by Jake Elwood
Secrest, to Tom's dismay, whirled and ran in the opposite direction. He swore, then headed toward the smoke. In the back of his mind he did a frantic cataloguing of the systems that ran along the spine. There were water pipes, electrical cables, some hydraulic systems, and data lines. He couldn't think of anything explosive. There was some chance of electrocution, he supposed, but the bulkhead panels themselves were non-conductive.
He reached the seam where the smoke originated as the blare of an alarm sounded and hatches slid shut, sealing off fifteen meters of corridor. Tom was alone with the fire. He was in no danger, not unless the fire got a lot worse. The hatches would still open if he hit the panic switch. Emergency crews would be able to get in, too.
The alarm means someone qualified will be on their way. He wondered if he should stay back and wait, or even mimic Secrest. It galled him to do nothing during a crisis, though.
He touched a fingertip to the panel on the left, a quick tap in case it was hot. The panel was warm, but not dangerously so. He pressed a cautious fingertip to the panel, then knelt and fumbled for a release. The smoke wasn't thick yet, but it was nasty, stinging his eyes and tickling the back of his throat. He blinked, coughed, then squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pry the panel open by touch.
"Here, Sir."
He opened his eyes. It was Secrest, wearing a mask, a fire extinguisher in one hand, an emergency kit in the other. The kit held several filter masks, and he pulled one over his face. He sealed the goggle section over his eyes, then exhaled to force smoky air out of the mask. "That's better. Thank you."
"You press up on the top corners," she said, and put a palm against one corner of the panel to demonstrate. He put a hand against the other top corner, and together they popped the panel open.
Smoke billowed out, blinding him for a moment, then dissipating. Tom stared at the exposed components inside the bulkhead, seeing nothing but a confusing jumble of tubes and wiring. Secrest, though, was already pointing the nozzle of the fire extinguisher. She blew a single controlled blast of carbon dioxide, then set the extinguisher aside.
"There," she said, her voice muffled by the mask. "That's the fire taken care of." She looked at Tom. "There's a breach in the argon tube." She grinned. "Ironically enough, the fire melted a hole in the plastic pipe."
Ironic because argon was used for fire suppression. The gas, inert and invisible, would be pooling around their feet. Stopping the flow was the first order of business. Tom straightened, thinking. This had come up when he drilled with the marines, doing damage control simulations in his early days on the Kestrel. The argon tank was in the aft section, which meant he had to shut the flow off aft of the breach.
He trotted down the corridor, scanning the panels on the bulkheads. Labels covered the panels like graffiti, a jumble of visual clutter that he usually tuned out. Painted stripes showed where conduits and wires ran inside the bulkheads. He spent a moment trying to remember what color indicated argon, then spotted a tiny text label next to a powder-blue line.
ARGON
He quickly traced it back until he reached the emergency hatch that blocked the corridor. Right by the hatch he found an icon of a powder-blue spigot. He pried open an access hatch, saw half a dozen handles, and grabbed the blue one. He twisted the handle counter-clockwise, then glanced down the corridor.
Secrest had brought in a toolbox along with the emergency kit. She knelt beside the site of the fire with a hand scanner, then gave him a thumbs-up. "That's got it, Sir."
"Captain? What's your status?"
The voice, tinny and mechanical, seemed to come from empty air behind Tom. He spent a moment looking around foolishly, then spotted a face pressed to the window set in the emergency hatch. It was a marine named Lachance, her face obscured by a firefighting helmet. The hatch had a speaker and microphone built in.
"We're good for the moment," he told her. "There's some smoke and argon gas in here, but the fire is out and the leak is contained." He ran through the protocol in his mind. If no crew were in danger and no urgent repairs were required, the correct procedure was to keep the hatches sealed, containing the smoke and gas. The ship's air systems were designed for situations exactly like this. The ship would clean the air in this section, and the hatches would slide open when the last of the smoke and gas were gone.
"I'll stand by here, then, Sir," Lachance said.
Tom wanted to tell her it wasn't necessary, but the truth was, it was comforting to know she was there. He nodded and headed back to join Secrest, who was lowering herself into a seated position in front of the opening in the bulkhead. He sat down beside her.
"I'm patching the argon pipe," she said. "Normally we'd pull the whole section of pipe and replace it, but that's a lot of overhead to take on under the circumstances." The circumstances being the fact that they were in enemy territory, in constant danger of combat. It was no time to have a dozen crew tied up, the argon system disabled, and a corridor blocked for hours.
"I'm not even sure we have a replacement pipe," she said, leaning forward to wrap a long strip of pipe patch around the damaged section. "Our stores took some damage in the battle. I don't think anyone's done a complete inventory yet."
She leaned back, waiting for the pipe patch to harden, and he said, "Can you tell what started the fire?"
"I'll have to clean things up a bit before I can be sure. I'm going to wait for the patch first. But we're pretty close to where the worst of the damage was." She gestured at the ceiling, where tiles gave way to the hardened polymer of a large emergency patch. "I bet the insulation on some of the wiring got damaged."
She leaned sideways to pick up the panel they'd removed. The inside of the panel was blackened by smoke. She turned it over, examined the outside of the panel, and tilted it to catch the light. "Aha."
Tom leaned closer, peering at the panel. "Aha?"
"Look here, Sir." She pointed at a spot near the edge of the panel. "There's a tiny hole. Do you see it?"
Only when she tilted the panel a bit did he spot the puncture, a pinhole in the plastic.
"Shrapnel," she said. "It went through the panel, probably damaged the insulation on a power cable."
It wouldn't be the only problem waiting to be discovered. The ship needed a complete overhaul, which it wasn't going to get any time soon. It was a discouraging reminder that the Kestrel had taken a beating, that their situation was desperate, and deteriorating.
They were kneeling side by side, wiping black residue from the narrow space inside the bulkhead, when the emergency hatches on either side slid open. Tom stood. "Can I leave this with you, Secrest?"
"Yes, Sir."
Part of him wanted to stay. Having actual work to do was a welcome distraction from brooding over the trap they were in. However, it seemed his most important duty as a captain was simply acting like a captain. That meant he couldn't be seen kneeling in a corridor, wiping up soot.
He continued aft, thanking Lachance and assuring her she could stand down. He toured the aft section, looking in on the engineering crew and poking his head into the missile bay. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, just getting a sense of crew morale and the general state of the ship.
The crew seemed edgy, but not unreasonably so. Of course, they wouldn't necessarily let their captain see if they had issues.
I should find out who the surviving crew chiefs are, the non-commissioned supervisors. Those are the people who will really have the pulse of the ship. They don’t have junior officers to talk to now, no way to pass along their concerns. I need to make sure they feel able to talk to me.
He left the aft section, taking the lower deck of the spine this time. He passed the brig, which stood empty. That meant Fagan was still in the surgery. I should see about getting him transferred back to the brig. He's a fanatic. He's crazy enough to sabotage the ship and do his best to get us all killed.
As he crossed from the spine to the forward section, raised voices caught his attention. He fol
lowed the sound to the mess hall, where he hesitated for a moment in the corridor. Was this a situation where the presence of an officer would hinder more than it helped? Pressure had to be building in the crew. Should he look away when the crew found ways to vent?
"Maybe I should bust your head for you. Would that change your attitude?"
"Why don't you come over here and try it, spacer boy? I'll carve you up right here on the counter. I'll make cutlets. That'll solve the food problem right quick."
So much for letting people vent. Tom stepped through the doorway. Half a dozen spacers made a half-circle around a burly technician Tom didn't know by name. The man had his fists up and his belly pressed to the counter that separated the dining area from the kitchen.
Across the counter, Bridger held a butcher knife with a blade nearly as long as his forearm. He was sneering at the spacer with a look of utter confidence, as if slicing up angry Navy personnel was all part of a day's work. When his gaze flicked momentarily to Tom, though, relief showed in his eyes.
"Stand down!" Tom bellowed the order with all the menace and volume he'd learned from his cadre trainers during Basic, and the six spacers behind the big man turned as one. He saw dismay and chagrin on their faces, and perhaps a hint of resentment.
Tom stared at the closest spacer. "Harris. Get back to your post."
"I'm off duty, Sir."
"Then go to your quarters!"
Harris blanched and hurried past him.
"I'm handing out punishment duty," Tom said to the others. "I've got something pretty nasty in mind, too." He didn't, but he was sure he could think of something. "Whoever's still here in thirty seconds gets their share."
The rest of the group rushed after Harris.
The big man turned to face Tom, lowering his fists. He looked angry, but also a bit abashed. "Sir, this pirate-"
Tom said, "Shut up!"
The man went silent.
"What's your name?"
"Hamilton, Sir."
"You threatened to split this man's skull." Tom gestured to Bridger, who'd made the big knife disappear and now wore an expression of angelic innocence. "Explain to me why you shouldn't spend the next couple of weeks in the brig."
"Captain, he threatened me with a knife!"
"Before or after you said you'd split his skull?"
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. "I … forget."
In a softer voice Tom said, "What's this about, Hamilton?"
"These pirates are hogging the food, Sir!" One beefy arm swept up, and he pointed an accusing finger at Bridger. "He wants to put the rest of us on starvation rations while he and his pirate friends eat like kings!"
Tom looked at Bridger. He could see the rest of the kitchen staff behind the man, peeking timidly over his shoulders.
"You can't believe anything he says, Sir," Hamilton said earnestly. "He says we're running out of food, but there's plenty. He's a pirate, Sir. He steals. It's what he does."
Bridger, his face growing redder with every word, advanced until the apron around his waist pressed against his side of the counter. His hands came up, fingers curled like he was about to lunge for Hamilton's throat.
"Bridger."
Bridger showed no sign of hearing, his eyes locked on Hamilton's face. He put a hand on the counter, palm down, like he was about to vault over.
"Bridger!"
Bridger's head jerked back, and he looked at Tom, startled.
"Take a step back."
Bridger stared at him.
"Don't make me tell you again." And what will I do if he ignores me? How do I get myself into these situations? "Step back from the counter."
For a long moment the former pirate glared at him, looking as if he was going to argue. Then he took a deep breath and stepped back.
Tom scanned the kitchen, looking for a face he recognized. "You." He pointed to a large woman, the only surviving member of the Kestrel's original kitchen staff. "What's your name?"
"Stein, Sir," she squeaked.
"Come here," he said, and gestured her forward. She squeezed past Bridger and stood at the counter, looking uncertainly from Tom to Hamilton.
"Have you ever been a pirate, Stein? Or a revolutionary?"
"What? No, Sir."
"Any piratical tendencies?"
She shook her head.
"Tell me about the food situation."
"Well …" She looked at Tom, then glanced over her shoulder at Bridger. "We've been doing an inventory. We have enough to get back to Garnet. More than enough. We could go all the way to Earth with the food we've got."
Hamilton nodded, a smile of vindication lighting his face.
"If we leave right away," Stein continued. "But we're not going anywhere. They say we have to wait here until help arrives. That we don't know how long that will be." She lifted her hands in a shrug. "We have two weeks of food. We only have half as many mouths to feed as before." Her chin trembled for a moment. "But we never really stocked up in Garnet. We had a lot of grain and stuff for delivery to Sunshine Base. We were going to load up on fresh supplies there. But we never got the chance."
Hamilton said, "Two weeks is lots." He sounded less belligerent than before.
Stein ignored him. "So Kenny," she glanced at Bridger, "he said we should start rationing. Because we don't know how long the food has to last. When the last group came in, he told them they could only have half portions." She winced. "They didn't like it very much."
Tom turned to face Hamilton. "Does that line up with what Bridger told you?"
"Um, yes, Sir."
"Do you want to call Stein here a liar?"
Hamilton seemed to shrink. "No, Sir."
Tom sighed. "We're all in this together, Hamilton. The revolutionaries are your shipmates now. Do you understand?"
Hamilton frowned, but he nodded. "Yes, Sir."
"Go on," Tom said. "I need to talk to the kitchen staff."
Hamilton fled, and Tom turned to glare at Bridger. The ex-pirate stared back at him, unruffled.
"This isn't the first time I've broken up a fight with you in the middle of it, Bridger."
Bridger lifted his hands. "The big ape didn't give me a whole lot of choice."
"He's right, Captain," said Stein. "It was awful."
"I want you to try for a diplomatic solution next time. I want you to try hard."
Bridger shrugged, then nodded. The pirates – or "free-range revolutionaries", as they liked to call themselves – weren't much on salutes or the other trappings of military etiquette. Tom decided to be satisfied with a nod.
"Now, about the food situation." He rubbed his jaw, thinking. "I think half-rations are a bit extreme."
Bridger frowned.
"But you're right. We need to do something. Aim for three-quarter rations for now. If we're still here a week from now we'll do a further reduction."
"All right," Bridger said. "Do you think we'll get out of here before then? Is help coming?"
Stein and the other kitchen staff leaned forward, ever so slightly. "Help's not coming," Tom said. "No one in the UW Navy knows this base exists except us, and the Free Planets don’t have anything but small raiders." When Bridger's face fell Tom added, "But I've got a few ideas. We'll wait and watch for now. When the time is right, we'll make our move."
He could see the urge to ask questions writ large on their faces. He didn't elaborate, just gave them a confident smile and headed for the exit. "Carry on," he said. "Try not to carve up any crew. We're short-handed, remember?"
Chapter 14
"Captain."
The call woke Tom from a nightmare where the ship broke apart around him and the crew screamed as they flew into the void. Although exhaustion pressed down on him, he was relieved to be dragged into wakefulness. He found his bracer on the bedside table and tapped it. "Thrush here. What is it?"
"We've got ship activity." There was an edge of excitement to O'Reilly's voice. "A hyperspace portal just opened."
They've spotted us. As soon as the thought occurred to him he knew it was true. Any military commander worth his salt would be doing constant incremental scans of the sky, checking for stars that disappeared. A missing star would mean a ship, and it would give a direction. The Kestrel had been spotted, and the enemy fleet was on its way.
"Sound Battle Stations." The alarm howled as he pulled on his clothes. He stepped out into the corridor, snapping his bracer into place around his left forearm. Spacers rushed past in both directions, hurrying to their posts as Tom headed for the bridge.
"Status," he barked.
"For ships have gone. One remains. The corvette, according to her transponder."
Tom shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. "Four ships went into the portal? Where did they come out?"
O'Reilly stared at him blankly. "They didn't come out, Sir."
Tom dropped into his chair, woke up his console, and brought up a tactical display. According to the console, the Zin system held only two ships: the Kestrel and a Dawn Alliance corvette.
"I don't understand."
"They moved out!" O'Reilly checked his own console one last time, then swiveled his chair around to flash a gleeful grin. "You were right, Captain. Why would an entire fleet hang around a nowhere outpost like this?" He glanced at Naomi Silver. "No offense."
Silver inclined her head.
Tom stared at him, wishing he didn't feel so wool-headed. "You mean they … just left?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Change our position. Take us straight toward the Boot." The fleet could be waiting in hyperspace, giving the Kestrel enough time to relax their vigilance before opening a portal right beside them.
His instincts told him the fleet was gone, though. There was no need for so many powerful ships to take elaborate ruses, not against a frigate. They're gone. It's just us and the corvette. We need to attack. Right now. Before those ships come back. Or another fleet arrives.