by Allen Stroud
The alternative is I stay out here and die.
I grab the handle and do the deed quickly. I can’t hear the alarms in the vacuum, but the sudden rush of air in my face and flashing red light are both pretty clear indicators that the ship is unhappy with me. It’s fucking amazing how conditioned we are to obey warnings and alerts like this. They make you feel like you’ve just grabbed a hot pan on the stove.
Getting into the corridor, fighting against the rush of air, is much harder than getting out of a pressurised space. As I’m forcing my way in, I’m very aware that every moment the door is open, vital atmosphere is being wasted. This is why we have airlocks, people.
The immediate danger for me is in slipping and letting go, but there’s a whole heap of other problems to come. The computer sealed this door for a reason – to prevent further loss of atmosphere. When the system detects a further loss of atmosphere, it’ll start to close the next hatch and stop re-pressurising this room. Anyone in here not in a suit will suffocate, and I’ll have to override the controls to get breathable air restored. A bit like the last repair I did, only this time it’s a lot more difficult and a lot more risky. I can’t control the process; instead I have to race against it.
Of course, if I wait to let all the air out, getting in the room will be much easier, but it’ll be fatal for anyone in there without a suit and oxygen supply.
I’m through the door. The effort cost me something. My hands are shaking as I reactivate the emergency close protocol. I can just hear the alerts through my helmet. That means there’s still some pressure in here.
I turn toward the other door and as I do, I get a sense of the situation I just walked into.
To my left, there’s a man, drifting in midair, surrounded by a spewing cloud of blood. His body spasms as it empties its contents into the thin atmosphere. I can’t see his face, but he’s not wearing a helmet.
To my right, there’s a large mechanised vehicle blocking the passage. It has four ‘grabber’ arms. Three of them have torn holes in the walls to anchor the device’s ovoid main body in place, right next to an access terminal. I can see the screen flickering and lights flashing on the vehicle in response. There’s some kind of data transfer going on.
This machine must be what the Gallowglass sent over. It looks a little beat up; the surface of the ovoid is pitted and scarred. There’s some kind of camera assembly on top, two optics that shift forward and backward on little runners.
I’m only a short way from the airlock, but there’s no sign of Chase or Arkov.
I move toward the terminal and the machine’s position shifts. The fourth arm extends toward me. There’s some kind of cutter and projectile weapon attached to the end. They are both aimed at my chest.
“Hey…hey…easy there…”
After all I’ve been through, I don’t want to die here. I reach up to the side of my helmet and flick a switch so my words are broadcast through the external speakers. The atmosphere in here is still thin, but I’m close enough so my words will carry.
“I’m Specialist Sellis. I have an authorisation code.”
The arm doesn’t move. Lights continue to blink from the data connection. I guess the Gallowglass is trying to hack our computer network and slave the ship to theirs.
I crank up the volume on the external speaker and recite the number I’ve memorised. “Zero, B, X, H, U, J, seven, six, nine, three, A!”
There’s a moment, and then the arm retracts. The machine makes no other move toward or away from me. I’m safe, but clearly not the priority around here.
I need to restore the atmospheric pressure. Without access to the terminal, I’ll need to get into the system some other way. I don’t have a portable screen anymore. Shah must have taken mine away with him, or it got smashed somewhere in the storage compartment.
Shah…of course…
I make my way back to the man’s corpse. He’s stopped twitching, but the cloud of blood around him is still expanding. His arms and legs are twisted at awkward angles, as if the bones have snapped under extreme force.
I guess depressurisation in here and being thrown around could have done that.
I get a look at his face. Yes, it’s Shah, just as I thought. Whatever his motive was in Tasering me and making for the airlock, it’s died with him. I can’t help but feel I’m to blame. Sure, he attacked me, but I wouldn’t have chosen this as a response. I killed him, or the machine did before I got inside.
When you join the army, they give you training on taking lives. There’s a whole learned psychology to protecting yourself from the aftereffects – the guilt, the shame, the anger, the self-justification. They also talk about intense situations where people rely on you and you let them down. In the military, mistakes can be fatal.
I scored badly on that test, which was why I didn’t get shipped out on tour. Apparently, I don’t deal well with being responsible.
Either me opening the hatch killed Shah, or the drone did. Something I said to him hit a nerve, but I don’t think he was a Gallowglass traitor. Either he came down here to stop the drone or to make sure it succeeds.
I can’t be sure, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself either way.
If I don’t survive, then maybe I don’t have to. My hand strays to my hip. Unplug the oxygen canister and everything ends.
Shit, my life just got fucking dark.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Johansson
Two passwords. Neither of them is likely.
I have a recording of Specialist Sellis’s safety code that he gave to the Gallowglass crew. I have Captain Shann’s Fleet access code and I have Ensign Chiu’s code. All three are numbers I have had to memorise quickly. There were tests in early astronaut selection that required quick and accurate memorisation while performing other tasks, but they didn’t involve being shot full of high-intensity painkillers. Thankfully, I also have the screen in front of me to type things onto.
Most computer systems have lockout procedures. There’s an old tech tradition of ‘three strikes’. That means I probably have that many tries. I can’t waste them.
I try Sellis’s code first. My fingers slip on the screen, but I get it entered. It doesn’t work. That makes sense. While Sellis might have been a spy for them, why would they give him complete access to their ship? It fits with his story too. The captain decided to trust him and Chiu because they both claimed they’d been coerced.
The Fleet access code goes in next. My rationale is that the Gallowglass must have been built by the same construction yards, albeit in secret. If the same computer systems have been installed, the flag passwords would be hardwired into the memory. That’s something we ensure is done on other Fleet registered ships. It means we can take control of vessels if the crew are incapacitated or dead.
Nope. Completely independent computer setup. Shit.
The third try could be my last. There’s a whole host of default options from when I’ve set up profiles on different ships and stations, but if the computer on here has been configured differently from the ground up, there’s no chance one of the defaults we’ve used will be valid.
Everything is riding on me getting into their ship. I’ll die if I don’t.
I close my eyes and try to think over everything I’ve read and been told about the Gallowglass, but my mind wanders. Part of me just wants to leave it. I’m warm; the darkness is nice. I could just drift away, right here. I’d sleep and run out of oxygen – die in peace, much better than all the alternatives. I know the drugs are making it like this. I can feel pain in my legs like it’s far away, but it’s coming back sometime if I keep going. If I just…
No!
I bite my lip, hard. I taste blood in my mouth. The hurt is a buzz, rather than the sharp stabbing sensation it should be, but it does the job. I’m not dying here without doing everything I can possibly do.
We were given access to blueprints and specifications for the Gallowglass from Captain Shann’s archive. I’m trying to picture them in the strategy room when she and I were talking, visualising all the different pages and drawings.
There was something…on every page…a number. I’m trying to remember it. There are seven digits, well-spaced across the header of each page. When I saw them, I couldn’t work out why they were there. I assumed they were just copy numbers or something, but what if they were an access code for the ship’s system?
Why would they put it on the plans?
There are a couple of reasons I can think of. They’re both as tenuous as the ones I came up with before, but I have no other option, other than typing in some random numbers.
I type in the code – two, eight, seven, H, B, five, five.
The screen goes blank. That could mean anything, but I anticipate the worst. Third try would be a lockout, and that would probably be a blank screen. I mean, why display anything for someone who is trying to—
A scrolling list of code flashes up. It looks like a boot sequence of some kind. Whatever I typed in wasn’t a password; it was some sort of rootkit back door. There’s no graphical interface. Instead, a list of terminal commands appears. This may take longer than I’d hoped, but I’m into the system and I think with the right instructions, I can do what we planned.
All my life, I’ve tinkered with programming. I love languages. I remember studying Finnish at school and being fascinated by how different it looked and sounded to Swedish. Some people are hardwired into attaching specific words to objects and actions, so they have to translate all the time. I’ve found my mind adapts and makes room for different structures. This system might not be CNUX, but it’s given me a phrase book, right above the input line, and I’m really good at breaking down phrases to construct my own.
ACC COM TREE
Command Tree Open.
INST ~CTELL [8FF] -OX _RCAL #LOC HCTRL %- BASE CUR=F TR=%+ RST -10
Confirm OX _RCAL to new parametres? Y/N
Y
Beginning Recalibration of bridge atmosphere…
I’m not sure precisely how long this will take, but it’s begun. If left to work undetected, this procedure will kill anyone on the bridge of the Gallowglass. They may not even recognise the signs of oxygen deprivation as their brains starve. Not a good way to go. I activate my comms.
“Johansson to Shann?”
“Go ahead.”
“Mission successful. The Gallowglass computer is starting its atmosphere calibration cycle.”
“Outstanding, Ensign! What’s your situation?”
I smile involuntarily and look around as much as I can. “Nowhere I can go from here, Captain. I’m going to start work on disabling the Gallowglass’s other systems. Hopefully, we can shut her down in time.”
“We’ll come and get you.”
“Don’t waste this chance, Captain; otherwise we all die.”
“Yeah, understood.” I hear her starting to move, the catch in her breath. She’s in pain, probably struggling with one of the injuries she already had, or something new. I’m concerned for her, but I’ve never doubted her. She’ll do everything she can to save me and the rest of the crew.
For some reason, even with the odds stacked against her, I can’t believe she will fail.
I shut my eyes again, listening until a pop signals the closing of the link and returns me to silence. The patter of debris against the outside of the missile casing continues. There’s shifting forces pulling and pushing my body as we spiral around with the Gallowglass. I’ve used the drone arm to pull me in close, but the connection is still weak and could be severed at any moment.
I open my eyes. A red light starts flashing inside my helmet. That’s an oxygen alarm. The first tank must be getting low. Our EVA suits are equipped with incremental cylinders, so as to give us a clear idea of how much we have left based on calculated rates of consumption. There’s also a portable Sabatier unit that tries to capture my exhalations and produce more oxygen, but it’s not very efficient on this scale and needs to be able to vent methane, which can’t happen in this enclosed space. If I activate the unit, I’ll be releasing a dangerous gas into the compartment around me.
It’ll be a while, but eventually I’ll have to make a choice about that. Might be that will just prolong my long, slow death out here.
No. Captain Shann will rescue me.
I know it’s all but impossible for that to happen. The Khidr crew will have to board the Gallowglass under extreme circumstances, take control of the ship, ensure that sections of it are suitable for human survival and then start trying to bring me in.
I get it. I’ve accepted that I’ll likely die, but something within me won’t let go of that unshakeable faith I have in the captain. I don’t know why, but I can’t believe that she’d fail at anything she chose to do.
I’m out here, alone in the dark, slowly suffocating on my own carbon dioxide, and I’m holding on to that.
I open my eyes and tap another instruction into the access window on the screen. The list of commands scrolls by again. Time to make some changes.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Sellis
Get a fucking grip on yourself, Jake!
I’ve fought hard to live. Whatever the consequences are, there’s a choice to be made right here – push on or give up.
I feel alone, but in a way I guess I’m not. Plenty of people have been in a situation like this where you fight or you don’t. There’s no shame in making either choice. This is where you face yourself and find out who you are.
I remember a story about a guy who was part of the Antarctic expedition who just walked off to die. He knew his whole team were on the limit, so he just “popped out” to give them a better chance. That’s just as heroic as struggling on.
As for me, I’m selfish. I need to boil it all down. The oxygen supply in this suit will give up pretty soon. I’ve got a reserve tank from my old suit, but it could be damaged. The pressure in this corridor is too low for me to be able to breathe, but with the door shut, it is capable of being pressurised. If I can access the controls, I can get it done and extend my life by another few hours.
Then we can look at the next problem.
I can’t find Shah’s portable screen. He would have had it with him, but there’s no sign of it. Maybe it got sucked out when the room was depressurised. I need to figure out another way to get to the computer.
I turn back to look at the Gallowglass’s assault drone. It’s still trying to break into the computer system, with pages of data flashing up and scrolling down on the terminal every couple of seconds. Even with it distracted, I don’t like my chances in taking it down. I can’t see any open electronic ports that I recognise either. That means the only weak points are where the arms connect to the main body.
And my passcode.
I don’t know how much of a defence that unique combination of numbers and letters will be, but there’s probably a protocol hierarchy related to the drone’s self-preservation and tactical programming. On the other side of it is another hatch that’ll lead into the airlock control area. Right beside it is the room’s emergency oxygen cylinder.
Fleet builds their spaceships with multiple redundancies. There is always a plan C and plan D for every situation. Only good old Soviet Russia tried space ‘seat of the pants’ style, and plenty of their missions just disappeared, or never existed. The manually operated oxygen reserve is plan C. There’s a big crank handle on the side. All I have to do is pull it down and the tank will empty into the room. Sure, the balance won’t be right, but that doesn’t matter in the short term. You just need the pressure and enough O2 for people to breathe.
I’m holding the axe in my right hand as I push off toward the drone. I reckon it’s the be
st choice to fend off any attempt to grab me.
As I get close, the main body of the machine swivels in my direction, but the arms don’t move or pause in their work. I’m quickly up and over. I grab a handrail and lower myself down, then reach for the emergency tank release.
There’s frost around the handle, and it doesn’t move when I try to pull it upward. Fuck, I wish I’d kept the axe with me. I brace myself and try again. This time I feel it shift a little.
Third time is the charm. I’m pulling with both hands, like some sort of gym machine where you draw your arms toward your chest. The lever grinds open, slowly, and there’s a plume of white as the valve releases.
It’ll take a few minutes for the room to pressurise. I glance around. The data conduit for the terminal is on this side of the room. The cables are behind the scorched wall panels. I move over to that side and jam my axe into the metal plates, levering one off. Then I take out the laser cutter and drag out the data and power cables. The laser makes short work of the connection, slicing straight through it and ending the drone’s hacking attempt.
The screen goes blank. Immediately, the machine turns toward me.
Shit.
I’m shoved forward from behind. I see the large-suited figure of a man without a suit helmet leaping toward the drone with something in his hand. One of the machine’s arms slams into his ribs. He tries to grab hold of it, but he’s flung away to crash into the wall. The device he was holding is left floating in midair.
I stare at it and my brain screams, Bomb!
I drop the laser cutter and I’m moving forward, my hands on the release points around my neck. My suit helmet comes off, and I turn it toward the floating object, catching it inside and slamming the open section of the helmet against the body of the drone.
The arms reach for me. I twist away, getting my feet braced against the side of the corridor above the empty emergency tank.
And the world turns white.