Soundless Conflicts

by S. Walker

  "...yes." She sounded guilty about it. "Just hit the option, retros burn for a little bit to get the boat to a safe distance. I didn't want you in range when the smelter blew."

  "Ah appreciate the consideration," he chuckled wryly. Harness buckles clicked into place. "That would have been a bad day f' everyone, especially folks who enjoy my cooking. If I ever find any, that is."

  The silence stretched for a long moment as something unspoken hung in the air between their couches. Janson let it be for a bit, then started looking worried. Jamet wasn't moving-- just sitting at the pilot's couch, facing away with her head down. "Ma'am? My joke wasn't that bad, was it?"

  "No, it's- it's nothing." She tapped controls, bringing up the automatic retro burn. "I was just thinking. Do you remember when I went with you to the Kipper's storage? When we found those boarding drones?"

  He thought back. "Sure. Not that long ago, really. Almost had to watch one of 'em put that final debt on you; not going to be a pretty memory for my downtime. Why? You thought of something?"

  Jamet's head shook briefly. "No, I didn't think of anything. But I did learn something then. A couple things, actually, but this one turned out to be important."

  "Oh?" He sounded confused about where this was going. "Did ah miss something?"

  "The Kipper's emergency skinsuits-- the expensive kind? Incredible quality. Lot of costly features." She looked upwards briefly, then down again at something in her lap and laughed. "Told myself I wouldn't count cost any more. But it was just so extravagant I had to test it out for myself, and do you know what?" Something clicked.

  "What?" A feeling of deep unease settled across Janson's face, tightening crow's-feet around his eyes.

  "The suit recording features are very easy to use." She paused for a moment, just long enough for Janson to realize she'd never taken her helmet off the entire time he'd been working on the consoles. "And I have never misplaced anything from a storage rack in my entire life."

  She came over the back of the pilot couch in a blur, arm extended and medical injector aimed at the gap in his open helmet.

  Chapter 38

  Long Shots Called

  Jamet Reals sat in a chair that was entirely too comfortable, listlessly watching nothing on a blank console while trying not to jostle her broken arm too much.

  The chair and the console couldn't be helped, but honestly the arm thing was entirely her own fault. Even setting aside just how large Janson was she really should have remembered about the whole "Security training" thing. Kind of an important detail to overlook, in hindsight. But Jamet had been completely sure waiting for the big man to buckle into restraints before taking him by surprise would be more than enough; how much struggle would it be against someone who could barely move? All she had to do was get the injector on him once and it was all over from there.

  She'd been full of confidence, quietly loading the medical device while talking up a distraction. All the while listening for the click of each harness buckle, waiting for the right moment. When the last latch snicked shut it seemed easy as hell to turn, dive over the couch back and tag the big engineer in the neck with a dose of sleepytime juice. After that even if he got a shot or two on her it was just a matter of waiting until he passed out.

  In her head it was a near-perfect plan. No downsides.

  In practice Janson broke her arm in two places.

  Oh, lunging off the acceleration couch went perfect. Excellent spin, good knee position, then kicking off with the opposite foot while stiff-arming the injector. She speared that thing straight for the opening in Janson's helmet, aiming directly for his neck with a finger ready on the activation stud. Surprise was definitely on her side: The big engineer's eyes flew wide open, mouth dropping in a startled "Hey!" as his brain locked up between handling unexpected "friend or foe" reactions.

  But his Security chip didn't give a damn about friendly intent. The biochip simply took input, compared with attack profiles and issued instructions in millisecond time. The moment he saw her lunge with an unknown object the chip took note; everything afterwards was lightning in a bottle as conditioned responses took over.

  The first half-second was entirely delay based. His biochip sent full strength impulses to both torso and hip flexor muscles to pull backward, causing Janson to jerk a fraction of an inch before meeting harness restraints. Simultaneously both legs kicked straight upward into Jamet's gut, cutting her lunge speed in half with a comical "hurkgh" of expressed air. When that didn't seem to deter attack the Security chip got real.

  A stiff-arm lunge is good for speed. But it also provides a hell of a lever against an attacker that happens to be backed by their entire body weight all at once. Not a lot of dodging possible on a committed forward motion like that; it's a very 'all or nothing' kind of tactic. Since Jamet was diving right handed the biochip took note, mirrored defensive responses and began a complicated series of movements intended to cancel the threat.

  First Janson's right hand shot diagonally across his torso, capturing the lieutenant's wrist as it came into range and trapping it. At the same time his left hand came straight up, grabbing the outside of her elbow and locking it in place. This created a perfectly straight line all the way from her captured wrist up to the immobilized elbow, then back to her lunging shoulder. Stiff as a board, motion locked down. Phase One, complete.

  Wrists are modified ball and socket joints, with a little motion back and forth but no axial rotation. Elbows are all hinge; they move to a maximum range and stop, no further. Shoulders are amazing feats of engineering, completely ball and socket and able to rotate in a broad range of motion bounded only by torso angles. Put together those three miraculous systems combine into a simple set of body mechanics that hold up incredibly well for a huge amount of effort in any number of ways. But it also happens to be extremely vulnerable to unexpected force applied in bad directions.

  And the Security chip knew all the bad directions.

  Janson's surprised "Hey!" was barely over when his biochip went to Phase Two, sending maximum strength impulses to both defensive holds at once. His left palm rocketed cross-body, taking Jamet's elbow and inverting the joint rightward in a hideous crackle. At the same time his other grip closed painfully tight around her captured wrist and rotated upwards, much farther than tendons could stretch to accommodate. Her hand sprang open as wrist bones and connective tissue parted ways in staccato pop-pop-pops of sound, sending the device spinning into a bulkhead nearby.

  But even with the insane speed of biochipped reflexes it wasn't enough.

  She got him with the injector right in the neck, just over the top of the suit seal. Then immediately hit the deck with her arm in an entirely new shape, screaming her lungs out.

  "-ey! What are youuuu... nooo. Dunnt. Whyyyyy...?" Janson finished in a slur, potent inhibitor chemicals already going to work on shutting down higher brain function. He wobbled drunkenly in place, pawing with futile motions at the harness buckles crisscrossing in a web of safety. Moments later the big engineer was unconscious and slumped over like a child after a hard day of playing.

  Jamet spent that entire time screaming. Then just for good measure she started over again and reprised the chorus, aiming for new highs.

  It took a solid five minutes before enough endorphins kicked in to let Jamet inch her way towards the medical kits. Five minutes after that she was riding a high of the best painkillers the kit had and contemplating whether or not the air cast would be a good idea. On one hand the cast would immobilize her arm enough to get around without passing out. On the other hand-

  She laughed like a drunk, room spinning and ears both full of cotton and ringing all at once. "On the other hand, I don't have much of a hand. Ha!"

  These kits were amazing. Possibly addicting, but you couldn't have everything.

  Jamet ended up using her boots to steady the cast enough to pour her injured appendage inside. Her arm already looked like a rapidly-swelling sausage, alarmingly multicolored with
weird bumps rubbing underneath tight skin. But at least with the cast on she didn't have to look at it, although working the forward console one-handed was a nightmare. It took several mistakes and start-overs before she got the preplanned course pulled back up and selected for use, then ages passed trying to set it on a timer. By that time Janson was starting to stir; either the big man's metabolism was insanely high or she'd misjudged the suppressant dose.

  Well, no regrets there: Better too low than too high. He didn't deserve to be written off accidentally. Janson was good people. Strike that-- Janson was her people. Which was an interesting idea: She had people, plural, and cared about them. New feelings, there. Strangely good, but a little sad to only find them this far down a one way course.

  Jamet left a permanent note on-screen not to attempt a turn and use up the last fuel supplies-- the last thing she wanted was for Janson to mess around trying to come back and doom himself to an endless trip through vacuum. Hitting the countdown for a minute she turned and carefully edged around both couches, snagging the med kit along the way while using the air cast to bang the airlock toggle.

  Then she paused, concerned eyes on the back of Janson's head. "You probably can't hear me, but just in case-- thanks." Which seemed so wholly inadequate it was almost insulting. There were literally volumes of experiences she'd never have known about or felt without the Kipper's crew; it was impossible to list everything in less than a minute. 'Thank you' seemed like a copout, but Jamet didn't have the range of emotional capability to say more.

  So instead she did the next best thing and bent down to kiss the top of his head, then channeled her inner Emilia: "You made me a better person. I'm going to go try and not fuck this up."

  Stepping back, Jamet stood in the gloom of the smelter side of the airlock while machinery powered through a seal-and-cycle. Then she kept right on standing there, counting seconds until the lifeboat undocked itself with a shuddering boom of firing retro rockets that washed the hatch window in fire. It was only when firelight faded into blurred darkness that she realized her eyes were filled with tears, nose in danger of running downward. Not her best look, but then again what did it matter?

  The chair waited, console dark and staring like a promising eye.

  She dragged herself to it one reluctant foot at a time, then sat on the deck nearby long enough to fumble her wrist console around. It took a couple tries and a lot of swearing, but after a bit Jamet got the helmet recording playing back from the beginning, sensors focused on everything Janson had done to take the console and reader out of the station relays.

  Hooking a toolbox with one foot, she pulled it into range and got to work repairing their last chance at getting everyone out of Pilster-3.

  ∆∆∆

  The chair really was far too comfortable. Or perhaps taking another hit of painkiller so soon after the last hadn't been a good idea. It was hard to care either way: Right now even the darkness seemed welcoming. Friendly. The cushions like comforting clouds, effortlessly holding her as the room drifted through serene space. Only the clunky air cast on her right arm kept the experience from being perfect... but that was fine, too.

  Everything was fine.

  When the time felt right Jamet reached down and took her boots off, little toes wiggling free. Then she leaned slightly over-- this chair was definitely made for someone larger, but that was fine too-- and stuck her left arm onto the ID reader. Just like last time the console in front of her slowly came to life, workspace filling with slow motion bootup messages as battery power kicked in. After a long wait two message callouts finally popped up, offering to start main reactor or shut down the console again.

  Jamet flexed one leg upwards, bent a knee and squinted to line up her big toe with the menu option. A delicate tap later the smelter came to life.

  Somewhere nearby the reactor spun up, compressing and extending heavy matter to induce mind-boggling amounts of electrical current. With power to spare the lights snapped on, followed by rising exclamation tones as system consoles around the room went through happy-sounding initializing sequences one after another. Overhead vents coughed apologetically, briefly fogging the room with dust before clearing it away again in a gentle breeze that ruffled her sweaty hair and sent discarded wrappers sliding around the deck plates.

  She glanced around, curious to see what the room looked like fully illuminated. The answer, it turned out, was "sad": Dirtier than she thought, small pieces of trash and discarded wrappers in every corner. With the vents circulating a rank odor began wafting across the room, speaking of hastily-used sanitizer facilities with not enough time or effort spent cleaning. She made a mental note to stay in the skinsuit as long as possible.

  Then Jamet looked up, jaw dropping in amazed laughter. "Are you kidding me? That's- wow. Holy shit."

  With the lights on the overhead ceiling popped into view. It turned out the previous occupant hadn't limited themself to writing on the outside of the hatch; in fact their best efforts appeared to be centered around the space directly above the console they'd been nearly tied to. Everything in reach above the ID reader was covered in marker. Lines and shading done to perfection, masterfully using irregularities in pipes and support struts as blending to turn the ceiling into an enormous canvas. It was a portrait, done in forced perspective one stroke of marker at a time until it seemed almost alive enough to talk with.

  Head thrown back in awe, Jamet traced lines and contours. It was a man's face, jaw thrust out stubbornly like he'd been caught in the middle of a quip. Kind eyes looked slightly to the left, combining with raised eyebrows and a small upward tug of lip to convey exasperated amusement. It was lovingly done, the work of thousands and thousands of hours and stars knew how many marker strokes. She laughed at the incredible art of it all, stuck on the overhead plates in a dark, abandoned smelter-turned-torture center. "Who the hell are you? Or... were you, I guess?"

  The console beeped once, like an answer.

  Tearing her eyes away from the masterpiece felt like disrespecting the artist, but she had to look down. The console's workspace was a blaze of icons and status messages, each one vying for room to catch her eye's attention. But sitting over all of them, the topmost callout on the stack, was a waiting notification message marked "Priority - Urgent". Dated months and months ago, never opened.

  Jamet toe-tapped it, morbid curiosity pushing her to scan the subject. "It's... a written message? Why not just comm it? Or go direct?" Another tap opened the callout, cancelling the "Read Now" markers and bringing the text onto the forward working surface for her to scan, slowly scrolling at reading speed.

  I don't know if you can get this. Haven't used text messaging in forever. Out of practice. Your mother gave up, but I didn't: I know you're still there. I know you're waiting for help. Keep waiting. I'm coming. It's been months now since the station was attacked. Not sure if you know. Almost everyone died right away, or right after when systems went to lockdown. We made a group and worked together, going around the habitation ring one compartment at a time.

  She started to get a bad feeling about this and looked away. The console noted her eye movement and automatically paused scrolling. It was conflicting: This message looked very personal, like whoever sent it knew the operator on the smelter. Which made this a minor invasion of privacy to read, but at the same time who was ever going to complain? She might be the last person to ever get a chance to know... and honestly who wouldn't go through it? Maybe someone with a lot stronger morals than she did. Eyes slowly tracked backward, re-engaging the scroll again.

  We're a scavenge group right now, forty strong. Go out every day to get anything that might help us stay alive longer. Find supplies, or working equipment. It's hard-- not much to find, can't go very far before skinsuits give out. I made it to the mining drone beacon last week, overrode the message with my own. Broadcast for rescue. No idea if that will work, but I tried. Rachel was furious, said I wasted time. Said I should have looked for something useful for the moment
instead of taking a long shot. Don't care. Needed to hope.

  "Oh shit." Jamet winced hard.

  Almost out of time on HR's emergency broadcast system. Surprised it worked at all, even on backup power. Our Independent says it's for messaging workers on the station hull, not reaching to the out-stations. But I had to try. Long shots, again. Just so you know: We're going for the docks tomorrow. Thought I saw a hauler still there-- might be workable. If I remember manifests right it should be the Pinhat, maybe loaded. Maybe not. All or nothing on this trip. Nearly three miles in a single go, suits won't make it there and back. I'm going to carry whatever I can and try. Long shots again. If I can get it, if it's still working, I'll come for you. I promise. I know promises from an Exec don't mean much, but this one will. I'm sorry for everything. I love you. Be there when I come. We'll go together. Love you princess. --Dad