The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

He heard the hatch open and turned, expecting to see another set of prisoners. Instead, a small object flew into the brig and hit the deck with a loud bang. Hamish threw himself down instinctively, one hand grabbing for the pistol at his belt as he landed. He drew it as a set of men rushed into the cell, waving sticks frantically as they moved. The two guards didn’t have a chance to draw their weapons before they were overwhelmed.

  Hamish lifted his weapon and fired twice, but the men just kept coming. Their eyes were wild, flickering from side to side . . . they were clearly hyped up on something. He’d fought drug-addled fanatics before, during the war, but this was worse. He hit one of the attackers in the head before the pistol was torn from his hands and thrown beyond his reach. A moment later, they were overpowering him, hands hammering down on his body. Hamish kicked out, but the tiredness made it hard to fight back. It was all he could do to curl up into a ball and hope to survive.

  The last thing he saw, before the darkness finally reached up and overwhelmed him, was the first of the cells being unlocked.

  The prisoners were free.

  Paul gritted his teeth. “What do you mean . . . we’ve had a prison break?”

  “Someone attacked the brig,” Jeanette said. “At least a dozen men. They forced their way into the brig, then beat two of the guards to death. Constable Singh is alive but battered into unconsciousness.”

  “Someone,” Paul repeated. “Who?”

  “We don’t know,” Jeanette said. “All the security monitors—”

  “Are offline,” Paul finished. Normally, he could track anyone on his ship, wherever they went. Privacy was often an illusion in the modern world. Now . . . the prisoners could go anywhere, and as long as they were careful, they might escape recapture for days. Or longer, if they wished. He didn’t have the manpower to hunt them down. “Fuck.”

  He took a breath. “Are all the prisoners gone?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jeanette said. “That’s Brother John and his cronies, Finley Mackintosh and some of his cronies . . . and Roman Bryon.”

  “Jesus,” Paul said. “I should have spaced the fucker.”

  A serial killer, loose on his ship . . . like the plot of a clichéd movie.

  “Right,” he said. “Where’s Chief Slater?”

  “He’s organizing a search party now,” Jeanette said. “He thinks he can track them down before they get too far out of hand.”

  Paul shook his head. Someone had helped the bastards to break out of the brig. The problem wasn’t limited to a couple of dozen escapees, not now. A mutiny was clearly being plotted, and the Brethren were the obvious suspects. And if the group wanted to stay in the lobster pot, as insane as they sounded, they didn’t have much time before Supreme made her bid for freedom.

  “Hold back on the search parties for now,” he ordered. “I want the guard on the bridge, Sickbay, Engineering, and life support doubled. Once that’s done, we can start isolating the upper decks and moving the passengers through the bottlenecks while we put the entire ship into lockdown. Hopefully that will be enough to keep the brigands from causing mischief.”

  He rubbed his forehead. Supreme was huge, easily large enough for a few dozen men to hide from security for days. God knew there were a number of decks that had dropped off the grid completely. He just didn’t have the manpower to sweep them all properly, not without the sensors. His security teams were outnumbered . . . come to think of it, they might be outgunned too. Bodyguards carried quite a few weapons that could be turned against the ship’s crew.

  If the bodyguards are turning against us, he thought.

  “Aye, Captain,” Jeanette said. “Um . . . do you want to tell the passengers anything?”

  “We’ll have to tell them that the ship is going into lockdown,” Paul said. He forced himself to think. Just how well did the Brethren know Supreme? The staff sections weren’t shown on any map that should have been available to the guests, but it wouldn’t be hard to deduce their rough locations. The concealed hatches weren’t that concealed. “Make sure you move the children up to Gold Deck ASAP.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Jeanette said.

  “I’ll be on my way up to the bridge,” Paul added. “Inform Mr. Slater that I want to meet him there.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Paul closed the connection and turned to Roeder. “You heard all of that?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Roeder said. “It’s just like Gladys.”

  “Gladys had a military crew,” Paul said. “She was far better equipped for the unknown than we are.” He shook his head. “Once the security reinforcements arrive, make sure they are deployed to cover your section. And get the power cells charged and ready to go. We cannot remain here.”

  “Understood,” Roeder said. “I’ll try and shave as much time off the estimate as possible.”

  Paul closed his eyes for a long chilling moment. The passengers didn’t have the training they needed to withstand hunger and sleep deprivation, let alone the voices and the constant sense of being watched. His crew were better prepared, but he was all too aware that they weren’t a military crew. It might not be the passengers who cracked up over the next few days. His crew might be on the verge of snapping too. Gladys’s crew had gone mad, and they’d been taught to expect the unexpected. Supreme was about to come apart at the seams.

  He reached down and touched the pistol on his belt. He hadn’t fired it in anger since basic training, decades ago. He’d fired missiles and energy weapons from the bridge of his superdreadnought, but he’d never faced an enemy in single combat or led a force of groundpounders into battle. Now . . . now his ship was turning into a battleground. He hated to think of just how much trouble even a relatively small group of insurgents could do if they were on the verge of madness. The Brethren wanted Supreme to remain in the lobster pot and die. They’d get their wish if they broke into Main Engineering and smashed the power cells and linkages beyond repair.

  “Keep your pistol with you,” he ordered. “From this moment on, you are authorized to use deadly force.”

  “Understood, sir,” Roeder said. “I won’t let you down.”

  “You will die here,” Nancy said.

  Angela jumped. “Nancy?”

  Nancy looked down at the bed. “Did I do it again?”

  “Yeah,” Angela said. “Can you stop it?”

  She sighed in pain. Her sister looked . . . pale and wan, as if she was too tired to sleep. Or perhaps she was unwilling to risk slumber. Angela didn’t blame her. The aliens seemed to speak through Nancy whenever they felt like it, turning her body into their puppet. What would they be able to do if she fell asleep?

  Which is why she will be restrained, once she tries to sleep, Angela thought. She won’t be allowed to move until she wakes up properly.

  She picked up a bowl and held it up, feeling her stomach rumble in anger. The soup was strictly for Nancy. Angela had been told, in no uncertain terms, that she’d be in deep shit if she took even a drop of the soup. Marie had practically threatened her with grievous bodily harm. Nancy looked as though she didn’t want to partake herself but slurped a spoonful anyway. Angela felt relieved. At least her little sister was eating.

  “We’ve fallen far,” she mused. “Haven’t we?”

  Nancy looked up. “What do you mean?”

  Angela indicated the bowl. “This is cheap crap meant for patients,” she said. “And very weak patients at that. Now . . . it’s the finest soup in all the land.”

  “I suppose,” Nancy said. Her voice was weak. “Take some, if you want.”

  “It’s all for you,” Angela said. “It’s crammed with nutrients and stimulants and . . .”—her imagination ran out—“lots of other things that are good for you.” She filled a spoon with soup and held it out. “Do I have to feed you like a baby?”

  Nancy flushed. “I’m not a baby!”

  “You’re very young,” Angela said. She tried to sound mature. “And you act like it, sometimes.”

  “I�
��m twelve,” Nancy said. “What’s your excuse?”

  She stuck out her tongue, triumphantly. Angela tried to think of a comeback, but nothing came to mind. Marie and her father had been right. She had acted childishly even as she’d grown into an adult. She knew that now, even though she still wanted to deny it. And now . . . there was a good chance she’d die before ever getting the chance to put the lesson into practice.

  The hatch opened, saving her from having to concede that her little sister might just have a point. Marie stepped in, a gun in her hand. Angela felt her eyes go wide. She’d never seen a gun . . . she hadn’t even gone on the hunting and shooting excursions that had fascinated some of the boys in her set.

  She told herself not to be silly. Marie was a trained soldier as well as her governess. Of course she’d know how to use a gun.

  “You’re both here,” Marie said. “Good.”

  Angela frowned. “What’s happened?”

  Marie walked around the room, inspecting the Jefferies tube hatch and the cupboards. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Yes,” Angela said. Whatever it was, it was serious. She was sure of that. “What’s happening?”

  “There’s been a prison break,” Marie said. “Finley and a bunch of other undesirables have been broken out of the brig.”

  An icy hand clutched at Angela’s heart. “He’s . . . free?”

  “Yes,” Marie said flatly. “You did say you wanted to know.”

  Angela bit down several words that would probably have got her in real trouble. She had wanted to know, hadn’t she?

  Her throat was suddenly very dry. She swallowed, hard.

  “Where . . . where is he?”

  “Good question,” Marie said. “We don’t know.”

  The lights flickered, then dimmed. Angela’s heart almost stopped. Finley could be anywhere . . . she felt sick. Was she ever to be free of him? Her hands fluttered, helplessly. He would have killed her if Matt and Carla hadn’t arrived. She knew it with a sick certainty that could not be denied.

  “You will all die here,” Nancy intoned.

  Angela spun around. Her sister’s face looked . . . different . . . in the half-light, as if she had rejuvenated her body without rejuvenating her mind. But . . . no, it was worse. Someone, something, was wearing her sister’s face.

  “You fuckers,” she snarled. “Why are you doing this?”

  Nancy jerked. “It happened again, didn’t it?”

  Angela felt hot tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. Marie put a hand on her shoulder, reassuringly. After a moment, she leaned into the older woman’s touch.

  “You’ll stay here,” Marie said firmly. “This place is heavily guarded.”

  “Right,” Angela said. “Is that going to be enough to stop him?”

  “The captain has authorized lethal force,” Marie said. She sounded confident at least. “And I will be here too.”

  “You will all die here,” Nancy said. “This is our place.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Angela shouted.

  “Don’t taunt the aliens,” Marie said. “Right now, we have other problems.”

  Angela gave her a sharp look but said nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

  Matt recoiled as Slater turned his gaze on Carla, but his friend wasn’t finished. “You kept a serial killer on this ship and you let him escape?”

  “The brig was attacked,” Slater said icily. “Do you, perhaps, think that happens on every voyage?”

  Carla glowered back at him. “And why is this the first we’re hearing of a dangerous maniac on this ship?”

  “Because you didn’t need to know beforehand,” Slater said. He took a breath. “Now, are you going to start acting like an officer, or do I have to confine you to your quarters?”

  Matt put a hand on Carla’s arm. She shrugged it off.

  “We will be moving all the passengers from the lower decks onto the upper levels, specifically Gold and Silver Decks, after we’ve searched them,” Slater said. “We’ll put children and their mothers into Gold Deck, then move the menfolk to Silver. I know it will be a squeeze, but we’re desperate.”

  “They won’t fit,” Carla muttered.

  Matt stuck up a hand. “How will we be able to separate . . . mutineers from innocent passengers?”

  “With great difficulty,” Slater said. His eyes narrowed. “We believe the people who attacked the brig were all male, but we don’t know for sure. That’s why we’ll be putting the entire ship into lockdown over the next few hours. We’ll be handing out drinking water laced with sedatives.”

  If they work, Matt thought. He’d heard rumors about sedatives not working properly—or at all. The captain must have a plan to get us out while the guests are sleeping.

  “Once the decks are in lockdown, we’ll start searching parts of the ship,” Slater added. “Ideally, we’ll be able to seal them into their hiding places and leave them trapped until . . . until this whole situation is restored. If not, we may have to fight.”

  Matt swallowed. The security team was trained to fight, but the stewards? They barely had real combat training. It had always been assumed that the security teams and onboard systems would be sufficient to deal with any threats. But the latter was offline, and the former was as tired and drained as the rest of them.

  “I caution you all to be careful,” Slater concluded. “A mistake could get one or more of you killed, or worse. The escapees are very dangerous.”

  Including Finley, Matt thought. Slater hadn’t said anything about taking the escapees alive, had he? Perhaps no one would care if Finley was accidentally shot during the fighting. Or the serial killer . . . what genius had thought putting him on a ship was a good idea?

  “Report to the hatches,” Slater said. “Good luck.”

  Matt looked down at himself. The body armor, which hadn’t been designed for him, felt cumbersome. He looked like a fraud. And he felt like one too. He knew better than to think he could put up a fight against a real soldier. Beside him, Carla looked even worse. Her outfit had been prepped for someone larger.

  “We should dump the armor at some point,” he muttered as they made their way to the hatches. It felt like years since they’d done a lockdown drill, but his body remembered. The hatches were already closed and sealed, guarded on both sides. “It’s hot and icky.”

  “It might make the difference between life and death,” Carla pointed out. She checked her pistol carefully. “Your mortal enemy is on the loose.”

  “I know,” Matt said. “Fuck.”

  He wondered, briefly, about Angela. She’d been in Sickbay, hadn’t she? It was guarded, he told himself firmly. The captain had assigned two entire squads of security officers to guard the compartment. And yet . . . Finley would go for her; Matt was certain. He wanted to run to Angela, to protect her . . .

  His wristcom buzzed. “Check in, by the numbers,” Slater ordered. His voice was half-hidden behind a wash of static. “Number One?”

  “This is Steward Seven,” Carla said when their number was called. “Hatch 17-A is closed and sealed.”

  “Very good,” Slater said, followed by a long pause. “We will begin sweeping Gold Deck now.”

  Matt felt his heart pound in his chest. They’d practiced sweeping the deck before, but they’d never hunted a group of mutineers.

  “Check in every five minutes,” the dispatcher ordered. “If you do not check in, we’ll assume the worst.”

  “Ouch,” Carla grumbled. “This is not going to be fun.”

  Matt nodded as they reached the first stateroom. The door was firmly closed and sealed. There was no power to the system. He forced the portal open while Carla covered him. Inside, the stateroom was dark and silent. The air was so cold that he felt goosebumps forming inside his jacket, despite the body armor. He clicked on his flashlight and shone it around, half expecting something to jump out of the shadows and attack. But there w
as nothing.

  He peered into the bathroom and froze. A body lay in the bath, unmoving. He shone the light over the corpse, shaking his head in dismay. The young woman—she couldn’t be older than twenty—had sat down in the tub and cut her wrists. He found the knife lying on the deck. Suicide, then. Or a murder? He couldn’t tell. It would be easy to fake . . .

  “I’ll call it in,” Carla said.

  Matt nodded gratefully. They’d been given briefings about how to handle suicide attempts, successful or not, but he had a feeling that normal procedures had been suspended. He glanced into the next two rooms, making sure the stateroom was empty, while Carla reported the body’s location. A few days ago, it would have been a disaster. Now it was barely a footnote to Supreme’s drawn-out death.

  “Maxine Dubois,” Carla said quietly. “She was going to university on Britannia. Her family was pretty old money, but . . . she wasn’t an entitled brat. I liked her.”

  “You liked her,” Matt repeated. “Did you talk to her?”

  “A few times,” Carla said. She checked the final room as she spoke. “She was very interested in everything. I . . .” She shook her head, keying her wristcom. “Sir, Stateroom 100 is clear,” she said as she led the way out of the compartment. “We’re sealing the door now.”

  Matt pushed the door closed and knelt down to open the maintenance hatch and fiddle with the systems inside. It wouldn’t be easy to undo his tampering without a clear idea of how the system actually worked. His lips twisted in contempt. Finley probably didn’t know how to mix a martini, let alone repair a piece of faulty equipment. He had enough money to replace everything he owned instead of trying to repair it.

  But he isn’t alone, Matt reminded himself.

  “Proceeding to Stateroom 099,” Carla reported. “Any news?”

  “No,” Slater said. “Continue on your current sweep.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Gold Deck has been swept, sir,” Slater reported. “The entire network of staterooms has been sealed.”

  Paul nodded. It was theoretically possible for a lone man to slip around behind the searchers, but it would be far harder for an entire group. Besides, the hatches were being dogged down and sealed, one by one. Entire sections of the deck had been sealed off. If someone had managed to hide in one of the staterooms and escape detection, they would be trapped until the power came back online or they perished.