REDEMPTION TRAIL

General Raver and Chellaina were enjoying the last hours of the short Thetean day from the comfort of their modest home. Capella was just beginning to set in the colorful western sky, and the Krellos were busy with their daily chore of preparing their nests for the night. It was a typical Theti evening.
The General had put away his photographs and war memorabilia, and was using a household computer to write a letter to a close friend. Chellaina was still busy crocheting, though her pace had slowed somewhat; she paused frequently to look out through the dome and enjoy the colors of the sunset.
Fenton was just getting ready to close the five- page letter when Chellaina broke the gentle, evening silence.
"Shall we go for a sit outside and watch the sunset?"
Fenton stopped what he was doing and turned his attention to Chellaina. "Yesthat would be nice. Let me finish this firstI'm almost done."
"Certainly."
Fenton returned his attention to the computer as he finished his letter:

I have brought this matter up to the UN on several occasions, but they don't seem to be interested. No- one wants to remember the war. I fear, however, that unless someone documents the war for history's sake, then the memory of World War Five will die with old soldiers like us. Worse yet, the human realm might forget about that bloody lesson and, God forbidding, future generations might decide to start the whole thing all over again.

Anyway, I'll keep trying to convince the UN to record our account of history, despite the wide-spread lack of interest. Tell the little woman that Chellaina and I are thinking of her and, as always, we send our best wishes.

Goodby for the moment,
General Fenton S. Raver, UNSF

Upon completing the letter, Fenton pressed a command key on the computer, then turned his attention to a document recorder on his desk. The document recorder, which was about the size of a shoe box, began to eject a thin, shiny sheet of plastic about the size of a business envelope.
Fenton took the small sheet of plastic from the document recorder, then examined the address on the front. He pressed an icon marked `Open', which was printed at the edge of the plastic sheet; the address disappeared and was replaced by the text of the letter. He briefly read through the letter to check for mistakes, using printed pointers in the margin to scroll through several pages of text. Satisfied that the letter was presentable, he pressed an icon marked `Close'; the text disappeared and was replaced by the address. Once the letter was mailed, the United Nations Mail and Message Service would disable the `Open' icon until it was delivered to the appropriate partythereby guaranteeing privacy.
Fenton set the letter on his desk, with plans to mail it the following day, then turned to his wife, Chellaina.
"Shall we go for our sit then?"
Before Chellaina could reply, the quiet, peaceful evening was shattered by the sound of a disaster siren coming from somewhere outside. Chellaina's eyes grew wide and fearful as her hands stopped their never-ending task.
The loud, piercing siren slowly climbed in pitch, stopped for a half-second, then descended in pitch. The shrill, repetitious pattern of the siren sparked gloomy, century- old memories of a time when the realm was ripped apart by turmoil. Its prolonged, monotonous rhythm could have easily pushed a person to insanity, but within the sanctuary of their home the siren was somewhat muted and at least remotely bearable.
"What is it, Fenny?" Chellaina's worried eyes looked to Fenton for strength.
"I don't know," He labored to push himself up from the chair. "I'll see if they published a bulletin."
He hurried to a panel on a nearby wall as fast as his aging legs would carry him. He was considered to be in excellent condition for a man of his age, but the human body has limitations and was never intended to live beyond 100 years. Fenton's firm, yet shuffling steps hurried to the communications panel on the wall. His face was marked with an uneasy, worried expression, which did little to sooth Chellaina's fears.
Fenton pressed several buttons in succession, pausing after each one to hear nothing but static marked with a deep, unnerving buzz.
"Maybe they have a bulletin on television," Chellaina suggested.
She set her crocheting down next to her in the chair, then picked up a remote control from a nearby end table. She pointed the remote at a neatly framed picture of a lush, green forest scene, then pressed a button. The picture changed to show a torn, tattered interference pattern marked with the same unnerving buzz as the communications system. She pressed several more buttons in succession, but the result was the same on each channel.
Fenton looked at the distorted patterns of light; his expression grew more disturbing. "It's either a jamming signal, or an EMI wave."
There was a short pause as The General analyzed the situation. Chellaina could almost see the brave, young soldier in him, even after a century of living the quiet, peaceful life. He still had somewhat of a hero-like demeanor, which brought Chellaina comfort during that moment of uncertainty, but the years had taken their toll and the elderly couple was far from independent.
Although they lived alone in their secluded house, they were frequently visited by social workers who helped people over 100 live a quality life that had the appearance of being independent. That thought was foremost in The General's mind as he continued to study the situation; there would be no friends from Elderly Support Services to consult with, and Chellaina would look to him for strengththe decision had to be his.
"Gain your feet, Love," his voice was firm and commanding for Chellaina's sake; deep inside, however, were disturbing feelings of uncertainty. "We're going to the disaster shelter."
Chellaina's look of worry began to shift toward fear; the 100 year-old memories of the war were still far too vivid to ignore. She set down the remote, then struggled to lift her frail, wobbling frame out of her pink, fluffy chair. Fenton hurried to assist her.
"Maybe it's just an EMI wave," Chellaina suggested. She managed to bring herself to her feet, but had not yet fully gained her balance. "It will pass in a minute or two."
"Maybe," The General took his wife by the arm and offered enough support for her to let go of the chair. "Maybe not. Maybe it's an attack."
"But, there's no war," Chellaina tried to assure herself, "There's no military, no troopsthere isn't even any war machines."
"Maybe you're right, but we're going to the disaster shelter never-the-less." Fenton gave her a gentle reassuring pat on the shoulder, then motioned toward the back of the house.
The General was no longer the strong, brawny man of his youth, though he was considerably stronger than his frail wife. He applied a gentle, yet firm pressure against her back in order to encourage her toward the back of the house; Chellaina had no choice but to start walking.
Chellaina looked at the ground as she slowly, and carefully, put one foot in front of the other. She was not excessively weak, but she had extreme problems maintaining her balance. Her sense of balance had deteriorated to such a point that Elderly Support Services had given her a walker-like device, which generally sat idle in a closet. Fenton was almost always there to help her maintain her balance; she preferred it that way and Fenton certainly didn't seem to mind. After hardly more than one or two careful, uncertain steps, she paused and looked to The General.
"It's so hard to get down the stairs," she said with a frightened tear in her eye.
"Don't worryI'll help you."
"Would you bring my crocheting?"
"Certainly."
The General reached over the chair and picked up the crochet hook, yarn, and the unfinished afghan, then returned to the task of helping his wife to the disaster shelter.
Disaster shelters were definitely a thing of the past. Peace had plagued the entire human realm for nearly a century, and few people saw any need for the expense of a disaster shelter. Fenton and Chellaina both harbored frightening memories of the war; The General saw inhuman suffering from the bridge of RQ-733, Chellaina saw it across her operating table. When they finally walked away from the war's bloodshed to build their dream home, they saw fit to put in a disaster shelter. It was literally the only building on Theti that was equipped with a disaster shelter.
The monotonous, war-like siren continued to wail outside. By the time Fenton and Chellaina reached the disaster shelter, they had more than their fill of the ungodly sound; they were eager to leave it behind and descended to the shelter.
The entrance of the disaster shelter was located in a utility section at the back of the house. Fenton pressed a button on the wall, then a red light began to flash and an alarm sounded as a section of the floor slid away to reveal a long, dark set of stairs.
Chellaina became more nervous as the sights and sounds of the disaster shelter brought back terrifying memories of the days when she, along with many others, had to pile into disaster shelters on a regular basis. She watched and waited as the floor slid away from the opening; she kept trying to assure herself that the alarms and interference was caused by one of the pesky EMI waves that periodically disrupted electronic devices on Theti. She did her best to convince herself that they would be emerging within an hour's time to the same serine world that they left behind.
The floor finally stopped moving, the flashing light went out, and the alarm went silent. A second or two later, lights came on to illuminate the staircase, and power was cut from the rest of the house. The siren outside, however, continued to wail.
"Let me go first so I can catch you if you fall."
The General held onto his wife; he was extremely careful not to disturb her balance as he walked around her. He took a step or two down the staircase, then turned and offered her a hand.
"Come ontake your time."
Chellaina began the slow and tedious descent to the disaster shelter. Each and every uncertain step was carefully directed with her hands clenched tightly on the railings. Fenton never let go of her during the entire, lengthy descent, though he himself had some difficulty negotiating the stairs.
Once they had made their way down the first six or seven steps, the concrete slab began to slide back into place. It was an eerie feeling, to be sealed into a disaster shelter, and one that they had not felt in a long time.

The view of the lunar surface was impressive from the UN service tug as a tail of fire pushed it closer to the mooring orbit. The vast expanse of cities, craters, and mountain ranges against the dull grey moonscape was certainly unique. It was a place where life could not exist outside of a dome, yet millions thrived there. It was a place where only the adventurous lived.
Krey turned his attention from the lunar landscape below to the watch on his wrist; his grace period was only twenty minutes from expiration. He looked at Cassie in the seat next to him. Her hair draped around the headrest and trailed behind her as the massive engines continued to push the craft toward the mooring orbit.
Krey noticed that Cassie kept her hands on the controls, which wasn't actually necessary, and her attention rigidly focused on the vast nothing outside. He began to suspect that she was, in some way, different or abnormal, though he couldn't exactly put his finger on it.
Krey glanced out the forward window at the mooring orbit above where countless, idle space vehicles drifted in a continuous ring that encircled the moon. Each of the various size crafts were regimentally spaced in a perfect line at equal intervals, like soldiers in formation.
There was, however, one huge, lumbering craft in the distance that did not quite line up with the others. Krey proudly pointed to the massive vehicle.
"There it is."
Cassie looked up at the craft, then glanced down at her instruments.
"It's illegally parked."
A sheepish grin came to Krey's face as he shrugged his shoulders, "Well... My navigation computers aren't the best."
Cassie did not reply; she was well aware of the state of RQ-733 after her inquiry in the computer annex.
Krey studied Cassie's face as the tug continued its ascent to the mooring orbit. She was a complete mystery to him; she was strangely distant and independent, and didn't seem to be anything like a convict. He began to wonder what kind of convict could get such royal treatment at the UN. It just didn't add upeven to Krey's slow way of thinking. Finally, he couldn't help but ask the one question convicts, sooner or later, ask each other.
"So, Cassie... What were you convicted of?"
To his surprise, she actually honored his question with a reply, though she kept looking out the forward window.
"Shoplifting."
"Shoplifting!? And you got exile?"
There was no reply.
"What did you steal?"
"A used romance novel." She still did not take her attention from the forward windows.
Confusion dominated Krey's face as he thought about her reply: How could anyone get exiled over a stolen romance novel? Krey was, however, somewhat relieved that she was at least talking to him. He decided that since she seemed to respond to that subject, perhaps he should continue the conversation in hopes of breaking the ice.
"What's the biggest thing you ever stole?"
Her reply was flat and unmoved, "This service tug."
Krey's eyes grew wide with disbelief as the conversation came to an abrupt end; he really didn't want to know anything more about stolen UN vehicles. He turned his attention to the forward windows and the huge, dilapidated craft that they were approaching.
Cassie cut the engines, then the phenomenon of weightlessness set in as the tug continued to drift toward RQ-733. It was Cassie's first opportunity to inspect the massive Star Saber that would ferry them through the time barrier to a world light- years away; she looked up at the dilapidated craft, then shook her head in despair.
The Sikorsky F-1126 Star Saber was, by far, the most formidable fighting machine ever built. It measured 1,000 feet from tip to tail and boasted a 200-foot width. It had the rough, overall shape of a spearhead and was dominated by three, massive laser cannons, two of which were mounted on its back, the other on its belly. Each of the fierce laser cannons measured some 700 feet in length, and were just over fifty feet in diameter. The ship supported a fighting crew of 1,200, and had all the amenities of a small city.
RQ-733, however, was nothing like the proud Star Sabers that pushed World War Five to its conclusion. Its three, massive laser cannons had been removed after the war and their empty pylons ended in a disarray of twisted cables and frayed coolant lines. The hull was marred by numerous laser burns and particle beam abrasions, and munitions impacts left several gaping, twisted holes in her heavily armored hull. Large patches of corrosion left by munitions residue had spread across the hull giving it a dull, rust-orange appearance.
Cassie's face was dominated by a look of dread as they approached the crumbling hulk; she couldn't imagine trusting it for one lap around the moon, much less trusting it through the time barrier. A dull, sickening feeling churned at the bottom of her stomach as she surveyed the grotesque state of the craft. She noticed that one of its three, massive, time distortion engines had completely melted down and was nothing but an empty shell, another one was clearly in questionable shape. Here and there, drifting around the craft like a swarm of flies, was a vast collection of screw, washers, nuts, cotter pins, and other assorted bits of metal, some of which actually appeared to be in slow, shallow orbits around the massive hull.
They approached RQ-733 from the rear and passed across the belly as they headed toward the service dock near the front. The little service tug was dwarfed by the mammoth, twisted mass of corroded, high-tech alloy. They passed several gaping holes in the hull, some of which were big enough to fly the tug into. Cassie noticed a mess hall inside one such hole, where burned seats were still bolted in front of corroded, dilapidated tables; here and there were broken pieces of dinnerware that just drifted aimlessly through the tomb-like remains of the hull.
"My God," Cassie whispered in a voice shaken by reality, "This thing won't even hold air."
"Don't let that worry you," Krey tried to assure her, "There's plenty of compartments up near the front that hold an atmosphere." He casually motioned toward the back of the craft using a nonchalant, waving motion of the wrist. "I don't use anything near the backexcept the engines and whatnot. All the good stuff is up front."
Cassie shook her head in disbelief and spoke in a tone that reeked of certainty, "You're crazy."
"Its not that badsure it leaks a little here and therebut it's nothing we can't keep up with."
Cassie continued to shake her head as they passed over the scarred, dented hull, "How did you come into possession of this... this..."
"I bought it from UN salvage."
"You paid money for this?"
"Hey, I bought it fair and square," Krey said pointedly, "At least I didn't steal it!"
Cassie looked at Krey in a rather indignant fashion, "Don't judge me, Mister Convict, I only have one charge against meyou have a shit- load."
"I never stole anything!" Krey insisted.
"Big deal." Cassie returned her attention to the Star Saber, "Where's the docking port?"
Krey was somewhat irritated by the exchange, though he decided that it would be best to ignore it and try to maintain some kind of civilized relationship between him and his new travel partner. He pointed to a set of long, narrow doors, which hung open to space, then did his best to keep his voice from reflecting his mood, "Up therein the drone bay."
"Any drones left in it?"
Krey shook his head, "No, they were removed along with the lasers and the turret guns long before it went to salvage."
Cassie shook her head as she maneuvered the tug in front of the drone bay, "They should have never sold this thing as a spacecraft."
"They didn't," Krey replied proudly. "It was just orbiting junk that was supposed to be dismantled. But I know a few things about space vehicles and managed to fix it up"
"This is fixed up?"
Krey was quick to defend his position. "I don't think anyone else could have done it."
"Who'd want to." Cassie could hardly understand why anyone would want to expend such a major effort on something that was going to fall far short of perfect.
No one spoke in the wake of the exchange, though Krey was certainly stewing over it. Both of them, for the most part, had turned their attention to the docking procedures, which could sometimes prove to be tricky, especially with spaceborne debris drifting about; it would only take something about the size of a screw lodged in just the right place to trigger a fatal disaster.
Cassie carefully maneuvered the tug into the bay, which was littered with a dozen or so empty mooring mounts that once proudly held a fleet of high-tech, unmanned, robotic drones. She turned her attention to her instruments as the docking port on the ceiling of the tug closed in on the Star Saber's docking port. After a moment or two of careful maneuvering, they heard the docking ports mate, followed by a heavy, metallic click as a locking mechanism joined the two crafts together.
Once the tug was rigidly joined to RQ-733, the sounds and vibrations of the massive ship could be heard inside the tug. Cassie panned a nervous eye over the ceiling as she listened to the low, hollow, metallic echo, which seemed to last forever. It was immediately followed by a short series of creaks and moans from the huge, crippled hull.
Krey unfastened his flight harness then pushed himself up from his seat. "We should hurrywe don't want to be in a stolen UN vehicle when the grace period runs out. If we don't get this thing launched right away, we could find ourselves facing some pretty nasty charges."
Cassie agreed with a nod, then unfastened herself from the seat, "Can you close this bay?"
"No, the doors' hydraulic system is shot."
Cassie pushed herself up toward the ceiling, then grabbed a rail next to the docking hatch. After bringing her weightless body to a complete and stable stop, she turned her attentions to the controls for the hatch. She pressed several buttons in rapid succession, which was followed by a short hiss of air, then the tug's hatch opened to reveal the Star Saber's hatch just on the other side of it. She pressed several more buttons on the control panel, then waited patiently for the Star Saber's hatch to open.
When it became apparent that the hatch wasn't going to open, she furrowed her brow in confusion, then pressed the same sequence of buttons again. She looked at the panel's small computer display, then let out a disgusted moan.
"What's wrong?" Krey asked.
Cassie turned to face Krey as she folded her arms in an arrogant fashion. Her voice was clearly condescending as she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb.
"There's no pressure on the other side of this hatch, Einstein, what do you propose we do?"
"I know," Krey retorted, "The service compartment leaks."
Cassie's attitude changed to something a little more indignant, "How the hell are we suppose to get in? You didn't say anything about extravehicular activitywe didn't bring any pressure suits!"
"It's just a slow leak"
"What difference does it make? There's still no pressure on the other side of the hatch."
Krey let out a disgusted sigh, "The service compartment is only about 1,400 cubic feetjust pump some air into it and open the damn hatch."
"This is stupid," Cassie grumbled as she turned to face the hatch. She pressed several buttons on the door's controls, which was followed by the sound of hissing air. As she waited for the service compartment to fill up, she could hear the ship creak and moan as the aged, battered bulkheads of the Star Saber's service compartment flexed somewhat under the pressure of an atmosphere. After several lengthy minutes, the hissing stopped, then the door's computer responded with a beep.
Cassie carefully opened the hatch, then looked inside. The interior didn't suffer from corrosion like the outside, though it did have its share of dents and battle scars. The service compartment was dark, cold, and had all the appeal of an ancient, musty tomb. She drifted quiet for a moment as she surveyed the antique array of dark, dormant controls, when she heard a subtle hissing that sent shivers up her spine.
"That's more than a slow leak!"
"It's slow enough," Krey snapped, "Now show a little backbone and get in so we can finish this before all the air is gone."
Cassie shook her head, "I don't like thisit's not safe."
"Fine," Krey said in an arrogant tone, "If you don't like it just get your prissy little ass back on your stolen tug and go back to the UN!"
Cassie did not like ultimatums, but under the circumstances there was little she could do; she reluctantly passed through the hatch into RQ-733. She looked around the aged, battered interior as an uneasiness crept over her. She examined a dirty, ancient control panel, which was mounted on a wall; some of the controls were cracked or broken, others were completely missing. She drew an uneasy breath; she was somehow certain that that rotting mass of century-old steel would eventually become her grave.