Soundless Conflicts

by S. Walker

  Jamet tried extremely hard not to think about the cost of this lifeboat as she helped drag the case inside.

  A moment later Janson snapped the latches, throwing the top open. Inside was a long silver tube, nestled in foam with dozens of small pieces carefully racked next to it. She looked at the pieces, then glanced around the case lid for a set of instructions. "What do I do? How can I help?"

  He grabbed the tube and pulled, popping it out of the fitted compartment. "Nothing, ma'am. If we were using this for real it would be a lot more complicated. But we just need it to turn on. Hand me that power pack." He pointed at the far side of the case. Jamet ripped a bright orange box free of foam, hissing in pain while handing it to the engineer. He snapped it on the side of the tube, then clicked two leads into place on the pack. A small console lit up moments later, scrolling through a bootup sequence.

  "There, that's got it." Janson tapped his wrist console. "Captain, the GravComm is ready."

  "Don't turn it on!" Emilia sounded panicked.

  "Ah'm not. I got it set on local network, you should have control. Do you see it, Emilia?"

  "Yes! Okay, get ready to fire the lifeboat, I'll turn it on when it's clear! Captain?"

  Siers took over, voice strained. "Overriding the failsafes. Normally someone has to be inside to jettison, but let's not have anyone playing hero. Engineer, lieutenant-- get clear."

  They scrambled out of the lock, leaving behind the GravComm array and more supplies than any lifeboat Jamet ever heard of. She leaned against the bulkhead nearby as Janson threw the emergency handle upwards one-handed, then waited until the hatch slammed shut to open a radio circuit. "Got it, sir! Go!"

  A moment later the hatch rang like a gong, explosive bolts throwing the lifeboat away from the Kipper on a screaming arc of burning propellant. The corridor fell into a tense, quiet moment that stretched for long enough to feel awkward.

  Emilia's voice came over the radio, excitement leaking through. "GravComm triggered! Targets are... targets are baited, they took the bait! Holy shit it worked! I mean, I always knew it would work!"

  Jamet shared a tired grin with the big engineer, then hissed in pain. "I need to get to Medical."

  "For sure, ma'am. But let's change your suit first; it's looking pretty beat up and ah'm a little concerned."

  She looked down, then carefully turned to glance at one flank. If anything Janson was understating it-- whatever those cables were made of nearly sliced through the skinsuit in multiple places. She was striped from the waist up, layers shredded two or three deep. Only the absurd cost and quality of the Kipper's equipment saved her from getting mauled. "Oh. Wow, I didn't know it was that bad."

  "Just be glad you can't see the back, ma'am."

  Chapter 21

  Thoughts on Repairs

  Mark Thompson floated in the middle of the room and thought about bad things.

  He'd been working on the next section to move everyone into when the skinsuit radio came to life. At first he assumed Executive Targer was trying to reach him. But after a moment he realized it had to be the incoming rescue ship.

  That was good. Rescue was here. Even better: They were so close his suit could pick up radio signals. The relief was so profound it threatened to leave him hanging between the station walls, limp as a piece of cloth. Mark took a moment to really let hope in, wondering when exactly he'd stopped believing anyone would come.

  Help was coming. They were saved!

  He went to work with renewed energy, listening to the radio conversation while cleaning up the room. This particular area was more heavily damaged than most, sporting over a dozen gaping holes a bit less than a foot wide through both reinforced walls. Debris, he assumed. Probably from when the mining facility was hit. He'd have to repurpose deck plates to seal the holes, or use some of the scrap floating around. It would take longer than usual. The Executive was going to be upset about that.

  Perhaps he should report. Let her know, before the shouting started. He thought about several responses, then decided to let it go. Maybe he'd be lucky and Targer would get distracted.

  Mark listened the suit radio with half an ear as he set about sanitizing the area. Although the room wasn't very large-- he figured some of the group was going to be sleeping nearly side by side-- he refused to skip any steps. It was professionalism. Very important, at least to him. He'd get it done even if the job included carefully handling suited remains, pushing them through holes in the station wall before patching the breaches closed. He really disliked that part. It felt disrespectful.

  With personnel remains cleared out he started gathering up debris in a large mesh bag, floating around the area with experienced touches on pivot surfaces. Occasionally he'd kick off for the damaged wall to compare a likely patch piece to use, then return to collecting more. The patch pieces didn't have to be an exact fit... but Mark preferred it. There was quite a lot floating around, so finding good sized pieces with regular edges was easy to do. Whatever this space was utilized for definitely included a lot of resources before impacts blew through and destroyed most of it.

  Tugging the bag, he drifted over to the nearest rent in the station wall and unclipped the handheld welding unit. Then paused, head tilted as the radio started yelling frantically.

  Mark listened as four (five?) voices competed to out-shout each other over the broadcast. Which was inefficient; how could anyone sort out that many conversations at once? But what really grabbed his attention was talk about boarders.

  Boarders. On the rescue ship? That didn't sound ideal. And what was this about colonies? He clicked off the welder and closed both eyes to concentrate on listening. Distance and static made it difficult, but he had a lot of practice picking other people's conversations out of background noise. He just didn't enjoy participating in them very much. Too complex.

  He was listening to an exchange about tamper sensors-- which he knew a lot about, they were important to safety protocols-- when Executive Targer blasted over his helmet speakers loud enough to scare him into pushing off the wall.

  "Independent Thompson, report!"

  Mark flailed in circles, unable to find a solid surface to catch himself on. "Yes, Ma'am?" He tried not to sound panicked. Or nauseous. Spinning in zero gravity was a horrible feeling and he didn't want a full helmet right now.

  "What do you think you're doing? What's taking so damn long?"

  The tether on his mesh bag caught Mark up short, giving him something to pull on and stop spinning. "Nothing, ma'am."

  "If it was 'nothing' you'd be done already." Her voice turned suspicious. "Did you find something? Are you hiding supplies, Thompson?"

  For one wild, brief moment Mark entertained the fantasy of telling the suspicious Executive off. Make up some wild lie about a weapons cache. Or announce he was welding the hatches shut. That would set her off on a a wild tear of fear and suspicion that would make him feel much better about getting shouted at. He could do it; dead stars knew Targer was always accusing him of everything. The words were right there, waiting to be shouted. He could tell her off. He would tell her off.

  "No, ma'am." Maybe next time.

  "Then hurry up! We are on the last hours of oxygen, here! And if we have to suffer then trust me, Independent-"

  "-you'll suffer more." Mark mumbled along with her.

  "What was that?"

  "Need to fix the floor, ma'am."

  "The floor? What's wrong with it?"

  Nothing that couldn't be fixed by spacing an Executive toward the stars. "Lot of damage. Ma'am."

  "Then patch it! And hurry up: Thirty minutes, Independent! One minute more and I swear I'll-"

  Mark cut the input, suddenly unwilling to stomach any more. Let her rant on the other channel for a bit, he had more important things to listen in on. A moment later he bumped softly against the wall, catching the blown out hole to keep from bouncing off. He tapped the skinsuit's wrist console, switching back to the rescue ship's broadcasts as he pulled out the wel
der again.

  Then froze, heart pounding.

  He listened to some kind of short battle involving lots of screaming. The rescue ship was... fighting boarders? It sounded that way. Or perhaps drones: A lieutenant was shouting about cables and a "metal triangle bastard" in a panicked, angry tone. Then a male voice came over the communication link, urging calm and explaining about gravity engines. Which Mark knew about; he was certified in those. Tough to maintain or repair. Honestly they could have used some on the habitation ring, though: Months of being weightless did bad things to health.

  But what got him, made his heart race and sweat pop, was listening to an explanation about power sources. Gravity, as a power source. For triangular drones of some sort.

  Floating, weightless and scared, Mark slowly turned to look at his collection bag. Specifically at the plates he'd picked up earlier to weld over holes in the station walls. It was a large sample (he liked to be thorough) but in between half a dozen bent deck plates and quite a few console pieces he saw the regular, clean edges of triangles.

  He eyed them carefully. There were five he could see in the bag without even moving things around, all in different sizes. Did that matter? How likely was it to be listening to someone fight a drone and then find one, randomly? Not likely, he figured. But it worried him. Mark prided himself on professionalism, doing things a certain way for best results. He'd been repairing holes to pressurize living areas for months now: If he'd found loose debris pieces of a regular size it was an absolute certainty he would weld them in place.

  How many rooms? A new one every other day or so, for over six months. At least a hundred. How many holes per room...?

  Impossible to know. A thousand, probably. Easily. Maybe more.

  The skinsuit beeped sadly, displaying a notification for rising CO2 levels. Mark jolted back to life, thoughts engaging as he listened to the radio conversation winding down. The incoming crew were ejecting a lifeboat now-- if they said why, he missed it-- but of greater concern was the bag nearby. He needed patch material, but now the metal sections inside had a new menace to them. A danger. Using two fingers, Mark carefully teased a piece out with burned console markings on it. That was safe. It had to be. Nothing strange about a blown off console panel.

  Putting it over the hole, he snapped the welder to life and ran it over the edges while carefully watching the collection bag. Which was silly. Months of patching breaches and now he was worried? What did he think would happen? Nothing was wrong. He practiced saying it in the safety of his skinsuit helmet: "Nothing is wrong. It's okay."

  He watched the bag anyways.

  Mark spent the next thirty minutes alternating between finding different patching materials and imagining his collection bag suddenly coming to life. It turned out on this topic his imagination was extremely active, which was a surprise: It was the first time he'd ever considered himself to be creative. Which was poor timing, honestly. Who wants to be excellent at thinking of all the ways a drone could pop a skinsuit open?

  At least five ways, Mark figured.

  He only realized he was done after floating near the last patch for nearly a minute, eyes riveted on the mesh bag still anchored across the room. Was it moving? He didn't think so. It was hard to tell. Wait, why hadn't he thrown it outside the station wall?! That would have been a perfect solution!

  Mentally berating himself, Mark opened a channel to Executive Targer.

  "-swer me at once, there will be no rations for the next-"

  He clicked it off again with a sigh. Which reminded him to check the skinsuit's CO2 levels, eyeballing percentages with a seasoned sense of how long the recycler would hold out. At least a half hour. He was pretty good about judging that. Reliable.

  Mark checked the radio again. More ranting. He clicked it off.

  Pushing gently off the wall, he coasted along the room perimeter idly checking repair welds. Mark knew his work was good, but right now a little reassurance went a long way. There was a lot to think about. Too much going on, and all of it happening at once.

  Like the rescue ship, for instance. It sounded like they might need a little rescue in return. Which didn't seem like a very good thing for the station personnel barely hanging on here. In fact they sounded very, very small-- how big a ship was it? Could they take everyone?

  Mark thought about what would happen if there wasn't enough room for everyone on the rescue ship. That sounded bad.

  The Executive would get a spot for sure. Her son, too. After that, who called the shots? Could Targer buy off her group with guaranteed spots in exchange for silence about her crimes? It seemed likely. Especially if the rescue ship came specifically for the Executive; Mark remembered early on when her husband made trips outside, checking devastated comm stations and docked freighters on the habitation ring. He knew at least one of those trips bore fruit-- poor Thomas Minyer's recording still played on the other frequency.

  He hadn't thought about Executive Minyer in months, but now Mark revisited the Upper's desperate schemes. Did one of them work? Groups stopped going with him when fewer and fewer people came back, but the stubborn father never gave up. The day he hadn't come back was when Targer seemed to collapse, leading to the first purges. It seemed like the poor man died hoping to save his family. Which he could respect: Mark was a big supporter of hope.

  But now he reconsidered.

  That last trip Minyer tried to order everyone on, the one to the far docking area-- did he make it? The Upper swore a hauler named the Pinhat was still docked there. Did he somehow helm that ship and make it out of Pilster? Then hire or rent a rescue for his family? That would go poorly for everyone else.

  Mark checked the radio, listened to twenty seconds of anatomically impossible threats and clicked it off again.

  Keeping a weather eye on the collection bag, he floated to the other side of the room and continued checking welds. Which was another interesting thing-- what was going on with the attacks? After the first devastating strikes rumors were thick. Everyone had a reason, a group or something to blame. Well, except for him: Mark didn't engage in gossip. But he listened. After a while people forgot the quiet engineer was there and really cut loose with opinions.

  Originally everyone assumed some kind of terrible accident occurred, blowing up the singularity refinement facility. It was likely-- cost cutting measures made everything fail routinely. Maybe a series of glitches got so bad everything ripped apart. But then the other facility took a hit as well, followed by panicked haulers and passenger ships issuing distress calls. That ended the idea of a catastrophic malfunction.

  After that the argument for the 'hostile takeover' started. The idea being some branch of Corporate was forcibly taking another branch's assets with a surprise attack. It didn't get much traction: The sheer cost of the destroyed assets would be ruinous for any group trying to acquire Pilster. The bottom line would bleed for decades, if not longer.

  There were brief whispers of Fiscal Enforcement showing up to write off the entire system as a loss. No one took that seriously: Fiscal wasn't known for targeted strikes. They simply eradicated the whole system at once. Nothing was generally left whenever Corporate decided to take a hit on an investment-- headquarters would go to extreme lengths as long as they could be assured of an eventual payout years (or decades) down the line. It took a lot (or a successful rebellion) before a Board would swallow their pride and declare the whole project a bust. In that case the response typically came with a side order of revenge from whichever Executives took a personal hit; it was pettiness written on a scale that wiped star systems.

  Which left Mark's preferred theory, privately held and never announced: He thought the mining drones were sabotaged. Co-opted and programmed to smash into everything valuable in the system. It seemed the most likely event, but he couldn't think of a reason why. Perhaps one of the operators had enough and wanted to take everything with them?