Chapter 12: The Echo Ship
Day 61 – 19:42 ship time
Distance to beacon: 189 million km
Relative velocity: 1 210 km/s and closing
The pip had stayed stubborn—forty-three seconds, square wave, no modulation. Karl woke every cycle, counted to forty-three, felt the faint click in his earpiece when it arrived. It was like sharing a bunk with a metronome that refused to die.
He spent the morning running doppler shifts. The signal's frequency crept upward by 0.8 Hz every hour—source was decelerating, matching his own burn profile. That ruled out a drifting pod. Whatever waited ahead had engines, guidance, and enough fuel to counter-thrust. Friend, foe, or desperate ghost—he would know in thirty hours.
To stay sharp he ran drills: suit don in ninety seconds, rifle assemble in thirty, reactor scram in ten. Muscles obeyed, but mind wandered. He kept seeing the girls from Rios's photo, kept hearing Haven-3's garden fans whispering his name. Isolation played tricks; velocity made them louder.
At 14:00 he powered down non-essentials—heaters dropped to 18 °C, lights to amber, music off. Every amp-hour might be needed for combat burn or emergency flip. He re-checked ammo: twenty darts, two flares, one cutting strip. If the target carried missiles he was toast; if it carried survivors he was their only bridge.
Day 62 – 06:15
Range: 97 million km
Doppler shift now 1.4 Hz per hour—both ships braking toward mutual rendezvous.
Visual finally resolved: a grainy dot on optical scope, back-lit by the red dwarf. Magnification 200× showed a blunt cylinder, no wings, no solar blankets—pure spaceframe. Length ~35 m, diameter ~8 m—smaller than Folly. Hull paint scorched charcoal, registry numbers gone. One docking ring forward, one thruster bell aft, cold. No rotation. It coasted dead, beacon still pipping from somewhere inside.
He tried voice again: "Unknown vessel, this is Folly. I am rescue-capable. Respond on 121.5 MHz or flash your running lights."
The forty-third-second pulse answered, unchanged. He flashed his own landing lamp in Morse: K-A-R-L. No reply. Either they couldn't see or couldn't speak.
Range closed to 40 million km. He began parallel approach: matching vector instead of overtaking, keeping 10 km lateral separation until intent clear. Fuel reserve ticked down—24 %, 23 %, 22 %. Margin shrank like wet paper.
Day 63 – 11:50
Relative velocity: 180 m/s
Range: 5 km
The ships drifted side-by-side, two shadows in red starlight. Karl suited fully, visor sealed, rifle mag-checked. He programmed the autopilot: hold parallel, 5 km stand-off, brake if target burns, flip and run if weapons fire. RCS tanks: 42 m/s—enough for one hard dodge.
He stepped into the lock, cycled, pushed off. The tether stayed coiled on his belt; at this closing speed a line could saw him in half. Thruster pack carried 20 m/s cold gas—ten out, ten back. Plenty for a look-see.
Distance shrank: 4 km, 3, 2. The cylinder grew until it filled half the sky—hull scabbed with micrometeor craters, seams welded rough, no insignia, no name. The docking ring looked intact but empty—no drogue, no clamps extended. He aimed for it, boots first, mag-clamps ready.
Contact was soft—clang vibrating through alloy. He engaged magnets, felt the kiss of foreign metal. Beacon piped loud now, originating inside the ring. He cut his own comm, listened: click… forty-three count… click. Close enough to feel in his boots.
He inched along the hull to an airlock override panel. Cover was latched but not locked. Inside, a manual wheel. He spun it; dogs retracted with a grind that sounded like bones cracking. The outer hatch slid inward, revealing darkness and a breath of cold air—pressure positive. He cracked his visor a finger-width, smelled iron and ozone—clean, no rot.
He stepped inside, sealed the hatch behind, cycled inner. Lights flickered alive—emergency strips, low amber. A corridor stretched forward, walls lined with acoustic foam now sagging like wet paper. Guide stripes glowed faintly. He advanced, rifle ready, finger on trigger pad.
Ten meters in he found the source: a lifepod transmitter bolted to a bulkhead, battery taped in place, wires naked. The pod itself was gone—jettisoned. Someone had rigged the beacon to keep crying after the lifeboat left. He knelt, opened the battery case. Hand-written on the inside of the lid:
IF YOU HEAR ME, THEY TOOK THE POD. I STAYED TO KEEP THE LIGHT.
SHIP NAME: ECHO. CREW: 12. BOARDERS UNKNOWN.
I AM ENGINEER LINA ORTEGA. TELL MY BROTHER I TRIED.
Below the note lay a data-chip sealed in foil.
Karl's throat closed. He peeled the chip free, tucked it into his breast pocket beside the basil leaf—two voices now resting against his heart. He keyed his mic. "Lina Ortega, this is Karl Hasser. Message received. Light still burns. I'll find your brother or die trying."
The beacon clicked again, steady, unimpressed by promises. He left it running—proof the light had survived—and moved deeper.
Passageway opened into a galley. Lockers hung open, food pouches drifting like silver fish. No blood, no struggle—just haste. A single boot floated, laces tied. He pushed on.
Engine room hatch stood ajar. Inside, panels were stripped—power cores removed, conduits cut clean. Professional looting. But on the bulkhead someone had welded a phrase in letters ten centimetres tall:
WE WERE THE ECHO. NOW YOU ARE.
He stared until the words blurred, then photographed them. Evidence. Warning. Epitaph.
A sound behind—soft click. He spun, rifle up. The corridor was empty. Then the click again, metallic, from the transmitter direction. He back-tracked, boots ringing.
The lifepod beacon had changed rhythm—interval now thirty-one seconds, not forty-three. Someone had heard him, was answering. Heart hammering, he waited. Next interval: twenty-one seconds. Then nine. Then continuous carrier—steady tone like a scream.
He understood: proximity trigger. The rig had been booby-trapped. If the transmitter detected body heat inside a set radius it accelerated the pulse—countdown to boom.
He ran.
Through galley, past the boot, down the corridor. The carrier pitch rose higher—capacitors charging. He hit the airlock cycle, slammed the inner hatch, spun the dogs. As outer door cracked open the tone cut off—sensor lost lock. Silence crashed in.
He floated outside, slammed the outer hatch, mag-clamped to hull. A breath later the ship jerked. No flash—vacuum swallowed fire—but a cloud of debris puffed from a mid-ship seam, glittering like ice. The hull buckled inward, slowly, gracefully, as if sighing in relief. Echo died a quiet death.
He pushed off, thruster pack spitting cold gas, putting distance. When he reached 500 meters he stopped and turned. The cylinder drifted now with a lazy tumble, solar light glinting off torn plating. The beacon was gone—no more clicks, no more forty-third seconds. Lina Ortega's light had extinguished itself rather than be used as bait.
He opened a channel to Folly. "Target destroyed by internal device. One survivor log recovered. Returning. Prepare med-bay for possible casualties—none found, but data may hold names. Out."
The reply was silence, but he felt the ship acknowledge—reactor throttled up, docking lights winked. He burned the last 8 m/s of pack to close the gap, grappled the airlock, cycled inside. When the inner hatch sealed he stripped helmet, breathed his own air, and finally let the shakes take him.
Later—suit stowed, rifle cleaned—he sat at the nav console and plugged in the chip. A single folder appeared: CREW. Inside: twelve portraits, names, birthdates, next-of-kin. Lina Ortega smiled last—dark eyes, crooked grin, same face he had imagined writing the note. Brother listed: Miguel Ortega, Meridian freight hub, Port-Kappa. Still breathing maybe, still waiting maybe.
He copied the list to Folly's memory, then to the station log, then to paper—three places so the names could not die twice. When the printer finished he folded the sheet, slipped it beside the basil leaf and the alloy strip. Three relics now: green, iron, paper—life, ship, memory.
He set course for Haven-3, throttle low, 0.05 g to save fuel. ETA: five days. On the hour every hour he transmitted the names, voice slow and clear, so anyone listening would know the Echo had not vanished unheard.
And underneath, where only he could feel it, the forty-third-second interval still ticked inside his chest—no longer a mystery, but a promise: every heartbeat from now on carried twelve extra beats, twelve voices, twelve reasons to keep the light burning.