Hull Damage

by Timothy J Meyer

  “You coming up?”

  The Mruka appears to rediscover the harness and its subsidiary cables buckled about his scruffy waist. After a moment of hesitation, he screws the appropriate dial and is summarily yanked upwards, with a hiss of complaint from the rusty winch, to an approximate level three feet to Odisseus’ right.

  The automated ascender had been a staggeringly useful device forty years ago and had essentially revolutionized the practice of external starship maintenance. When parked in drydock, though alternate deep space repair models existed, one installed an overhanging winch, fed with several dozen feet of industrial strength belay cable, over the side of their conventionally designed ship. Through the use of a remote-control harness, one could hoist themselves at any point between the floor and the winch, allowing for both access at difficult to reach external systems and hours of embarrassing fun dangling off a spaceship like a marionette.

  Despite its initial popularity, it soon went the way of the steering platform and the Nautiloid jetboosters, in favor of driftstages and eventually graviton boots, granting their owners simpler and more stylish methods of reattaching and repainting hull plates. Because nothing on the Lover could be possibly be effectual, because none of the copious winnings they’d earned at the hands of their latest caper could possibly be spent at the Lover's multifarious non-vital expenses, because Nemo only really seemed to value the Lover's ability to pirate capably, their corroded old set of automated ascenders weren’t liable to be replaced anytime soon.

  “Bloom me out,” is all Marco can whistle in response to the exposed machinery they swing before. “I guess I’m not really even sure what I’m supposed to be looking at.”

  Odisseus could have throttled the precocious life out of the Mruka had he not more or less shared this sentiment. The internal plumbing matrix, the epicenter of all the ship’s onboard hydro pumps and drainage valves, is a blast-shorn disaster.

  With the ray shields disabled, the unfortunate plumbing matrix had been among the numerous victims of the Exacting Counterattack’s eponymous retaliation and Odisseus and Marco had only just reached it on their elongating list of system repairs and malfunctions yet to amend. Judging from the extent of its blackened disfigurement, however, prioritization would probably claim a working toilet, shower and basin.

  The suspended Ortoki mechanic reaches out gingerly and pinches the main artery, dislodged and distended from laser damage, of the belowdecks water supply, in broad claws. Marco emits a hissing caution instinctively, as he tends to whenever the Mruka disagrees with Odisseus’ latest mechanical maneuver, but he’s ignored this time as Odisseus establishes a firm hold behind the pipe and attempts to smoothly recalibrate the partially shredded conduit into position, at least as a starting point.

  His efforts are rewarded perhaps too generously when the pipe uproots completely, coming off in his paw and both severed stubs spraying stale, unctuous water in his face. Marco rappels away with a fierce kick, successfully avoiding the thorough drenching unsuspecting Odisseus is doused with, the Ortok spitting fetid water furiously out of his mouth. He sways lightly from the force of his recoil, dripping dispassionately and flailing his fur frantically at the end of his line like a hooked fish.

  Marco upturns his eighteen whiskers in disgust, flashing a mouthful of delicate, miniaturized incisors. “I warned you,” he deigns distastefully. Even hunkered as far up the hull as she is, Odisseus can still hear the sound of Moira sniggering.

  “One of these days, I’m gonna take a shit in the booster intake valve and kill you all,” Odisseus mutters, wiping the remnants of the squalid backwash from his facial fur.

  In all her arrogant adroitness, Moira Quicksilver doesn’t need graviton boots or even automated ascenders to make the only external repairs she cared about. Hours and hours of cloistered kickboxing practice granted her the liberty to clamber limberly about the Lover's hull and focus her attention on the topturret and the overly meticulous custody she expended upon the weapon. Odisseus admits the irony presented by an obsessively attended laser cannon atop a pirate ship dolefully fraught with propulsion, defensive, electrical, mechanical and logistical malfunction would at least be fitting, if also disastrous.

  Somewhere behind the pendent mechanics, Odisseus hears the telltale grind of Docking Port #8887’s harborage doors as they wheel away, though the angle of The Unconstant Lover's abaft bulge screens the entrants from his view.

  The tangible whiff of alcohol wafting into the port settles the matter more promptly than Nemo’s immediate clarion call does. “Guess who just called?”

  “You get your tooth fixed?” Odisseus barks over the sound of the doors meandering closed.

  “Yeah. I–”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Fine. Feels weird. That place still smells like tuna,” he reports distractedly.

  “Yum.”

  “So, there we are, at the After–” Nemo endeavors, but this time, Moira stops him short.

  “You pick up my glareguard?” she demands from her lofty perch.

  “Yes.”

  “Toss it to me?”

  “Two-Bit, throw her the thing,” Nemo sighs and, after a moment, Odisseus briefly spies a murky bottle of turbid liquid whiz over a corner of the Lover's anterior.

  “Thank you,” is Moira’s only voiced gratitude before Nemo endeavors a third time.

  “Can I tell my fucking story now?” he requests, anxiously aggravated. The lack of immediate reply is less than he requires for a prompt. “So, we’re in the Afterburn, right, with a couple of the crew, and I’m trying to, uh, disentangle myself from more of Gertie’s advances, right, so–”

  “Gertie? Good Luck Gertie?” Marco bluntly recognizes. “Since when is–”

  “I’ll seriously shoot the next person who interrupts me,” Nemo deadpans more bluntly. Marco purses his feline lips in an annoyance marginal to Nemo’s apparently murderous irritation. “So, anyway, I’m literally running away from her and Abraham buzzes me in a transmission, which I assume to be a good thing, right, an excuse to duck Gertie.”

  “Who was it?” Moira questions from somewhere above them all.

  “Xo.”

  “Fuck,” she retorts instantly.

  “No, no, see, that was my initial reaction too, but it’s not what you’d think,” Nemo pacifies. “They have another job.”

  “They what?” Odisseus questions.

  “They have another job offer,” the Captain elucidates. “They buzzed me straight-away, I guess, because they, like, desperately require our services. Or something.”

  “So soon?” Marco opines.

  “Apparently,” Nemo replies, accompanied by the characteristic slapping of his thighs. “And get this – the job is open contract, but–” Moira begins to scoff dismissively, but Nemo plows through her remonstrance, “but, they made a specific point to contact me first. They gave us the priority over the all the rest of their standing operators.” A beat before, “Which is, you know, something.”

  “And ball it up for me, Xo’s got theyselves plentya brunos tragger than us,” Two-Bit assesses pointedly.

  “What’s the job?” Odisseus readdresses.

  “Guess some other freebooters just pinched a squadron of real jig prototype starfighters from some auxiliary company of Xo's, some Kiesha Laser something? I ain’t heard of them, but Xo’s putting out a cattle call to anybody willing to tangle with these pirates and squash these prototypes before they sell ‘em to a competitor.”

  “Huh,” Moira remarks significantly.

  “I guess speed would be the determining factor there. You know, wanna beat all the other pirates to the prize,” Nemo observes decidedly. “Which is, might I add, considerable.”

  “No cargo?”

  “No cargo.”

  A pregnant pause plays out before Moira breaks their conspirator’s reverie.

  “Yeah, I didn’t really wanna do that puppy thing,” she confesses.

  “Yeah, me neither.”
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br />   “Hey–” Odisseus begins to chastise, but is summarily trampled by the gusto of Nemo’s extemporaneous inspiration. Even without line of sight, Odisseus envisions his saltbrother snapping out commands, jabbing vigorous two-fingered gestures and casting off accomplices with guiding shoulder shoves. This, Odisseus divines, will certainly not end well for anyone involved.

  Accompanied by the enjoined noises of the harborage doors retreating open and lithe footfalls against the Lover's upper hull, the former signifying Two-Bit’s immediate departure and the latter Moira’s nimble approach, Odisseus tweaks his harness’ dial harshly left and sinks quickly to the floor, Marco only several beats behind. After successfully unraveling the belay line from the harness’ face, Odisseus stalks between the Lover's landing feet towards Nemo’s position, spotting, as he predicted, the Captain yammering orders into his belted communicator, likely recalling crewmembers from carouses across the station. Moira, meanwhile, grimy with bought burnish, roosts languorously on the helm’s roof.

  “Who’re the pirates?”

  “Uh,” Nemo abstractedly stammers as he dials between frequencies on his hissing comm, “haven’t heard of them. Must be hard-hitters, though, stealing straight outta Xo’s drydock.”

  “That would be my concern,” Moira adds.

  Odisseus raises a paw in query. “Um, are we seriously gonna stiff–”

  “Do we know where to find them?” Moira continues, seemingly ignorant of Odisseus’ entire presence in the conversation.

  “Abraham,” Nemo mutters into the comm before pulling it away in disgust. “Abraham, you there?” Only static replies, however, and Nemo, squinting, glances obliquely up at perched Moira. “Um, I’ve got a name? Captain, fuck, Taro? Something like that. Guess people call him ‘Snakeeyes,’” he illustrates with a sardonic gesture and a bogeyman grimace, Moira jokingly mirroring him. This answered, the Captain refocuses his efforts at his uncooperative communicator. “Anyway, Abraham will’ve heard of him.”

  Three paces behind, Marco corrects, “Her.”

  “Hm?”

  “Abraham will have heard of her. Captain Dijiqi Taré is a woman,” he blandly annotates.

  This draws Nemo’s impregnable notice. He scowls at the diminutive know-it-all as Abraham’s husky voice pipes into the handheld comm.

  “Cap’n? Cap’n, ye–” he begins, but Nemo, searching the Mruka, switches the device swiftly off.

  “You know this Snakeeyes?”

  “I have that misfortune, yes,” he affirms, barely requiring the slightest prompting from Nemo to elaborate. “Used to be an amateur salvagier on her boat, what would that be, five years ago now? Scabby bitch booted me after a few months, said I had ‘the space-mange,’” he grumbles disdainfully, folding his scruffy forearms. “Whatever the fuck that is.”

  As Odisseus, his fears confirmed, inches away from his surly understudy, Nemo steps a pace closer, indicating Marco with the deactivated comm and sneer growing progressively more wicked. “You know her port of call.”

  Marco shrugs. “Sure.” He grates stubby scavengers claws through his auburn goatee-tufts. “Lzura Minor, unless I’m very much mistaken. Makes her berth at orbital anchor in the planet’s rings. Two of my littermates still sail under Taré’s colors, actually.”

  “Well, we’re gonna go blow up their ship and likely kill them in the process,” Nemo ensures, splaying out the three fingers not grasping the comm. “You square with that?”

  “Eh. Bloom those assholes,” the Mruka offhandedly condemns.

  Nemo’s sneer converts into proper nefariousness. “Boom. Promoted.” Odisseus is about to balk, but Nemo quickly assesses. “What were you before?”

  “Petty mechanic,” Marco responds flatly.

  “Now, you’re a, um, slightly less petty mechanic. Congratulations,” Nemo confers curtly before reactivating his comm and striding away, each step armed with that implacable assurance of his, towards the boarding ramp.

  “4 percent?” Marco requests after him.

  “3.1!”

  “Nemo,” Odisseus persists, shuffling behind. “Are we not worried about–”

  From on high, unseen Moira attempts to strategize. “What’re you thinking? ‘Ball-and-biscuit?’” In order to answer, Nemo sidesteps right thrice, peering searchingly towards the roof of his vessel.

  “Sure, normally, but we’re here to destroy fighters, which means we’re looking at docking procedures.” He flares out his forearms to suggest. “What’s the best way to avoid blowing up your starfighter? Fly away.”

  Moira’s apparently puzzled, which unflaggingly irks her. “So, what, then?”

  “You wanna pull a hell-and-handbasket?” After a brief silence, she must offer a nonverbal reply of some kind, which Nemo greets with a leer as he directs, “Good. Then, ammo them both up and pick a replacement.” He wanders several steps away, dialing the comm, before he adds. “And get the hell down from there!”

  “I’m serious, Nemo,” Odisseus hounds, finally overtaking him at the foot of the ramp and seizing his upper arm in a meaty paw to whip Nemo around.

  “What?” he obtusely responds.

  “Think, Nemo. We can’t take this job now – we’ve got Vel’s Rith job. You remember Vel, don’t you? Big antlers, stick up her ass?” Odisseus panders, ardently wishing there was some other method of getting through that skull.

  “Look, it’s not like we’re actually stiffing her, brother. We’re just going next door first, alright? To Lzura Minor to, you know, take out the trash. That’s all.”

  “I don’t think Velocity would agree with you on that.”

  “Well, she doesn’t have to know,” he resolves candidly, stomping up the boarding ramp with his absorption firmly relegated to the sibilating comm in his hand. “We ship out in one hour.” Odisseus doesn’t bother to pursue, stymied by his saltbrother's obstinacy.

  “She’s not even trim yet, Nemo!” he gestures indistinctly towards his previous workstation. “The plumbing matrix is shot – you can’t flush the toilet!”

  “Better hold it in!”

  Chapter 9

  Moira Quicksilver, sweaty, unlaundered and delicately crossing her thighs in some last ditch attempt to prevent the hoarded pressure of her bloated bladder from finally bursting and soiling her spacesuit, had every intention of storming aboard The Damn Shame, guns ablaze and commandeering the nearest available bathroom, Huong Xo’s direct orders be bloomed.

  After brushing away the collected film of cosmic dust from the face of her visor, Moira spots another hunk of space ice plunging bowside towards the extended boarding ramp, one of the billions suspended in circumference of the radiant blue gas giant. While the Lover does her level best to repel it, the angle of her bombard shield only succeeds in ricocheting this particular meteoroid into a different approach vector. The amassed marauders raise their weapons to shatter it, but Moira’s preempted them, Righty and Lefty splintering the rebounding meteoroid into pebbles.

  The Unconstant Lover, ident tag currently reading “The Finder's Keeper,” hurtles among the colliding ice ring of Lzura Minor on an intercept course with Dijiqi Taré’s flagship, The Damn Shame, under the entirely fictional auspices of a “swap-meet.” The only thing they intended to swap, however, was their eponymous “handbasket”: Moira and her six-man squad of thirsty, tarnished cutthroats, all consequently crossing their own thighs and fermenting a week’s worth of clammy filth inside spacesuits of their own.

  Nine days of indirect warp between Takioro Defederate Station and Lzura Minor without a functioning basin, shower or toilet had left the majority of the crew in a similar state, both physically and mentally, to Moira’s own. As they clung desperately to the boarding ramp’s struts, the imminent spacejump and resultant boarding action nearing by the second, each and every one of their murderous minds is filled solely with the thought of clear, fresh, running water.

  Only a small percentage of the conscripts had noticed the shower’s malfunction, notably Brondi, Danbont
e and the gradually ameliorating Garrigan, and most had at least offered complaint against the meager slate of dry-good-based meals Odisseus and Abraham had been able to scrape together without running water, but every last marauder, even down to witlessly laconic Heeko, had bemoaned the utter lack of a flushing toilet. Were it not for the four hour layover at Ganad Major, as well as the auxiliary relief tanks in the half-a-dozen other spacesuits, the crew, Moira included, would have been culpable to mutiny against Nemo for the atrocious crime of warping out without functional plumbing.

  Moira thumbs her jetpack's straps, hiking the discounted device off the small of her back, as the Lover banks to starboard and aligns the figure of the impressively armed Shame into view. Moored between two orbital tethers, The Damn Shame rests at idyllic anchor, docile laser turrets accentuated by the light of Lzura’s azure framing. Just short of thrice the Lover in length, the Shame was a prime specimen of a DD874 Starlight Inc. Bulk Cargo Barque, a vaguely pendulum-shaped capital ship popular among the navies of independent planetary governments, complete with enormous circular deployment bay and elongated neck sporting ample gun emplacements.

  A capital ship of the Shame’s size would operate with, at minimum, a score of crewmen, without including the dozen auxiliary technicians, half again as many gunners and the literal horde of pirates she would require for her own boarding actions. In total, Moira and her six confederates were looking at opposition numbering anywhere between ninety to one hundred enemy pirates, depending both on relative response time and exactly how many currently occupied the cargo bay.

  Normally, Moira would never have volunteered to lead a boarding party against such insurmountable odds but, in a “hell-and-handbasket” of this variety, under these very unique circumstances, she acknowledges that numbers are significantly less important than haste and armament. What Moira’s handpicked shock troops lack in quantity, they amend tenfold with weaponry.