and ongoing. Energy reserves were also well in the green. The coffin was attached to a fitted base with motorized wheels and an extendable upright suspension. That's how Marion moved it from place to place by herself.

Fausto held his breath as he pressed the command-to-open button. It was possible the coffin was rigged to injure or kill anyone who attempted to open it, but there was simply no way to know and no time to examine it any further. With relief, the button shifted color from blue to red, indicating it was in a standby-to-open mode.

Internal suction pumps and valves whirred and re-positioned recovering cryogenic gasses into internal storage tanks. Such toxic, freezing gasses would be dangerous indeed to any living organism if they were allowed to vent out the open lid. That done, the button changed from red to green. At the same moment, electric solenoids snapped open within the latches releasing locking pins.

Sharp clicks of tight-fitted, spring-loaded parts seemed unnervingly loud in the tomb-like cargo hold as Fausto popped each latch one by one. He held his breath, lifting up on the lid which opened smoothly with a gentle ratcheting action. Residual frozen vapors and mists swirled up at his face as it opened.

“¡Madre mía!” He gasped, immediately horrified by what he saw.

Inside the coffin was a mutilated and largely dismembered male corpse. The head and torso, which only retained one arm, were stacked on top of the legs. Pasty white flesh, of face and skin alike, were covered in a fine frost. Beside the body in the lower third of the coffin, where the lower legs and feet would normally have been, was a strange leathery egg shaped object.

As his heart rate intensified, Fausto was simultaneously overwhelmed with disbelief and dread. Unsure that he could trust his own eyes he could do nothing but stare. Corpses were nothing new to him, but the leathery egg was the most alien thing he'd ever set eyes upon. Gingerly, he reached towards it with his left hand. Touching it was the only way to be sure it was real.

Suddenly the eyes of the corpse snapped open half an instant before it reached up and snatched Fausto's wrist.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you!” It croaked, spitting milky white liquid from its lips in the process. It's eyes were grey, swimming in the same milky white liquid. An android!

Fausto tried to yank his hand away but the synthetic's grip was as rigid as an iron manacle. All he managed to do was shift its torso around within the coffin jostling the egg somewhat.

“Stop it!” The android warned, his voice burbling and strained. “Don't struggle! Just listen. Remain calm. I am going to release your arm. When I do, you will reach up, close the lid and engage the latches. You must initiate the cryogenic systems again immediately. Do you understand?”

Fausto nodded, his heart hammering in a panic. He had never felt so frightened before. The effects of hyperspace sharpened emotions as much as it evoked confusion. His mind was reverting back to its most primitive state, the instinct for fight or flight.

The andoid seemed to sense that, “According to your pulse rate and the dilation of your pupils, I sense a high probability you will disobey my instructions and flee. I cannot allow that. It is imperative that the egg maintains a state of cryo-stasis. That is the only way to ensure it remains dormant.”

Fausto's eyes fixated on the egg, as big as saucers. Sweat trickled down his temple.

“Listen to me!” The android urged so forcefully white lubricant splattered over Fausto's face. “You are going to lift me out of this coffin with your arm. I can manage to do the rest myself afterwards. Hurry!”

Fausto did just that, he was plenty strong enough, especially now that so much adrenaline was surging through his system. The frozen androids torso lifted free of the coffin, dribbling a fair amount of lubricant in the process. Fausto lowered it down on the cargo bay floor against the side of the coffin and moved to yank his arm free again. Yet still the android clung to him.

“I am sorry. I can't let you live. You've seen too much.” The android stated in a apologetic tone, adjusting his grip and sliding his thumb ever so slightly to rest between the ulna and the radius on Fausto's inner forearm, pressing down with superhuman strength.

Fausto screamed, lurching up to his feet and grabbing at the dangling androids fingers with his sprained right hand. In such a state of panic he lost all feeling of pain. Yet it was no use. The androids thumb punctured his skin as easily as a child might poke a finger into a pie.

“Just relax,” the android stated calmly, “Once I compromise your radial artery, unconsciousness should follow in as little as thirty seconds.”

Fausto grabbed for the flashlight near at hand. He bashed it against the androids face and skull arcing its beam of light up and down frantically in the process.

“Ow! That hurts!” it complained in a sardonic, mocking tone. Fausto continued to club at it with desperate strength subjecting the synthetic flesh and skull to a harsh and rapid pounding. It held up remarkably well. Behind split lips a few teeth cracked and shattered. Still the android refused to release him, merely drooling more white lubricant.

Fausto could feel his muscles and tendons giving way under the point of the androids thumb. Blood oozed out of the wound. He was getting dizzy. Fausto fell to his knees, reaching frantically for the tool kit he'd carried in off the wall. His fingers clasped around a laser cutting torch.

“Wait! Don't do anything hasty!” the android implored as Fausto pressed the nozzle against the side of its skull and engaged the beam. A loud sizzling sound preceded the sharp smell of melting plastic.

“You have some nerve...” the synthetic managed to curse before it shuddered and went limp.

Fausto dropped the cutting torch, clutching at his bloody arm. His head was swimming. It was all he could do to stay conscious. Gingerly, he tugged off the belt from his robe and wrapped it tightly around his wrist and forearm. Bad as it looked, it didn't seem like any critical arteries had been opened. With any luck the bleeding would stop.

Chest heaving, breath ragged, Fausto was grateful to god to be alive. He lowered his head in prayer until a distressing exhale, very similar to the final breath or death-rattle of a corpse, hissed beside him. As he turned his head to stare a sense of fascination and dread returned. The egg... was opening.