Fearless

by Allen Stroud

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Travers returns.

  “Captain’s okay,” he says. “Bogdanovic is with her.”

  Something in me loosens. I find myself smiling even though there’s very little to smile about. “I’ll start putting together an initial damage inventory,” I say.

  “Please do, and send it through to Duggins when you’re ready,” Travers orders. “He can start sorting out the work details.”

  I nod and initiate the internal damage sweep. While I’m doing so, the assessment calculation for the Gallowglass finishes up. I save the files. The captain will want them later.

  I look around the bridge again. The damage is extensive. The captain’s chair is wrecked, all but torn from its mooring. There’s an inward bulge in the wall next to the main view screen too. Something hit us there from outside. We were very lucky the hull wasn’t breached here, leaving us all to be sucked out into space.

  Others on the ship weren’t so lucky.

  The quiet after all that frenetic activity is disturbing. It’s a strange lull; we’re safe for the moment, but in imminent danger if we make a bad call. People are talking in whispers, as if making a noise will somehow bring back the threat. There’s a seductive quality to the silence, to hesitation as well. We’re on a precipice. For now, we’ve no captain. Any decision taken in her absence might not be the decision she would make and might not fit into her plan. The captain always has a plan; that’s part of the myth you make yourself believe so you can trust the chain of command.

  Maybe Jacobson’s right. Maybe we’ve gone wrong. If we have, when will the moment come when I make a different choice and defy what I’m told to—

  My screen flashes; the initial damage assessment is complete. I key up a transmission window and send it to Duggins.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sellis

  Jake,

  I’m sorry it had to end like this, but you left me no choice.

  I’ve packed all my things from the closet and left you with enough food for a day or two. My brother will be around tomorrow to collect the rest of my things.

  There’s many things I could say, but none of them will do any good; that’s been proven. You’ve not changed after the last time we spoke about your problems, so I have to make a decision that’s right for me and our unborn daughter.

  You’re not ready to be a father yet. Maybe one day you will be, but right now, no.

  Please don’t try to contact me. We’re done. If you do, I’ll have to take legal steps, and neither of us wants that.

  Helen.

  “…corridor nine needs a full system diagnostic. Currently, there is a power spike in panels four and six. You’ll need to remove them to see what needs to be repaired.”

  “Yes, chief.”

  “That’s it for now. Keep your portable comms active and I’ll update you.”

  Lead Engineer Duggins’s face disappears from my wall screen. I open the overhead locker above it and pull out my toolbox. After the war, comes the work. The ship won’t fix itself.

  The screen flashes, turns blue, and a small text appears in the top left. This time it’s a short message and doesn’t scroll. I lean in to read it.

  Disable camera monitoring in corridors four, two and eight.

  I stare at the words. The meaning is clear. Is this how it starts? How I’m blackmailed, and I compromise myself?

  To be fair, I’ve done worse. When I owed money at the Nevada barracks, I sold all sorts of things out of the quartermaster’s inventory. When I was a kid, I sold my bike to pay off David Sansen, the class tough guy, and told my mom it was stolen. I’m not proud of those things, but I accept them. I’m pragmatic about the situations I end up in.

  I leave my room and head toward corridor nine. I’m thinking about what I’m going to do. Turning off cameras while the crew are making repairs is clever thinking. Duggins and anyone monitoring on the bridge is likely to think it’s a system malfunction. I can access the security network from any terminal and get it done. Given time, someone might check who logged in and ‘did the deed’, but right now, we all have other priorities.

  I’ve no idea what my mysterious messenger wants to do. Could be that it’s harmless. Then again, why now?

  No. I don’t think this is harmless.

  How involved am I if I do this? What do I lose if I don’t?

  I think about Drake and the mess they had to clean up in corridor six. Yeah… Fuck that. There’s no choice really, particularly as they’ve mentioned my ex-wife and daughter. That list gave me my daughter’s name – Jane. I never met her while I was still on Earth. Helen left before she gave birth.

  I reach the terminal at the end of the passage. I log in and bring up the camera feeds. I switch monitoring to manual and deactivate them, one by one. Then I go into the command history and delete all my entries.

  I need to be quick with this. Duggins will have sent out the entire repair team. They’ll be all across the ship. The minute someone finds me here and not where I’m assigned, questions will be asked.

  Before I log out, a blue window appears with another message.

  Thank you. Memorise this code – 0bXhuj7693a

  Well, shit. Fuck you very much too.

  I stare at the digits. When I was at school, I’d get a part in the stage stuff they’d put on. I wasn’t the best actor, but I was good at memorising lines. I could visualise each page of the script by staring at it for a while and repeating the words. Instinctively, I’m doing that now. Doesn’t matter whose side I’m on; this is self-preservation.

  I make my way down to corridor nine. The lights are flickering – a sign of the power fluctuation Duggins mentioned. There are scorch marks all along the deck and the bulkhead. There’s foam in here too, floating around. Must have been a fire, put out by the automatic extinguisher. I expect that one of the cables shorted, either from the flames or the foam.

  I remove panels four and six, and suddenly the world becomes a much smaller place – always does when I get into fixing things. Circuits and cables speak to me in ways that people can’t. I remote into the Khidr’s system and deactivate the power. The lighting flickers once more, then dies. I unscrew the safety cover, switch on my flashlight, and lean in to examine the damage. This is the kind of job they can’t ask a computer to do. AIs might be able to diagnose a fault, but unless they go all android, they’ll never replace the repairman. Human beings are cheaper and more expendable, will be forever, no matter how much the tech improves.

  A portable vacuum cleans out the compartment. Then it’s a case of crimping and switching the wires. In zero gravity, we use a chemical solder compound. Cut out the bad cable, expose the ends of the replacement and the old section, wipe on a little of the magic paste and hold it all in place while everything joins together. Still fiddly, but a lot easier than trying to scrape a bubble of liquid metal onto bare wires, like we did back when I—

  “You okay, Sellis?”

  I look up. There’s a flashlight in my face, making me blink and cover my eyes. “I was fine until you came along,” I grunt.

  My bunkmate, Technical Specialist Jahad Ashe, kneels down beside me. He’s three years younger than me and has been trying to get out of sharing our room ever since we were put together three weeks ago. It’s nothing personal, apparently. Yeah, fuck you, shithead.

  Ashe is second-generation Sri Lankan American and an optimistic pain in the butt. He’s got these watery blue eyes and super metabolism. He eats every chance he gets, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him.

  “Duggins gave me corridor five,” Ashe tells me – like I’m supposed to care.

  “You all done then?”

  “Yeah. Just a malfunction in the atmospheric processor.”

  “Why are you bugging me then? Duggins will have more for you to do.”

 
Ashe flinches from my glare and looks uncomfortable. There’s something off, but he’s not talking about it. “I just wanted to check on you…” he mumbles.

  “Bullshit,” I reply.

  “I mean it, I…” Ashe looks around, then moves in closer. “You can tell me if anything’s wrong, you know that, right?”

  “Sounds like there’s something you want to tell me.”

  “No, I…” Ashe swallows, biting off what he was going to say. “They say Captain Shann was injured in the attack.”

  I shrug. “I bet plenty of people were hurt and killed.”

  “Who’ll take charge?”

  “You know who. Travers is XO. The senior crew will rally around him.”

  “You think they can get us home?”

  “You think they can’t?” I chuckle. “You know as well as I do they believe they can. They have to. That’s what being an officer is all about, making choices and standing by them, even if you’re wrong. We march in line. That’s what soldiers have always done.”

  Ashe looks at me again. His eyes are watery, and there’s a redness about his face that I didn’t notice before. He’s been crying. “Hey, you sure you’re okay?” I ask. “Come on, if you need to talk it out, I guess I can—”

  “No, it’s nothing.” Ashe wipes his face. The moisture clings to the back of his suit sleeve. The comms badge on his wrist flashes. “I need to get to my next assignment. I’ll see you later.” He turns and drifts away.

  I’m left wondering what he wanted.

  Maybe someone’s approached him, like they did with me.

  I replace panel four and move on to panel six. There’s some residual extinguisher foam in here. I take out the micro-vacuum and scrape away all traces of it. These compounds are designed to insulate circuits and cut off the power in the event of a fire. A quick circuit test indicates no further repairs are needed.

  Good.

  The rest of the damage to the corridor is superficial. We’re in the middle of the ship, so it was probably protected from the worst of the attack. Cleanup will come after we’ve fixed the worst of the damage.

  I’m done here. I’ll have to check in with Duggins and get my next assignment.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shann

  I’m alive.

  I’m not alone.

  We’re alive.

  The pressure on my chest is easing. I feel fingers working at the straps around me. There are voices too. I recognise the words and I should understand them, but I’m too tired to link everything together.

  Hands are under my arms; I’m being lifted from where I was, floating in the air. An arm wraps itself around me, guiding me away from where I was.… I remember the captain’s chair…on the bridge of my ship… the Khidr.

  It’s all coming back gradually. I hear the word ‘relax’ said by a familiar voice over and over again. I try to do what I’m told and not force my head to make sense of everything – just let it come naturally.

  “Captain Shann, can you hear me?”

  The words make sense, so I nod. I’m lying down. I can feel more safety restraints, but they’re not constrictive. How did I get here? How long have I been here? There’s a time gap. Was I asleep? What did I miss?

  I open my eyes. I’m in my own room and I recognise Doctor Bogdanovic. He’s leaning over me. There’s dried blood on his cheek. I can’t see a wound. I guess it’s not his.

  “Hello, Captain Shann. How are you feeling?”

  “I—” Opening my mouth to answer brings the pain. A crushing headache that feels like a vise is gripping my skull. My mouth is dry, my voice hoarse and broken.

  Bogdanovic smiles. “Good, better than I thought you were and better than some of the others. The painkillers will kick in shortly and you’ll be able to function.” He’s holding a small torch and staring into my eyes, watching how my pupils react. “You know, I watch a lot of retro-Earth sports entertainment? You ever heard of boxing? Awful game where two athletes would enter a roped-off space and inflict as much head trauma on each other as possible. All for money and a gaudy belt. The medical professional in me hates the idea, but there’s something about it that’s strangely compelling. Right now, you’re exhibiting the same kind of symptoms as one of those poor saps. Thankfully, you’re not making a career out of it.”

  I notice there’s an IV line in my left arm at the elbow. My right hand is wrapped in a tight blue glove. “What happened to—”

  “You’ve broken two ribs, banged your head really hard and fractured your left wrist. I’ve set the bones, but you’ll be managing a fair amount of pain for the next few weeks. Provided we survive that long, of course.” Bogdanovic moves away from me toward the door. “Give yourself twenty minutes or so to let the medication get into your system, then unplug the IV and you can return to duty. Given the power failures and damage, I’d suggest you make use of your own terminal for the time being.”

  “How bad is—”

  “Bad enough, but manageable. You can start dealing with it when the drugs kick in.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “About an hour. You should eat something.”

  I lie back and hear the door open and close. I’m alone now, listening to my heart, my breathing and other noises. The life beat of the ship, louder now she’s hurt, I guess. There’s a throbbing, fitful hum that I don’t remember from before. It doesn’t sound healthy.

  I go through what I remember. There was a missile aimed at us. I know it hit the Khidr. We were already moving away, and there was that horrible press of high g’s. Travers must have gotten us clear. The engines must still be working, at least enough to give us a chance.

  The headache starts to recede, and now I can feel the muted dull ache of my wrist and my ribs. The painkillers make me feel distant too, as if I’m not really here. That won’t help.

  I don’t know whether twenty minutes have passed, but I can’t wait any longer. With my left hand, I pull out the IV and sit up.

  I’m immediately dizzy and disorientated. It’s like the first day of zero g training all over again, but this time I’m not going to vomit. I undo the straps and push off with my left hand, catching myself on the back of my chair with my right. My injured wrist protests at the use, but I ignore it and drag myself into the seat.

  There’s a ship schematic on the screen. Several compartments are labelled dark red. That means they’re either gone or irreparable. Hydroponics is among those, so are at least half of the crew compartments. We’re in bad shape.

  My hands are shaking as I manipulate the screen. Do I want to know how bad? No, not really, but I have to know. It’s my job, my responsibility.

  A damage summary appears and scrolls in front of me. We’re down to twenty-four per cent of our oxygen reserve, twenty per cent of our nitrogen. Thruster fuel is at thirty-three per cent. The laser scanner is offline but being repaired. Our laser turret has been destroyed. Two rocket launchers are also inoperable. Half the ship’s thrusters are no longer functional. We have six unidentified pressure leaks, and fourteen members of the crew are injured and five dead.

  Five are dead.

  Tomlins, Thakur, Lendowski, Andelman and Orritt all killed in action. After the freighter crew and Drake, the first casualties of a war in space.

  I stare at the photo IDs of the dead crew, and it hits me. I honestly thought we were past moments like this. Sure, there have been tensions between different factions, but Fleet exists to represent humanity as a whole. We’re supposed to be united; that’s the difference between us and the national militaries. Conflict between nations has always been an ‘Earth thing’ – I’ve heard many people say that. People who’ve been trying to lead, shape and define what being a human being in space means. What our non-Earth societies are, and are going to become.

  What possible motive could these…murderers have
?

  I can see my own face reflected in the glass. I look awful. There are little nicks and bruises along my forehead and down to the right side of my jaw. My eyes are watery, and I’m struggling to focus. Battered, but not broken. Not yet.

  I remember what Bogdanovic said before he left – you should eat something. My stomach growls. He’s right. Despite feeling like crap, I’m hungry.

  Food in space is never going to be an occasion. On some ships they’ve tried to have sit-down meals and everything, but it doesn’t work too well. Astronauts are used to liquefied meals they can squirt and swallow without too much ritual. Zero gravity means any fluid or object that isn’t strapped down will move around. A lot of mixed liquids get sticky without gravity to keep them in line and don’t like leaving their containers. So, a lot of clever designing has been needed to get around all these problems.

  But, even then, food is functional.

  I suppose we could eat a scheduled meal on the gravity deck. But for it to approximate the same ritual on Earth, we’d have to prepare everything up there and keep the torus spinning for a long time. Cooking is wasteful. In space, you can’t afford to be wasteful, so we’re left with preprocessed and preprepared liquefied paste. Better than ship’s biscuits, gruel and rum, I guess, but not by much.

  I eat, if you can call it that, quickly. The hunger subsides, but I keep eating until the plastic pack is empty and I can drop it in the recycler. No waste is a good habit, even if our ability to reuse and reconstitute our supplies has been compromised.

  The signal chime sounds at my door. I look down. I’m barely dressed. Someone has had to get me out of my work suit and into a surgical robe. “Hold on!” I say and open one of the compartments above my head. There’s fresh clothes in sealed and magnetised bags. I pull out what I need and quickly change. “Come!”

  The door slides back. The person waiting there is someone I don’t recognise.

  “Captain, I’m Technician Kiran Shah, from the Hercules. Doctor Bogdanovic and Major Le Garre gave me permission to come and speak with you?”