by Allen Stroud
“Tactical, what do you have for me on countermeasures?” I ask.
Thakur’s face is pinched in concentration. “We have pressurised tanks and atmosphere bags for repairing hull ruptures. If we launch a tank inside a bag, we can inflate it and create another target for the missiles that’s roughly the same size as we are. It may fool a laser scan.”
“Will it work?”
“Depends how far away the missiles are when they detect the new objects and how accurate their tracking systems are.”
“How many can we deploy?”
“Four, maybe five, depending on how much time we have.”
“Get it done, Ensign. How many people do you need?”
“One for each, Captain.”
“Get Duggins on comms and tell his people to make up what you need.”
At that moment, a klaxon sounds, the ship surges, and the stars seem to fall like rain. I glance down and see the airlock door is shut. Le Garre is moving us up and over the Hercules, putting a kilometre of the freighter between us and the missiles. “We need to make sure we can deploy the tanks before we drop out of sight, Major,” I say.
“Understood, Captain,” Le Garre says.
We’re banking and pitching; the magnets in my suit activate and the straps on my shoulders tense. A countdown clock appears on my screen – it’s the estimated time it’ll take the first of the missiles to reach us. “How long until we can jettison the tanks?”
“Duggins says three minutes.”
I look at the clock. We have just under fourteen minutes. “Once we get to the other side, go dark. Switch off all non-essential power. We need them to think we’re gone.”
Le Garre grunts. “If this works,” she says.
“It has to work,” I reply.
Chapter Eleven
Sellis
The ship is moving, twisting, turning. I’m hanging on to a safety rail in corridor three, trying to stop myself from breaking an arm or a leg. The main lights are out, some sort of low power running required. Fuck Captain Shann and all those shitheads on the bridge! Why didn’t they order us to chairs? Why the fuck are we being left to batter ourselves against bulkheads and walls?
All in the name of murdering some terrorist who wants to murder all of us? Fuck that! Worst fucking thing you can do, have the whole crew stumbling around, unarmed, waiting to get shot.
I was in the army before I joined Fleet. My mom loved me in the uniform. I remember her crying when ‘Private Jake Sellis’ shipped out.
I did basic infantry training in Utah before I got posted to Las Vegas. Some people laugh when I tell them that. “Why send soldiers to the casino city?” they say. Maybe they’ve never heard of the Nevada Army National Guard? I hadn’t, before I read my transfer papers. All I could think of was the slots, the blackjack, and the poker table. Someone upstairs must have liked me back then.
Three weeks later, I was hooked.
There is no place on Earth like Las Vegas. The casinos are all part of how the city works. The hotels lay on huge buffet meals, where you can load up even if you’re not a guest. Everyone wants you to save your money for gambling. The profit margin is much better for business when all you’ve taken up is twenty minutes of some card dealer’s time. That’s all you are to them – a twenty-minute trick, a thirty-minute trick. All depends on how deep your pockets are.
Maybe I struggled out there because of how I was brought up. Maybe that’s why I struggle now. My hometown, Logan in Utah, was pretty conservative and insular. People looked out for each other back there. There was a lot of ‘sin talk’ when I was a child. I’d regularly get fined or beat for cussing and such. These days, every profanity I hear or utter is a middle finger to my old man.
“Jake!”
I recognise the voice. Quartermaster Sam Chase is at the end of the passage, by the emergency doors. He’s carrying a flashlight and shining it at me. Sam’s okay. I owe him a couple of hundred dollars. Anyone who lends me money is okay.
“Yeah? What do you need?”
“You, with me, now!”
I sigh and start moving. The shifting around means it’s like a weird mix of crawling and climbing. I have to trust our pilot won’t get a twitch and get me battered. Sam’s handling it all better than me. That’s his way. The world never seems to make him break a sweat.
When I reach his side, I’m surprised. Sam’s covered in blood.
“Fuck man, you okay?”
“Yeah, just been up and down these corridors for a while, chasing our little rat.”
“You found him?”
“I think so.” Sam has one of the low-calibre pistols from the arms locker in his hand. He’s holding it upward, away from me.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
Sam points ahead to an open access hatch. “You’re going to make your way down there, and I’m going to cover you.”
“Okay.” I move past Sam, toward the hatch. It’s a standard tactical play – send the unarmed soldier forward while you cover him, then move up and check the open passageway. I played both roles during room clearance training back on Earth.
Doesn’t mean I like being Sam’s stooge, though.
I don’t know how I ended up in space. I’m good with cables and repairs. My soldering is neat and clean, a tricky skill to keep up in zero gravity. Circuit boards and wiring are nice problems that sit right in front of you. I’ve always been good with that kind of stuff.
The same game doesn’t work at the blackjack table, or on the slots, much as I wish it did.
I was three years into my posting in Vegas when I got told I was being transferred to Earth Station Two. I owed a lot of people a lot of money, so I didn’t argue. I just signed the papers and got on the next flight.
I worked on the orbitals for six years, until a woman tapped me on the shoulder and made me sign another form. This time she told me joining the crew of the Khidr would get some of my old debts forgiven. I might even get a chance to go back to Earth without being arrested at the space port.
In that moment, I started to get suspicious. Somebody was watching out for me, protecting me when the debts got too much and moving me on when it suited them. Strings were being pulled. I don’t know how long they’ve been at it, or when they’ll call time and ask to collect, but the cynic in me says they will one day. Sinners get punished, that’s what the Good Book says.
In the meantime, best not to dwell.
I’m at the hatch. My hands are shaking. I can see a little way around the corner, but not much. This is where we need a camera drone, or someone needs to take a risk.
That won’t be me. Not unless there’s money on the table.
I can hear Sam moving up. He passes by me on the left, aiming his pistol into the open passage. “Clear,” he says.
“Okay, what’s next?”
“Same again. You lead, I follow.”
I shuffle up as the ship turns, throwing us both forward and into the open room. We’re near the gravity deck. The elevator access point is just ahead. The elevator isn’t there; it’s been taken up to the ring. There’s no reason anyone would go up there during an emergency.
“You call the lift,” Sam says. “Once it’s down, we use the emergency override and keep it here. Then we call this in to the bridge.”
There’s a noise behind me. I turn around, my fists clenched, and Sam shines the flashlight back through the hatchway. “Who’s there?” he calls out.
“Point that thing somewhere else, Chase.” A figure emerges, also carrying a gas-powered pistol, which he’s aiming at me. It’s Tomlins. His left arm is bound up in a sling.
“Sorry, Sergeant,” Sam answers. The two men are equal in rank, but Tomlins has seniority and tends to remind people when he does.
“You found someone?”
“Yeah, Arkov was away from his po
st. Sellis and I chased him in here.”
Tomlins looks at me the same way he always does, as if he’s examining shit on the bottom of his shoe. “We’ll take it from here, Technician,” he says.
“Sure, okay.” I press the elevator call and move away into the passage, leaving the two of them with their prisoner – Arkov? Part of the technical club, like me. Vasili’s harmless. We’ve shared a beer or two. He’s from Turtas – some town out in the wilds of Russia. All his life he’s wanted to work in space. I can’t believe he’d be a terrorist and try to kill us all. There must be some other reason he ran away.
I’ve stopped in the corridor. The ship has ceased its maneuvers for now, so there’s no shifting force to compensate for. I’ve half a mind to turn around and speak up for Vasili, to Chase and Tomlins, but I don’t have any evidence he’s innocent, and, well…I’m not going to get anywhere with the sergeant without some proof.
I need to let this go, for now.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a flashlight. I switch it on and hang it around my neck. I use this light for close work on circuit panels, so it doesn’t illuminate much. I start making my way back the way I’ve come.
There’s something not right about this.
I stop again, some way from the elevator access point to the gravity deck. I’m on my own here, but I don’t feel like I’m on my own.
“Hello?”
There’s no answer. Maybe I’m—
A rustling sound and a catch of breath. I’m turning toward the noise, but the illumination doesn’t penetrate far enough to reveal anything other than wall panels and bulkheads.
“Hello?”
Still no reply.
I’m reaching for my comms to report in, but again, I hesitate. What have I actually seen? Nothing. So, if I initiate an alert, all I’m going to do is make a fuss over nothing. If they arrest Vasili, they won’t listen to me if I’m jumping at shadows.
Go home, Jake.
I start moving again. I’m heading for my room now. I share with Ashe, but he’ll be out somewhere doing the captain’s shitty work. Fuck patrolling these corridors in the dark. Unless I get a call, I’m staying put and getting some sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Shann
Six minutes to impact. Three atmospheric bags are deployed in our wake, and we’re turning and descending on the far side of the Hercules.
“Chase to Captain Shann?”
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve got a suspect cornered in the gravity deck.”
I bunch the fingers of my right hand into a fist. A small moment of triumph. “Whatever you do, don’t let them out.”
“Going to be difficult with you shaking the ship around.”
“It’s important.”
“Yeah, I understand that, Captain.”
I switch channels and call Duggins. “Well done with the bags; leave it with three. We’ll save the fourth one for later. Get yourself secured and ready to power down the ship.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Le Garre is making the final adjustments, pivoting the ship, to change the shape of our profile should we be scanned. The side of the Hercules’s cargo section fills the view screen, and our exterior lights illuminate a mass of containers, all different colours, jammed together. If one of the missiles hits them, it’ll send debris everywhere. We can’t move away, because that’ll make us a target again.
“We’re in position,” Le Garre says.
“Duggins, power down everything that’s left.”
“Aye, aye.”
The exterior lights vanish. The freighter is suddenly a dark shadow. I glance at the screen clock – we have three and a half minutes until a potential impact. There isn’t anything more we can do.
“Johansson, alert the crew to strap in before you take the comms offline.”
“Doing that now, Captain.”
The automated voice is a muffled echo beyond the bridge door. My screen flicks off. Only Le Garre’s remains lit with the countdown in the corner.
“Time check?”
“Two minutes, thirty seconds.”
We’re powerless. There’s nothing to do but wait.
I’m going over all the decisions I’ve made, looking for something I’ve done wrong, some kind of blame I can levy on myself.
We picked up the freighter’s distress call; we responded, as we’re required to do. When there was an accident and Technician Drake died, we investigated. When we found it wasn’t an accident, we investigated further. We found the freighter; we explored and tried to work out what had happened. When we were in danger, I ordered an evacuation, and this improvised maneuver to keep us alive.
No, there’s nothing I would do differently, given the information I had.
I wonder who’ll discover we’re missing. We sent a communication burst when we realised the Hercules had been attacked. We directed transmissions toward Mars and Earth. It’ll take a while for either signal to be received. I remember a class on deep space communication interference during my initial training. If our enemy could get within the point-to-point line and broadcast their own signal, they could cancel out ours. They’d need to get an independent transmitter in the way.
What could Earth or Mars do? Send out another ship, probably. If they did, would they get stuck in the same situation we’re—
“Thirty seconds, Captain.”
I’m staring at the view out of the window. I’m searching the periphery, looking for any clue as to what’s to come. The Hercules floats serenely in front of us. There’s no sign of imminent destruction.
“Ten seconds,” Le Garre warns.
I’m holding my breath without meaning to. There’s a pain in my fingers. I glance at them. I’m trying to push them into the chair, through the padding on the armrest. “I just want to say thank you to you all. You’ve been magnificent,” I hear myself say.
“Three…two…one…impact.”
A glow splashes across the edge of the screen. It flares brighter, then brighter again. A moment of incandescent light and then we return to blackness and shadow.
We’re alive.
We’re alive.
I’m still not breathing. I can’t force myself to. I remember moments when I was a child and I woke up from a bad dream. I’d think there was a monster in the room with me. If I moved or made a sound, it would know, and I’d be eaten.
In this moment, I’m a child again, scared to move or make a sound.
Another flash.
Another.
Silence.
“I only count five,” Le Garre says. “There were six objects on the scan.”
“Could it be wrong?” Johansson asks.
“Anything is possible.”
I find my voice. It’s dry and broken. “Start a countdown. No movement or power from here for ten minutes. Chiu, Thakur, thank you both for going above and beyond. You’re relieved. Find Duggins and Keiyho and get them here. Move!”
All at once people respond, snapped into action by the words. We’re alive; we have to make something of the time we’ve bought ourselves.
“Ensign Johansson, you came up here to report on the communications you intercepted.”
At first, she doesn’t hear me. She’s still staring at the view screen, paralysed, I guess. I understand. I was almost the same. I reach forward and squeeze her shoulder. “April?”
She flinches, turns in her seat, looking at me over her shoulder as if I’m a stranger, but then the recognition comes back. “I—yes, I’m sorry, Captain.”
“Johansson, your report, please.”
She takes deep breaths, trying to steady herself. I notice her hands on the armrests. Her left hand is shaking. Her right is a cybernetic replacement for the one she lost as a child. We’ve talked about it before. The hand is ha
rdwired into her nervous system and works just like an organic one.
It’s shaking too.
“Take your time,” I say.
“I went over the recordings again,” Johansson explains slowly. “I looked for new patterns like you asked. I couldn’t find anything else, but then I went over the phrase you sent me – ‘…please don’t…sir…’ I listened to that and broke down the gaps in the recording. We thought it was one phrase with a comma after the first two words, but it’s not. There’s a dip after ‘please don’t’ and the third word is cut off. I think whoever spoke was saying, ‘Please don’t, we surrender.’”
I nod, thinking about what might have happened. “They didn’t use long-range missiles on the freighter. They were right here. Right in front of it. They must have wanted to capture the cargo,” I reason. “But what happened to change their minds?”
“Someone activated the distress call?” Le Garre suggests.
“Could be.”
Keiyho and Duggins enter. “Looks like we’re alive, Captain!” Duggins says with a smile. His slow drawl helps me relax. I can see he’s exhausted and stressed, but there’s a sense of victory and achievement along with it. “We live to fight another day.”
“Something like that,” I say. “What’s the situation?”
“Not a lot we can see outside, but I did attach a camera to each of the atmospheric bags. We lost signal with all three. I think we can conclude they took the hits.”
I nod and look at Keiyho. “What happened on the freighter?”
“We got the survivor out. He’s in bad shape. Bogdanovic has him sedated for now. On the way back, someone attacked us. Tomlins took a bullet in the arm.”
“There’s more people alive over there?”
“Seems so.”
I digest this. We’re in a moment of pause, but there’s so much to deal with. “We need to get ahead of this. Right now, we’re reacting, not anticipating. We need a plan that puts us on the front foot; otherwise we’re just surviving and sooner or later, they’ll figure us out.”
“At least they don’t know we’re alive,” Duggins says.
“That lasts as long as we stay hidden or until they discover us. What will they do next?”