Chapter 11: The Forty-Third Second
Karl woke before the station lights rose, mind already counting: one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two… at one-thousand-forty-three the pip came, right on cue, slicing through the dark like a metronome. He opened his eyes and stared at the overhead panel. Same interval all night—forty-three seconds, every time. Not forty-two, not forty-four. That was choice, not drift.
He rolled out of the bunk, sealed the suit to the waist, and floated to Ops. The console clock read 03:17. The beacon's trace glowed steady on the spectrum display: narrow-band, 121.5 MHz—classic Meridian emergency frequency—but the modulation was a simple on-off square wave, no ID code, no voice. A pulse alone. A heartbeat asking if anyone else still had one.
He keyed the mic. "Unknown beacon, this is Haven-Three actual. I hear you forty-three second cycle. Respond voice or change interval to confirm intelligence. Over." He released the key and waited. The next pip arrived exactly on time—unchanged. Silence after. Either the sender couldn't speak, or wouldn't.
He logged the exchange, then pulled Rios's old frequency tables. One entry caught his eye: Meridian lifepods used a 43-second marker when their voice circuits failed—an analog fallback from the analog days. If that was true, somewhere out there a pod or a ship sat with a broken mic and a working oscillator, crying in the only language left to it.
The idea lodged under his ribs like a second heart-beat. He had to know. Range first. He accessed the station's phased-array and ran a time-difference sweep. The signal arrived 0.8 milliseconds earlier on the dorsal mast than on the ventral boom—rough angle seventeen degrees below the ecliptic. He triangulated against Folly's last known drift and came up with a coarse estimate: 0.4 light-hours—about half a billion kilometres. Too far for a lifepod on chemical thrusters. Too close for a ship coasting interstellar. Something in between.
He chewed a thumbnail until it bled copper. Half a billion klicks meant a burn—big one—and a week of coast. Fuel reserves sat at 28 percent after the brake. Folly could manage 600 m/s delta-v and still keep 10 percent in reserve for undock and emergencies. That gave a 300 m/s outbound leg, 300 m/s home. At 0.08 g constant the trip would take six days each way. Doable, if the station could spare him—and if the station didn't vanish while he was gone.
He needed permission. Haven-3 had no governor, no charter, only custodianship he had claimed by presence. So he asked the dead. He returned to Ops, opened Rios's log file, and spoke to the empty chair. "Chief, I'm going after your people. If that pulse is one of yours, they deserve retrieval. If it's a trap, I'll walk into it eyes open. Station's healthy—bot and greens will keep her breathing. I leave tomorrow if the math holds. Record this as custodian decision, Day 60."
He saved the entry, then set to work. First task: strip Folly again. Every gram stayed home meant more margin for rescue. He cycled through the cabins, pulled bunks, lockers, even the coffee maker that had donated its spring to the drop-tank. He kept one crate of bricks, one bladder of water, one change of undersuit. Total personal mass: 18 kg. The rest he stacked on Haven's deck, a monument to velocity.
Next he cannibalised the station. In Cargo he found a roll of reflective sail-cloth—emergency solar shield rated for 500 m/s particle impact. He cut segments and glued them over Folly's starboard patch, double-layering the weakened section. Not pretty, but better than micrometeor kisses at high speed. He also took two spare filters and a coil of nutrient tubing—gifts for whoever waited inside a broken hull.
Rios the bot watched from the hatch, head tilting in binary curiosity. Karl knelt, scratched the metal neck where paint had flaked. "Garden's yours while I'm gone. Keep the pumps wet, don't let the mint take over." The bot chirped twice, then extended shears and clipped a perfect basil sprig. Karl tucked it into his breast pocket beside the strip of alloy the printer had spoken through. Green against iron—hope against void.
When the prep list dwindled he ran final numbers. Fuel load: 32,000 kg. Ship mass stripped: 1,840 kg. Delta-v: 602 m/s. Reserve: 10 percent. Margin: 2 percent. He circled the 2 percent three times, then wrote beside it: Enough.
He slept one last night in the station bunk, visor open, rifle propped within reach. The beacon piped through the speakers at 43-second intervals, lulling him like a mother counting heartbeats. He dreamed of a corridor lined with doors; behind each a voice waited to speak if he could only turn the handle in time.
Morning came—station time 06:00. He suited fully, sealed visor, and cycled into Folly's lock. Haven-3's umbilical parted with a sigh. He drifted across the gap, mag-boots clanking home. Inside his own ship the air smelled of metal and effort; he welcomed the familiar.
On the bridge he powered the reactor, brought the bottle to ready. He set a countdown: T-minus sixty minutes. While clocks ticked he recorded a message loop and left it broadcasting from the station:
"This is Haven-Three custodian Karl Hasser. Departing to investigate emergency beacon at 17° ecliptic south. Estimated return: Day 66. If I do not return, garden is yours, bot is yours, power is yours. Treat her gentle. – Karl."
He switched to Folly channel, spoke softer. "Ship, we're going after a heartbeat. Fly true and I'll bring her home."
At zero he ignited thrusters. Folly eased away from the wheel, umbilical retracting like a severed vein. When clear he rolled ship and pointed bow toward the beacon's bearing. Main bottle howled, thrust built, 0.08 g returning to his bones. Acceleration climbed; velocity stacked; the station shrank to a toy wheel, then a coin, then a glint. At plus thirty minutes he throttled back, set cruise at 0.05 g to conserve fuel. Distance to target: half a billion kilometres. Time to intercept: five days, nineteen hours.
He opened the log, wrote:
Day 60 – Under way. Haven-3 astern, beacon ahead. 43-second heart still beating. Fuel 28%, spirit 100%. If this is a lifepod, we bring them home. If it's a trap, we spring it careful. Either way, the silence ends. – Karl Hasser, still breathing.
Outside, the stars ahead stayed sharp and patient. Behind, Haven-3's lamp winked once, as if wishing luck, then vanished into the dark. The trumpet blues had been left behind; only engine hum remained—steady, relentless, counting seconds toward the forty-third.