Chapter 9: Eureka

There had to be some way to modify the outgoing signal, or to inject his own data into the stream. Schaffer slammed the console with his fist in frustration. He had mapped every function that he could find and was now reduced to trawling the maze of menus and submenus contained within the operating system. Half of the functions required commands that he did not know, the system was entirely custom, though loosely based on a kind of UNN security system management software that he was somewhat familiar with. Whoever was tasked with operating this system would have had prior training, they would have been supplied with reference material detailing all of the console commands and their functions, they would have had in-depth schematics detailing the machine itself. Without any of that, the central computer would remain mostly a mystery to Schaffer. There had to be some kind of communications system. It would be absurd to build a second antenna for the sole purpose of sending messages when the outpost itself was constructed around a massive transmitter. He knew that encoded and non-encoded data could be sent at the same time through the same stream, if he could just find a way to piggyback a ten-kilobyte text message on the back of the signal, then he would be home free.

He had already mapped the functions on the console that would orient the dish, he could aim it wherever he pleased, even if he couldn’t send a message. Right now, it was tracking a satellite in orbit around the planet, one of the quantum-entangled variety that could transmit data instantaneously over interstellar distances without having to rely on radio or laser methods that could take decades to reach their destination.

An interruption to the data stream might alert UNN intelligence and prompt them to visit the outpost to make repairs, perhaps simply screwing with the alignment would suffice. Then again, he couldn’t count on that. He had seen firsthand how repair requests piled up.

He would be able to point it in the vicinity of an orbiting spacecraft and then blast them with a high-powered transmission. It would be impossible to ignore, but the encrypted data would just be gibberish to them. He also had no way to locate them from the ground, he needed coordinates in order to reorient the dish.

Fuck it, this wasn’t getting him anywhere. He leaned back in his chair as the display lights and buttons on the console bank flickered and glowed. He had to think about this from a fresh perspective.

A spark of inspiration hit him like a lightning bolt.

He typed frantically on the embedded keyboard, bringing up the dish programming menu. The dish had to be programmed to track the target receiver, and Schaffer had access to those functions. What if he intentionally interrupted the signal in order to transmit a message via morse code? That would draw far more attention than simply cutting the stream, which would be attributed to a mechanical or software malfunction. He knew basic morse code, everyone in the UNN did. If the power generator on a vessel was taken out, leaving the ship dead in space, flashing an S.O.S at rescue ships might be the only way to indicate that there was anyone alive in what to sensors would just be a dark wreck.

He could program the dish to only aim at the satellite long enough to transmit a burst of data, then swivel to point at empty space. With any luck, the person on the other end would have their head out of their ass and would notice the telltale fluctuations.

He entered the commands in sequence, three short bursts of data, then three long bursts followed by another three short bursts. S.O.S, the most standard and widely recognized plea for aid in human space. It might take hours to receive a reply, who knew how long it would take to get noticed. Now he just had to wait.

Schaffer sat at the console for the entire day, waving away the aliens who came in search of him to find out what he was doing. He wished that he had some coffee to keep him alert, but all of the sachets that he had found during his frantic search for food all those days ago were spoiled and unfit for consumption. He awaited a reply, hoping against hope that somebody would see his signal in a bandwidth graph or notice the size of the fragmented data packets and work out that it was a message. He felt like an ancient sailor casting a note into the ocean in a glass bottle, an almost futile gesture.

Night eventually came, and he found himself dozing off in his seat, rubbing his itchy eyes as he waited for a message that might never come. Perhaps he was kidding himself, and his plan was ridiculous. What if there were no humans manning the receiver and it was all handled by an automated system? The base itself was unmanned after all. His plan assumed that there was some UNN office worker sitting at a desk when there might very well not be.

Just as he was beginning to lose hope, deciding to turn in and try again the following day, a window appeared on the main monitor. There was an icon indicating an incoming message. He scrambled awake, spinning the trackball to mouse over the symbol. He clicked the icon, and a simple text message displayed.

-WHO IS THIS?-

Simple and to the point, fair enough. Now that this unknown function had been activated, he was able to reply by simply clicking the option beneath the original message. How insultingly basic after all the time that he had spent trawling the operating system searching for just such a function. He typed out his reply and hit send.

-I AM CORPORAL SCHAFFER, SERIAL #374627834, I AM STRANDED AND REQUIRE IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE. I HAVE INFORMATION PERTAINING TO A TRAITOR IN THE ADMIRALTY.-

That should raise some eyebrows. He was elated, his plan had worked. He was in contact with the UNN, and he might soon be off this godforsaken rock. He should get some rest now, by the time he woke up, he might have received a new message. He rose from his seat, leaving the message window open, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to open it again if he closed it. As happy as he was, something nagged at him. There was an itch in the back of his brain, a kind of apprehension that he wasn’t quite able to place.

As he made his way to one of the crew quarters and crawled into a pile of sleeping felines, he realized that he would miss these aliens. This pack had become his family while he had stayed here, they cared more about him than any of the so-called friends who had sold him out to Rawling, or failed to go looking for him when they had been shuffled around and reassigned.

Was this life better than what he had to look forward to back in human space? Had his job taking inventory of cargo and repairing broken vending machines been fulfilling? He had signed up to be a combat engineer, trained for battle, but he had eventually ended up on that damned station where the most pressing work available to an engineer was routine maintenance.

He might never be safe from Rawling’s goons, either. Even if the man was sent to a military penitentiary, there were always ways for the more influential and resourceful prisoners to get messages out. If he had tried to kill Schaffer for threatening to expose his black market operation, then Rawling would surely be far more motivated if Schaffer succeeded in ruining the corrupt Admiral’s life. There was no way to arrest everyone involved and to uncover every smuggling network, Schaffer would be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life.

He would sleep on it, he decided, enjoying the sensation of a warm, furry arm enclosing him. It would certainly be jarring to go back to the bachelor’s life after the last few days, that much was sure.

Over the next few days, Schaffer communicated with the UNN via the message system at a snail’s pace. They were initially very skeptical, asking probing questions about his deployment history and personnel record to ensure that it was indeed a UNN Corporal who had gained access to the central computer and the satellite dish, rather than some especially handy native. They inquired as to how he had survived for so long without supplies, and he had told them about the pack. They confirmed his suspicions, the aliens were Polar Borealans, a furred cousin of the Borealans commonly seen in UNN-controlled space. They were quite surprised to hear that there were still Polars who remained on the planet, as they were under the impression that the entire population had been relocated to a colony in Siberia on Earth some time ago.

This pack had been left behind, forgotten, which explained the business with the trading post. It was heartbreaking for him to think about, these Polars were primitives, they couldn’t possibly have known about the mass exodus without anyone there to tell them. Their entire race had abandoned them. Whoever had manned the trading post had been their only lifeline with the more civilized world, and they had either forgotten or neglected to inform them. The pack had been damned to a slow death, or at least a total reversion to their animal state without tools or supplies. They likely still had no idea as to where their people had gone, or why they had left them so abruptly. Schaffer could help them though, he could secure all the supplies that they might need.

Borealis was a Coalition planet, that meant that they were allied with the UNN, and so Schaffer became irate when the person on the other end declared that they would not contact the Borealan authorities in order to evacuate him as soon as possible. They cited fears that their most likely illegal listening post would be discovered and that it would cause a diplomatic incident. There were UNN ships in orbit around Borealis, and a shuttle would be dispatched to evacuate him in a couple of days.

They peppered him with questions about the corruption that he had hinted at, but it was his trump card, and he refused to speak about it over the air regardless of how well encrypted the signal was. He didn’t know who was listening in, who among the staff at whatever facility operated the receiver might be on Rawling’s payroll, how far his reach extended throughout the UNN. They agreed to put an MP on the shuttle and that Schaffer would give him the information in person when it arrived.

The supplies of food were thinning. Schaffer had succeeded in explaining to Zagza that something would happen in two days, but not what. The Polar, Schaffer might as well start referring to the aliens by their proper name, seemed to trust him. Scarface had some success hunting, she had brought back a few fish and some of the rabbit-like fauna. Although not enough to keep the whole pack fed, it had raised spirits. She had saved one fish for Schaffer, thrusting it into his hands with a sultry smile. Was he being bribed for more sex? She certainly seemed to have warmed up to him since their encounter, which for Scarface, was saying something. She rarely even interacted with Zagza besides to present her catches to him.