Soundless Conflicts

by S. Walker

  * * *

  Something was going horribly wrong in Port Systems Control Kilo.

  Battle sirens sent every technician in a mad scramble to their assigned console to buckle in. Seconds later the courtyard-sized room lit up with activated workspaces, every screen dedicated to system schematics on K-deck and below. It was coordinated chaos as half a dozen dedicated teams shouted ready states and preparations to supervisors, who in turn consolidated information onto a Command console for a single Upper Management Executive to use. Lines of premade icons ran down the edge of the Command space, ready to direct emergency crews or engage safety interlocks with the tap of a finger.

  The teams exhibited tension, but no real surprise. These were seasoned professionals, most of them from Lower Management and hand picked for Systems Control. It was considered an upwardly-mobile position in Fiscal Enforcement, somewhere to start real responsibility while fighting up the ladder. Most of them even liked the job: It came with a lot of authority during emergencies, with the added benefit of plausible deniability if something went wrong.

  Relaxed professionalism went out the window with the first Cormorent launches.

  The moment torpedo indicators flashed on display Systems Control Kilo went into a new level of focus. Technicians traded information in clipped phrases, flinging update icons between shared workspaces at a rapid pace. Information collided and combined, then landed on the Command space in a dizzying array that spelled out a single, impossible projection: The Redline was firing everything. All at once. At a single target.

  Their Upper Executive began to sweat, hands nervous on the Command console.

  Something was wrong. They'd just arrived in system, but every launch tube was triggering as fast as automated systems could feed from stock. Dozens... hundreds... thousands of torpedoes. What needed that many launches? Was it another warship? Who could possibly have a warship, way out here? The last status briefing said this was a new startup, not a developed system.

  His frantic scenarios got cut short as the forward working screens flashed red milliseconds before the entire ship jerked, overloading local gravity and throwing anyone not buckled in across the deck. More than a few panicked yells turned into horrified updates as reports began spamming by faster than they could be called out. Fully a third of the ship schematic was red, offline and-- if confused sensors were believable-- crushed into nothing.

  Overhead lights flickered as power relays failed. Both of their ventilation ducts coughed huge clouds of smoke, then began rattling horribly as something broke loose inside. Systems Control teams worked consoles frantically, reshuffling backups to restore power and cut off damaged sections from shorting out still-operable areas. The Environmental group was in a frenzy, handling so many ventilation breaches and hazard indicators their supervisor had to hammer the master override just to clear the screen.

  The Executive recovered his Control console from the floor and swiped a thick layer of gritty dust from the surface. Calling up a schematic with shaking hands, he drew a line across damaged sections before tapping the override to seal emergency bulkheads. A moment later communications began overloading with frantic calls from the sealed areas, pleading for aid or escape. He dragged emergency repair team indicators to the worst spots until he ran out of resources, then blanked the rest of his frantic incoming calls.

  Volume spiked in the room as half the workspaces cut out and left technicians adrift. They immediately tried to crowd around the working consoles, elbowing for room while struggling to see through a growing haze of smoke. Environmental supervisors yelled helplessly, trying to cut off ventilation before whatever was rattling inside smothered them all.

  Across the room Internal Security was a beehive of conflicting reports. Armed groups dashed in and out of a nearby weapons locker, swiping wrist IDs and grabbing everything from stun grenades to projectile weapons. Which the Executive found absolutely ludicrous; who was boarding? Where? He looked down at the Control console and found no answers, only more failing systems and desperate reports of chaotic fighting. Quite a lot of conflict reports, actually, all centered around where he'd sealed the bulkheads earlier.

  Another titanic clash sent everyone flying at the mercy overloaded local gravity control. Strained systems blunted the worst of it before throwing critical failure logs and shutting down. Injured technicians screamed as more heavy smoke poured from the vents, accompanied by a hellish rattle and boom that hurt everyone's ears.

  Power failed with an abrupt finality. A moment later battery powered lights clicked on, beams sharp and crisp through dense smoke. Systems Control Kilo devolved from a beacon of Management into a dark brawl of confused, hacking figures stumbling about. The only system still working was the broken rattle of the ventilation ducts, growing louder by the second.

  Which was odd. He looked down at the handheld Control console, still lit from an internal battery source and connected to the emergency Management network. The entire ship schematic for his side was red, most of it flashing. Markers for power interruption, atmospheric breaches and fighting sprouted everywhere alongside a surprising notice that the ship was coming about for system transit. Transit? Again?

  And there in the corner of the screen was a prominent icon, stark red: Environmental lockdown.

  But he could hear it above them, rattling louder and louder in the vent. It wasn't locked down. In fact more smoke was pouring through: Thick, cloying, smelling of chemicals that made stumbling people wheeze and cough.

  Console forgotten, the Executive looked up at the vent directly over his head, squinting against billows of irritating clouds. It was dark, hard to see. What was making that sound?

  He caught a glimpse of something fast and metallic just before it smashed through the vent and landed on him.

  * * *

  Everything was hideously wrong in Port Reactor November.

  Second shift was rotating out with Third when battle alarms blared. Immediately a mad scramble started as off-going workers tried to leave as the oncoming crew fought to reach assigned places. Shift supervisors yelled conflicting instructions: Go! Move! Stay! Swap with him, no him not the other guy!

  Everything got worse when alarms switched to the shrill cry of imminent collision.

  Terrified workers gave up getting to assigned positions and started fighting for safe places to buckle in. It was an immediate swarm around the emergency jumpseats near the bulkheads: Too many people fighting to get a spot in a place designed for half their number. The smarter ones gave up immediately, scattering into the reactor support systems to find somewhere to brace themselves. There was no lack of room; the entire area was a vast maze of conduit and massive couplings, serviced by a spiderweb of gridded catwalks crisscrossing upwards. Consoles and workspaces dotted every landing around the spherical chamber, monitoring systems and accepting input as needed.

  Most found a cubby hole or support to latch onto. A few didn't. When the first hit came the unlucky people instantly became projectiles, bouncing painfully off every surface and falling from catwalks in screaming pairs.

  Every console around the reactor lit up red with overload. At the same time every emergency bulkhead slammed shut with terrifying force, trapping them inside with a thick, cloying smoke.

  Training kicked everyone into gear, briefly causing chaos as two sets of equally qualified personnel attempted to respond at once. It ended up being a blend of both teams working the reactor consoles with desperate speed, attempting to both even out the power draws and keep power generation going at the same time. It didn't help that someone-- those idiots on the Command Deck, probably-- were recklessly cycling Krepsfield singularities at a terrifying pace, repeatedly slamming the power relays until they redlined.

  The second impact was actually worse for Port Reactor November than the first. This time around they didn't have warning and no one was secured; personnel scattered across the deck and rammed into each other indiscriminately. Screams and medical demands echoed through the s
moky air until the combined noise level was painful. The few uninjured technicians staggered upright and retook the consoles, dragging icons and manipulating systems with feverish intensity until the entire setup abruptly went dark.

  Absence of light and the deep thrum of power generation threw a heavy blanket over the room, briefly hushing everyone. In the brief silence before injured cries and barked orders restarted the more aware technicians heard something strange: Rattling and banging sounds, coming from the Environmental ducts. They had several seconds to stare upwards into the darkness in puzzlement before the grates covering the ventilation outlets burst outward and released dozens of metallic invaders.

  Triangular shaped with three blunt tips, the foot-long attackers scuttled and flipped across the deck on braided whipcords of wire that shone with a greasy rainbows whenever they crossed a beam from the emergency lights. There was no discernable head; every facet of the palm-thick creature seemed to work equally well as a direction of travel. Some took to the walls immediately, going upwards with sickening ease. Others skidded or spun between machinery, anchoring briefly with cords before slinging themselves across open spaces in a blur of motion.

  They went for the crew and systems alike in a blur of hostility, eerily coordinated and soundless.

  Whipcords savaged workers, slashing through clothing and wrapping limbs with brutal strength. After a horrified moment of surprise the crew fought back, improvising bludgeoning weapons from tools and emergency kits. The entire reactor area devolved into a chaotic melee of frightened people using anything at hand to fight an endless, quicksilver-fast flood of triangular attackers. The crew had an advantage of size, but the invaders packed a surprising mass in their small frames and their wires sliced like knives.

  Two crewmates pinned one of the attackers with an emergency medical kit while a third frantically pounded it to death with a diagnostic tray. It broke apart after a dozen heavy blows, case cracking with a flash of blue lightning that made the attached wires spasm and go limp. The terrified crew member kept hammering away at the pieces, denting the tray and sending bits flying in every direction. In response a team of six invaders clumped together, wires interlocking pieces into a hexagon that sprouted tendrils in every direction. The crew team went down beneath the combined weight, screams abruptly cutting off as hundreds of cords spun in a vicious circle.

  While crew fought invader hand to cord, one supervisor broke away and made a lunge for a console. Frantically slapping at communications icons, he opened a line to Systems Control and screamed for help, tagging a dozen different boarding and enemy icons to the priority call.

  No one answered.

  * * *

  Everything was apocalyptically wrong at Bridge Control.

  Co-CEOs-- the four that were left after two massive impacts left half the officers unconscious-- fought a multi-front war with failing systems and each other for control of the ship. Between the surprise and massive damage they'd been caught completely flat footed, relying on automated systems to respond while each pushed an agenda for approval.

  The difficulty lie in how fast developments were happening. This simply wasn't done; no one fought Fiscal Enforcement! When the Redline appeared in-system compliance was swift and total, obedience a foregone conclusion. They always acted at leisure, with time to angle each advantage for maximum Corporate gain. Sometimes that meant a little personal gain as well; the ship Board wasn't above pocketing any excess if an entire system was a write-off to begin with.

  But not this time. They'd arrived for a compliance visit after Pilster-3 missed two quarterly reports in a row. At the most the Board expected a failing system with a desperate Upper Executive trying to cover their tracks. At the worst perhaps something had gone catastrophically wrong and some recovery and reinvestment needed to be discussed. Either way this was expected to be a routine trip.

  Instead the ship arrived in the middle of a debris cloud, derelicts and cargo on alarmingly close collision courses. Seconds later an automated transmission hit their comms, cutting right through to priority channels that blasted over every speaker whether they liked it or not. It only took a single listen before self-preservation instincts kicked in, every Executive working at once to turn over control to response protocols.

  It hadn't helped.

  Now they were smashed, the Redline failing on every system down the port side while venting atmosphere at alarming rates. Trillions of credits in damages. Possibly a near-loss, most certainly career ending if someone could pin the blame.

  Arguments abounded. Everyone had an idea, but no one wanted the responsibility if it failed. Unified command was a myth. In the end they fell back on Corporate culture and did what was best for everyone: Asset preservation.

  The ship turned drunkenly, lined up on an outbound course and accelerated away to safety.

  Chapter 18

  Broadcasting Defeats

  Waking up was hellish.

  The console alarm chirped, yanking Lieutenant Jamet out of a nightmare involving the Kipper, failed maneuvers and drifting endlessly through space alone. Thrashing blindly, she located the console and proceeded to repeatedly smack it with palm strikes until the helpful device bent to her will and silenced itself. Then she just sat in a tangle of blankets, muzzily rubbing both eyes while piecing together the last forty eight hours of ship life. Everything hurt from the roots of her black hair straight down to the soles of both abused feet. Skinsuit boots were apparently torture on weak arches.

  A few minutes of sitting in the dark later Jamet finally felt ready to start. "There is," a massive, jaw-cracking yawn cut the sentence in half. She continued after a final sharp exhale that doubled as a breath check. "Not enough caf in the universe right now."

  With both eyes mostly closed she lurched out of the warm bunk, intending to find the sanitation facility. Instead she smashed a knee into her own personal storage trunk and went down in a swearing tangle of limbs. The trunk barely moved. Although the inset panel did briefly light up in a manner she was entirely convinced was sarcastic.

  More awake-- and with a brand new limp-- Jamet ordered the overhead lights on and stumbled around practicing swear words while snatching dirty clothes off the floor. Apparently she'd come in six hours ago and just left a trail of apparel straight to the bunk without any memory of doing so. Which wasn't like her at all, but then again after the events they'd all gone through a little clutter wasn't high on the list of priorities.

  But speaking of priorities: There was a rather urgent one waiting at sanitation.

  Jamet threw on a robe, picked up a rather disgusting ball of smelly garments and hit the hatch activator with her elbow. Then damn near threw the clothes right in the sensors of a maintenance drone waiting directly outside her room like a metallic serial killer. She yelped once in surprise, then blinked as the drone opened up and disgorged a wrapped package into her hands. "Oh. Thank... you?" It closed up and floated off without acknowledging the courtesy.

  She glanced down, thumbing aside plastic wrapping to see the dark colors of her Corporate Navy uniform. "It's... laundry service?" Laundry had automated delivery on the Kipper? The cost of that alone was completely-

  Jamet cut that thought off, set the cleaned clothes down on the display shelf by the door and made a firm resolution: No more considering cost.

  She kept it firmly in mind all the way through getting ready for the day. A quick trip through the sanitation facility got the worst of yesterday off, then unpacking newly-cleaned uniforms and getting them squared away in the tiny closet settled it. "Everything has a place," she nodded. And everything in its place.

  The display rack by the door gave her a moment's hesitation, offering a bevy of multicolored ribbons and medals to accessorize with. At one time, before departing the Academy, those little bits of cloth and metal studding were the highlight of her career. Each one a mark of victory, something won against a pool of eager jackals looking to climb over her for promotion. Picking awards to display was a
kin to sending battle signals; an unspoken declaration of intent that everyone paid attention to and planned around. It wasn't a requirement to wear the little emblems, of course, but having a unique combination marked someone as a winner. If was an advertisement of self: I'm Worth Investing In.

  It was only when the hatch whooshed open Jamet realized her hand was on the control. She gave the display one last thoughtful look and hit the lights, leaving it behind in the dark.