Soundless Conflicts

by S. Walker

  "Ah kind of agree, ma'am." Janson's part of this script required his Security outfit and he had come through in spades: Nearly six and a half feet of imposing black cut resistant material, liberally padded over vital areas with blue trauma plates. With a full-face helmet on she couldn't see his heavy red beard, but the baritone voice came through external speakers with intimidating loudness. He took up the entire interior hatchway, one hand against the top seal and a thick boot braced against the bottom. "Doesn't sit right, even if she deserves it. Sorry."

  "Alright, so faking an airlock failure might be a little too much. I get that." This was compromising. Jamet read a tutorial on it once. "It probably would have been hard to get her without anyone else, anyways. So how about this: We stop the atmosphere recycler in her quarters, then during sleep cycle-"

  Both of them were already giving her a negative shake. She couldn't believe it. "Oh come on! That Executive would do it to us in a heartbeat! She'll probably give it a shot the second she has systems access."

  "Well thanks for that." Emilia's voice sounded blackly amused coming through the overhead speakers. "I'm going to lock ship systems extra hard now, with emphasis on the birthday calendar. Someone got around me last time with that trick."

  Everyone smiled for a moment. "But ma'am, really-- ah just can't do it." Janson looked as apologetic as a ship security goon possibly gets. "Can't we just restrict her to quarters?"

  "Already thought of that, Engineer." Siers sounded tired. "I'm on the bridge right now looking through options. Personal quarters won't lock from the outside, it's a safety feature."

  Jamet flicked a hand, open-palmed and angry fingers spread. Then grabbed for the handle when the motion almost rotated her across the dock. "Well we have to do something. Our first group will be here in less than fifteen minutes." She thought furiously, then pointed at Janson. "Can you weld her hatch shut?"

  "Sure ah could. But how would she eat? Use the sanitizer?"

  "Doesn't sound like our problem." Emilia wasn't pulling punches. "Toss some e-rats and a bucket in, let her eat cake."

  Siers wheezed through a laugh, breathing heavily. "I would probably lean towards killing her before inflicting emergency rations on another living thing. No, I'm going to be firm on this: Killing the Executive with prejudice is not an option. Engineer?"

  The black security helmet looked upwards as if Janson could see the captain through the speakers. "Sir?"

  "Do you recall that rather mean trick you all pulled on our lieutenant when she first came aboard?"

  "Sure. Flipped the ship clocks, cut systems access and... oh. Yeah, I could do that. You want me to restrict the hatches and bulkheads? Section off part of the Kipper?"

  "I do. Preferably away from the bridge and any engineering sections. I was thinking aft, port side crew quarters? Close off the entire mid-deck and set the hatches not to open."

  "That works. We don't use those rooms anyways, ah will just set all of the hatches going mid-line to be non-responsive."

  Paul looked relieved. "Medical is forward of there, just starboard off the next corridor. We can keep an eye on them without having problems treating anyone. Although anything farther forward runs into our catastrophic damage issue."

  "We could always ask the Executive to check that airlock..." Jamet read the room, then gave up. "Alright, fine! But let me handle her coming in or we're going to run into issues immediately. Like hostile takeover, mutiny-and-snatch kind of issues. How long before they get here? Emilia, you've got the Independent on the other channel, right?"

  "Just a minute, I'll ask. This guy's a bit weird to chat with."

  Jamet kicked slightly off, drifted towards the exterior hatch and the control console next to it. Brushing her wrist ID over the sensor brought the system to life, displaying docking status, simple controls to remove or add environmental pressure and an emergency decouple/blowout icon. She looked hard at that last option, wishing it were just that easy to solve the problem. Then she tapped a menu to bring up the airlock camera, pinning the downward-facing view to a corner of the small display surface for easy reference. "Alright, I'm set up here. Quick review-- Paul, what's your job?"

  "Professional caf reviewer."

  "And when you're not dreaming?"

  Janson burst out laughing. Paul looked at the overheads in defeat. "Nicely played, lieutenant. To answer your question I am supposed to demand a health scan-- which I would have done, regardless-- then verbally recommend quarantine and quarters for everyone due to an unspecific illness."

  "Good." Jamet nodded. "That will give everyone something to worry about immediately that isn't related to seizing the Kipper. Don't forget your hood, either. Sorry to say this but you're not very good at keeping a straight face." She watched as Paul opened a medical pack and removed a respirator hood, cupping the opaque faceplate over his nose and sealing the edges to the uniform. "Good job. Engineer?"

  "I'm Security right now, ma'am." Janson waved his free arm, demonstrating his armored outfit. "Haven't used this one in a while, though. All ah have is a personal shocker that comes with the suit; is that going ta be enough?"

  "Honestly, no. I wish you had at least a portable room suppressor or something. We're going to take this in small groups and rely on you looking big and scary. Do you remember what to do?"

  "Yup." He stood up straight, plugging half the open hatch without even trying and seeming to somehow loom into the small docking area. Plucking a portable console from a hip pouch, Janson made a show of looking from the screen to Jamet, then growled a baritone demand. "Wrist ID and worker status."

  The lieutenant made a show of running her wrist beneath the console. "Co-CEO Jame-"

  He cut her off, perfectly on script. "Temporary indenture." He motioned firmly down the corridor with the console while exuding an aura of quiet menace. She was suddenly very aware of the holstered shock pistol prominently displayed on his hip. "Report to the first open door on the left, close it and await further instructions. Failure to comply terminates your status. Move it." The big man paused after completing his script, then seemed to deflate somehow back into his usual jovial self. "How's that, ma'am?"

  Jamet exaggerated a shudder, although it didn't take much to be convincing. Paul did the same. "Born for the role, friend. Could have fooled me, was that from your Security chip?"

  "Actually, yup. It's a training bit under 'Compliance Enforcement', damn thing keeps putting itself in mah queue as required reading every month or so."

  Lieutenant and medical professional gave each other significant looks. "That is... a slightly terrifying look into Security subculture."

  "Alright, I'm back with answers." Emilia sounded annoyed. "Our Independent friend says their group is three and a half habitation compartments away from us. Actually, I'm lying. He said seven hatch cycles totaling thirty five seconds each and room transits averaging a minute." There was a long, audible sigh. "I'm not sure if he thinks that's helpful or not."

  Jamet squinting one eye as she did math. "So... five or six minutes?"

  "Sure. That."

  "Alright. Let's do some rearranging, then. Paul, help me unhook these storage bins."

  For the next five minutes the three of them carefully unhooked bins from mounting brackets, pushing the weightless boxes around and re-clipping them to the deck in new positions. Jamet supervised placement as they locked waist-high boxes in an "L" shape with the long angle pointed directly at the exterior hatch. Paul took the larger side of the room, prominently securing his Medical bag to the wall at eye level. "Examinations here, I am guessing?"

  Jamet nodded, then took her place by the top of the long edge, portable console out and ready. "Yup. They'll come in, talk to me and then line right up for you." She looked left, over the short leg of the "L" at where Janson loomed by the far hatch. "After you're done they'll follow the path counter-clockwise to our Eng- sorry, to the Security checkpoint." Jamet pointed out the imaginary path, miming a walk with one hand. "The point is to alw
ays give them something clear to do next, never just mingle around getting ideas. Once they start complying it'll be force of habit to continue until they're safe and secure in a room. Much easier to manage after they're alone and feeling safe."

  Paul tilted his head upwards, a clear indicator he was consulting the Medical chip systems. "That is... surprisingly accurate protocol for handling traumatized survivors. I am impressed at your empathy, lieutenant."

  Jamet looked confused. "What? No, that's a trick to get them on permanent indebted contract. HR goes in right afterwards while they're isolated and vulnerable."

  Stunned silence. "Obviously we're not going to do that," she added.

  "I would hope not. Talk about unethical."

  "Damn that's cold, ma'am."

  "That is probably the most evil thing I have ever heard, lieutenant."

  "Special place in the dark between stars, Impossible."

  "Oh come on!" She threw both hands in the air, then bounced off the overhead with an annoyed push. "I never did that personally. Just heard about it!" The hatch by her elbow chimed as the console came to life, displaying a tight group of people wedged shoulder to shoulder inside. "Doesn't matter now! Everyone take a couple breaths. If anything goes off script err on the side of being more restrictive, not less. Captain?"

  "Lieutenant?" He coughed a few times, ending with a gasp. "Something I should do?"

  "Not, um, exactly. I'm not sure how to say it but... don't hold anything against me, I suppose." She struggled to put the feeling into words. "This is going to sound bad."

  "I'll be listening, we'll talk afterward if you need to."

  "And stop recording, Emilia."

  There was a conspicuous click and beep. "Okay, who told her? Confess now, save yourself a gut punch later."

  The hatch chimed again, somehow managing to sound impatient. Jamet ignored it. "Paul, Janson: You're good? Need time?"

  They both gave her nods. Janson added a suited thumbs-up, flip flopping from scary-as-hell Security to sympathetic human and back again with unsettling ease. "Exec sounds impatient. Going to get that?"

  "No, that's going to be all workers." Jamet waved dismissively. "If the Executive put herself in the first group she's a complete idiot; we could just blow the lock, call it a one-time malfunction and take the whole crew. No. If she's smart she's in the middle of the pack, probably hugging that Independent like the last lifeboat in the universe."

  She went still, eyes closed and personal console in one hand. When Jamet opened them again she was all Corporate, face colder than vacuum and gaze impartially disinterested. Turning to the console, she did a quick headcount and frowned. "Let's set some ground rules."

  Hitting the intercom, Jamet barked annoyance through the device. "Workers, this is Executive Reals." On screen the entire airlock jumped as one, arms flailing and skinsuit helmets banging off the low overheads. "Back out of the airlock immediately, then come in three at a time for processing. If I see more than three at once I will send the entire group to the end of the queue. Move!"

  Flailing chaos in the airlock as suited figures in the front tried to push the ones in the back out. She watched impassively as the law of the jungle played out until only three remained, then hit controls to seal the other end of the airlock. "Medical, Security?"

  "Ma'am?" In chorus, that was nice.

  "Be aware this first group may be loyalists, trying to seize the Kipper. It's what I would do." Both of them went rigid in surprise, but before they could ask questions Jamet hit the lock cycle to pop the inner hatch. Skinsuited workers stumbled through, half-floating and half-pulling themselves directly into the line of containers they'd arranged in front of the hatch earlier.

  Jamet thought she'd been prepared. But the first thing that hit wasn't pity for their malnourished state, worry over obviously over-patched suits or sympathy for how pathetically they were thanking her. All of that took a back seat. What got Jamet the most was the smell: Months of unsanitized suits, caked with grime and slimed from hundreds of emergency rations eaten messily in zero gravity. It was a wave of foul air, billowing out of the airlock and sticking to everything, invisible but horribly tactile. It grabbed her by the back of the throat and squeezed, making Jamet nearly gag with disgust.

  If she hadn't been so laser focused the sheer nauseous potential would have ruined the setup. Instead she was on them in a heartbeat, barking orders with the angry, irritated tone of an Executive forced to do something distasteful. "Stop moving, at once! Everything you have is now Corporate property-- line up and put everything into these bins right now." They scrambled to comply, grabbing containers to anchor on and then frantically dumping pockets inside. Absolute trash started making an appearance, drifting downward into the container. Ration wrappers, half eaten bars, bits of junk, even a few tools flipped through the air into the bin.

  When the first one ran out of things to dispose of he hesitated, suddenly unsure. "The skinsuits, worker!" Jamet snapped. "Helmets, gloves, everything! Why are you delaying?" She smacked him once with the back of her console, taking the rebound motion with a casual hand on the nearby bulkhead. "Do you want a sanction added to the cost of rescuing you?"

  He started stripping immediately, snapping off boots and gloves. The other two fell into line without prompting, grateful words withering and dying as the realization set in that their situation may not have improved as much as previously thought. She almost felt bad about tricking them as the trio floated towards Paul, shivering in filthy underclothes and displaying open pressure sores.

  Paul's opaque faceplate watched her for a bit too long, then focused on the three. She looked away, unable to face the unspoken accusation.

  Jamet waited until the three cleared through Security and floated off to their waiting quarters before triggering the hatch console. "Next! Don't keep me floating here for nothing, move!" Three more piled in, limbs flailing. She cycled it and started the whole process over.

  They processed six groups that way: Jamet barking immediate commands at dazed survivors, Paul silently cataloguing injuries on shivering people, Janson coldly ordering them to rooms. It was a rhythm, horrible and necessary, only broken when she checked the hatch monitor and saw what they'd been waiting for.

  "Medical, Security." They both looked at her, facemasks blank and impassive. "Our Executive is here. Look sharp."

  Through the hatch console she watched three figures with vastly different body posture. Executive Targer floated in the center of the airlock, tall and imposing in a custom skinsuit only slightly marred by ugly patches and substitute components. Gold stripes slashed across both sleeves and her helmet collar, Upper Executive markers custom painted on a suit that was only supposed to be used in an emergency anyways. She waited with an air of impatience, standing hipshot with one hand on the overheads and the other parked on her waist, braced in two places. She also had her faceplate set to transparent, showing off surgery-perfect features and.. Jamet squinted. Was that permanent skin modification makeup? Incredible.

  Next to the tall woman was their Independent, also in a custom skinsuit but much more subdued. His suit was dark grey and sporting the rare silver slashes of a contractor, topped by a completely opaque faceplate. He held onto a handle inside the airlock, hunched slightly over in a way that made him even smaller next to the tall Executive. A toolbelt and pouch circled his waist, latches holding a variety of handheld instruments in place.

  The third figure put Jamet's eyebrows up in mild surprise. It was the Executive's son, Peter Minyer, but floating free of the life support tent. He looked incredibly fragile under the overhead lights, skin wan and paper white with every bone standing out in stark relief. Brown eyes traced the floor listlessly, buried in sockets so dark they looked bruised. His unsuited presence side by side with the Independent was a ruthless tactical play, insurance against the Kipper blowing them all out into vacuum. The kind of heartless family dealings Jamet understood from her time climbing the Corporate ladder.

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