BLACK SUN
by
G. W. Thomas
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
RAGE m a c h i n e Books
Black Sun
Copyright © 2012 by G. W. Thomas
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Contents
Introduction
Black Sun
INTRODUCTION
“Black Sun” first appeared in E. P. Berglund’s Nightscapes. #7 (March 1998), long before Doctor Who’s “The Impossible Planet” (but we won’t go there!) The names are all based on friends and acquaintances who write and draw in the Mythos. I’ll let you figure who is who. This story was originally part of The Book of the Black Sun (Double Dragon Publishing 2002) but I’ve moved it to a third volume coming soon called Black Millennium.
BLACK SUN
PROLOGUE: ARC-WELDER
Jackson worked his way along the curve of the station’s hull. He kept his eyes focused on the steel that was his ground. He had heard the endless stories of how “some guys get out here and look off into space and never come back.” Space-glory, they called it. Jackson wasn’t worried about space-glory only space sickness. The sight of the empty vista made him want to vomit. Not a happy situation inside a contained unit.
The ARC-welder pulled on the umbilical, brought his cutter-sealer up beside him. Jackson was repairing meteorite damage. He surveyed the broken aerials along one branch and realized he would need more piping. He turned back to signal Jonesson who waited at the half-way point.
The repairman waved but Jonesy did not return his signal. He just stood on the outer hull, motionless like a black statue in the shadow of the coning tower. Jackson did not like the other man’s immobility. He began a quick run back toward the lock. Of course, in space, no run is a quick run, but he hurried as best he could. What’s gotten into Jonesy? he wondered. Was he space-gloried? Another few long minutes and he’d know.
As Jackson came closer to his fellow crewman he looked hard at the black figure. Too late, he realized, that’s not Jonesy! That’s—
It was a man. He wasn’t wearing a space suit. He was a black man, but not like a normal black man. He was blacker than space: hair, skin, teeth, clothing, everything. He was the Void incarnate.
Jackson screamed, tried to back-peddle. His momentum carried him closer to the strange, smiling man. The ARC-welder abandoned flight and drew his cutter-sealer. The deadly tool burst with a small blue tongue. Jackson held it up, waving the flame like a sword.
The black man laughed. Jackson could hear the laughter. It was impossible but still that deep resonating chortle— The stranger raised a dark palm to the torch. The flame curled harmlessly against the palm.
Jackson screamed again and ran. This time he didn’t stop to think about air-locks or where he was going. He just wanted to get away, get inside.
The torch. He still had his torch. The ARC-man cut at the hull of the station. He would burrow inside, like a rabbit. Run, run, run...
“The black man! The black man!” he managed into his microphone.
Then the blackness and the laughter took him.
1: CAPTAIN
It started when one of the ARC-men got space-gloried and tried to cut his way into the station. Ambuelson thought nothing of it. ARCs often lost their minds when confronted with the enormity of Space day-in and day-out. That was why the Company paid big money to a fleet of psychologists. Keep the crew sane. Keep the station safe.
The loge said that this was the seventh fatality this cycle. Ambuelson compared it to the previous cycle. Eight by this time, he realized. We’re experiencing a 10 per cent improvement. He’d have to mention it to Dr. Whitworth and the psych-boys.
His good mood vanished when he heard about the two maintenance cyborgs that failed to report back. Men crippled in battle or accidents, the cyborgs were enhanced with metallic components. Tireless and efficient, they kept Station H311 the safe, reliable haven it had been for the twenty-seven years in had orbited the Hades VI and its black-red sun.
Ambuelson sent his best rescue team to find them. The C. R. A. S. H. party, led by Berglundson, was now half a day-cycle late. Something was happening. Something bad.
Captain Ambuelson was a tall, skeletal-looking man with artificial ears. He leaned forward in his real calf-skin chair and picked up the hand-com. “Rosson, is that message ready? Good.” With nervous fingers he sent the Emergency-1 signal to Earth. The cylinder would streak away on a tachyon beam. Ambuelson whispered a two-edged prayer: that he wasn’t jumping at shadows; and if he wasn’t, they’d all live long enough for the Terran ships to save them.
Finished with the emergency recorder, he dialed up Torenson, his Chief of Engineers, and barked into the com, “Tor, I’ve phoned in an E1.”
“What? Jim? What was that?” came a distant voice from the bowels of the Hub.
“I know what you’re thinking. But something screwy.”
“What prompted this, sir?” asked Torenson respectfully.
“We’ve lost Jackson, Jonesson, Berglundson and his team, the two cyborgs, all outside the ship. I’m not imagining this.”
“You were right to call it in, sir—”
“I may have called it in, Tor, but it’s up to you to figure out what’s going on before those Earth ships get here. I may appear jumpy, but I better not look stupid.”
“Of course not, sir. I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Tor.” Ambuelson hung up. Torenson was a good man. If anyone could save Ambuelson’s reputation, it was him. But what if it was more than just his reputation on the line? The Captain wondered, then picked up the hand-com, again.