Spindown

by Andy Crawford

“Pack up. I mean everything. We’re moving. The entire crew, or the loyal ones anyway, are moving.” A phrase came to her from an old book she’d read – going to ground.

  CHAPTER 63

  Konami found himself flying backwards, unchecked by gravity or anything else until he struck a cluster of machinery against the bulkhead. He coughed heavily, able to see nothing but smoke and dust. His ears rang and he couldn’t even hear his own voice.

  Dazed, he fumbled through some gesture commands for his wearable, every motion sending lances of pain from his back to his knees. Something stung his cheek — shrapnel, he realized. There was a noise, repeating, just audible over the ringing in his ears.

  Gunshots. There were at least two distinct types of weapons firing – the traitors’ preferred flechette guns, and the hastily fab’d slugthrowers.

  Frantically, he scrambled around a coolant pump for cover. His hearing and wits gradually returning, Konami put two and two together. The hatch blew, and they came out shooting. The conclusion was obvious — they were ready for us. Papka’s men had taken Engineering, and apparently had fortified their position.

  He drew his dart gun in one hand, and his slugthrower in the other, wondering if he should have issued one of the latter to every deputy taking part in the assault. As it was, he only gave them to trusted constables and a few others, worried about jumpy and inexperienced deputies shooting friendlies.

  He reached for his wearable, but it was gone — was he holding it when the hatch blew? He couldn’t recall. He still had an earpiece in, but without the main wearable he couldn’t connect with anyone. The smoke and dust were intense — obscuring breathing and vision alike. Almost kicking himself for forgetting, he put on his night-goggles — as he recalled, they were as effective in smoke and dust as in low light. Image enhancers and spectrum detectors blinked and flashed along his vision, finally settling into a decipherable mix of visual-spectrum and infrared imagery. Human shapes darted into and out of his field of view from behind corners and jutting machinery, and by their yelling and wild shots they still couldn’t see him.

  As he peeked around the pump housing, a sharp pain made him cringe. A rib was bruised, and maybe broken, he was sure. A growing shape approached. He closed his eyes momentarily when he realized what it was — Reactor Tech Tan’s mangled corpse, or at least the largest part of it. Papka, you’re a fucking dead man…

  Sensing movement, he steeled himself and remained still, just barely peeking out from around the pump housing. Another shape, this one approaching quickly and actively, became clear. Konami didn’t wait to see if it had a red sash, firing the dart gun three times. The body jerked with an odd metallic clang, and then the unmistakable movement of an arm swinging up to fire a weapon. More gunshots, and Konami jerked back as impacts shook the pump housing.

  Shit! Body armor? When the shots stopped he pulled back around smoothly, firing the slugthrower at the receding shape. He was rewarded with a sharp cry, and he kicked forward, springing off the pump housing. Striking his target, they both tumbled back, and Konami made sure his attacker was between him and the approaching bulkhead.

  The body he held absorbed the impact but made no sound when they struck. He quickly realized he was holding a dead man — his slugs had struck his target in the throat and punched through his chest armor.

  As his hearing returned, he was greeted with shouts and gunshots and general pandemonium, echoing off the engineering equipment and bulkheads of the dozens of compartments in the engineering spaces. He realized that if Papka and his men were armed and ready, this had the potential to be a massacre.

  Where was his wearable? He patted down the body — an Electronics tech named Niemi — pocketing the smaller, sleeker slugthrower and clips. A wearable was on the man’s belt — Konami futilely tried to unlock it, but it was pattern protected.

  The action seemed to be away from his immediate vicinity, so he started calling for Goodluck, quietly at first. After a few moments, a groan answered him — the constable was wounded and barely conscious, but alive, bleeding from shrapnel wounds in his legs and torso and wedged in a corner.

  Konami gently freed Goodluck’s wearable from the constable’s collar. Luckily, the constable had a thumbprint unlock, and with a gentle motion of the wounded man’s hand, Konami put in a call to Loesser.

  No answer. Goddamnit, Loesser… He huddled into the corner alongside Goodluck and tried again.

  “Loesser here, make it quick.”

  “Loesser, it’s Cy.”

  “Cy? Oh shit, you’re alive! Thank the fuck… where are you?”

  “Middle Level 1. There was a bomb at the hatch to Forward; one of my three is dead. Goodluck is seriously wounded. They were ready—”

  “Listen, Cy, the calls were all at once — all shouting about gunshots and bombs — and we couldn’t get ahold of you, so we charged in with the Reserves.”

  “How long?”

  “Just minutes. We’re still deploying.”

  Crap. “They’re ready for us, Loesser.”

  “No shit!”

  He shut his eyes. They’re not ready for this… not even close. “We’re pulling out. Stop your deployment and order the retreat. Order the reserve force to cover retreat and that’s it, and then pull out. Lost my wearable — you’ll have to give the order.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Understood.”

  Konami gritted his teeth as he started pulling his way back forward toward the Can, Goodluck in tow. A red-sashed deputy sailed by and Konami grabbed her, pushing the wounded Goodluck into her arms and sending her forwards. He turned back aft, toward the control room, a weapon in each hand, with just one thought ringing through his head.

  Papka, you’re a fucking dead man.

  CHAPTER 64

  The move to the deep machinery levels was frantic. In a matter of hours, non-vital systems were shut down and spaces welded shut, vital systems were set to automatic or rerouted to new control spaces, large storage bays were cleared, thousands of zero-g bunk-bags were hung, a makeshift medical bay was set up, and the entire area was secured, with all the entrance hatches welded shut — heavy-duty welds reinforced with massive alloy panels — except for two, guarded around the clock. With so many watch stations secured and shut down, they suddenly had thousands of free hands to help prepare their new “Fortress Deep,” as some crewman had dubbed it. Someone else had wanted to call it Helm’s Deep, from some old Earth literature, but that didn’t catch on.

  Mattoso pulled her way through the crowded berthing spaces, nodding and offering reassuring (she hoped) words to anxious Aoteans. The XO’s admin team counted over nine thousand Aoteans in the Fortress, with dozens more arriving every hour, cycling through the gauntlet of blood tests and questioning at the guarded entrances. As crowded as it was, she was amazed by how calm and well organized everyone had been so far. The biggest problem had been an outcry that pets would have to stay in the freefall Veterinary spaces. There were still VetBots operating to keep them fed and watered, so at least they wouldn’t starve.

  Even with so many thousands now safe within the Fortress, Mattoso couldn’t help but think of thousands more outside. How many were dead? The most recent casualty count included less than a hundred confirmed dead, but there had been hundreds more missing. And that was before — with the pandemonium after Ngayabo’s revelation, thousands had since found themselves caught outside the Fortress, with no safe way to make their way there, according to the most recent reports. And how many were among the conspirators? How many killers onboard?

  Her wearable buzzed. She looked down, pleased — Wren and the other Data techs must have gotten the new Fortress network set up and secured. The main ship’s network still functioned, but the Captain had mandated no network usage until a new and totally secure network, confined within the Fortress, was set up. The message was an urgent call to the new command conference room.

  The briefing room was small, and she was one of the last to arrive. Finally, the m
ayor spoke: “They’re calling us, from the main network.” No one had to ask who “they” were.

  “Who are they calling?” asked Mattoso.

  “Everyone. We haven’t been able to shield the Fortress from the main network, though at least we can control any data going the other way.” Mayor Akunle looked down at his own projection. “It should be any second.”

  The screen flashed on, with Mara Ngayabo’s face staring down, imperious, from the wall imager. Damn… we should lower that screen.

  “The time has come to reveal the true mission of Aotea, the one that has been in place since the start of its construction, and the only way to truly build a New Humanity. It was always clear to the Society, from the very beginning, that we must start small.”

  Mattoso’s chest tightened as she realized where this was going. By the whispers around her, others may have been reaching the same conclusion.

  “Large groups are unmanageable — too much of Earth’s culture and history will seep through. I apologize for this deception, but it was necessary. A small group could not construct a vessel of the scale necessary for the journey, and thus deception was required to recruit the larger group, and donor base, necessary.

  “All of you have contributed to our mission, even as you were unaware of its true nature. Even the dead have contributed, and we mourn them together. They will not be forgotten.”

  “What about us?” someone shouted. Ngayabo continued as if it was on mute — which, from her end, it undoubtedly was.

  “Again, the deception was necessary. All great achievements require sacrifice. Unforeseen developments forced us to move our timetable forward, but everything that has occurred was part of our plan. You can see how dedicated the Society is to this mission, and that nothing, and no one, will stop us.”

  Mattoso glanced around her — jaws jutted and teeth gritted in silent rage.

  The view on the screen changed, to one of the vast hangars deep in the bowels of the Operations and Engineering spaces, directly adjacent to the skin of the ship. These hangars wouldn’t be needed for decades, not until they reached their final destination of Samwise. The vessels that would be used to ferry supplies and colonists down to the surface would be constructed later, so the huge spaces were used for storage. But this hangar was occupied by a ship — an enormous, blocky vessel, at least two hundred meters in length, swallowing up most of the hanger’s space. Mattoso realized what this meant, but she couldn’t believe it. How…?

  “Most of you will be returning to Earth system in this vessel, or its sister ship in the aft hanger. A nearby brown dwarf will provide a gravity assist and a course change maneuver, and within two decades — twenty Earth years — you will be within broadcast range of Earth to arrange pickup. It will be a hard voyage, but sufficient rations and supplies are onboard. You will survive.”

  The view switched back to Ngayabo.

  “I’m sure you have questions, but they will have to wait. As we speak, your attempt to regain control of Engineering is failing. Your forces are dead or in retreat. To avoid any more bloodshed, present yourself on the surface near the Forward Medical bay, and our mission can proceed peacefully. But let there be no doubt, our mission will proceed, whether peacefully or not. One way or the other, you will not be completing this journey. Your actions from this moment will determine whether you return to Earth, or join the deceased.”

  The screen went blank, and everyone talked at once.

  “Quiet. Quiet!” Captain Horovitz yelled — something Mattoso had never seen, and everyone shut up. She asked the Navigator if this was even possible.

  Commander Rusk blinked, silent for a moment before responding. “I’d have to see the charts, Captain, and which brown dwarf she’s talking about. I suppose it’s possible if there really is one nearby, but it’d be a bitch to calculate.”

  Horovitz turned to the acting chief engineer — Lieutenant Commander Zafy — the highest ranking Engineering officer verified not to be a conspirator – and asked him about the supposed escape ships.

  The engineer scratched his beard. “I don’t know, Captain. I’d have to inspect them. I’d assume a small fusion plant for power, but they’re too small for Forwood propulsion. The gravity assist will require some maneuvering — they must have conventional thrusters. And for twenty years? We’d be awfully crowded, especially with supplies and recycling gear.”

  “Captain,” interrupted Commander Konrote. “You can’t seriously be suggesting we comply with these murderers?”

  “No, Commander. But before our next move, it’s imperative we know everything we can about these claims.”

  The mayor cut in. “I’ll add my support to the captain. This doesn’t add up. They say everything’s gone according to their plan, but I don’t think their plan would have included so much chaos.”

  “Right,” added Madani. “And what about the drugs in our blood? What about the Bots?” And then the doctor plucked the words right out of Mattoso’s head. “And the assault on Engineering? What about Cy – and Alpha Squad?”

  More questions bubbled up, and Mattoso checked her pockets, somehow reassured by the dense bulk of her sidearms.

  CHAPTER 65

  In a storage alcove in Engineering Middle Level, Konami muted the wearable’s ringer, responding to Loesser’s call with a terse can’t talk text. He added one last try… give me thirty min, if I’m not back, then retreat. He considered explaining his plan, but dismissed it — there was nothing they could do to help.

  Just a distraction right now, anyway… The only thing he needed from his borrowed wearable was the brief, simplified instructions a Reactor Controls Tech had loaded before the assault on Engineering — instructions that should allow even an unqualified crewman, like Konami, to initiate a long-term fusion reactor shutdown, securing all but a trickle of power to most of the ships systems other than the antimatter-powered Forwood propulsion drive.

  He tried to focus on sorting out the frantic sounds — was anyone coming near him? Not right now, he decided. How to get to Fusion Control? A thought came to him, and he pulled a breather off the alcove bulkhead, setting its seal against his face. He had to loosen his night-goggles to fit, and strapped them over the breather mask. He hoped like hell that Papka’s men hadn’t thought to fab low light goggles like his. He also grabbed a handful of wrenches and other tools.

  Konami checked his weaponry — he had two dart guns plus reloads, but with the defenders’ body armor, these were almost useless. He had two slugthrowers plus a looted flechette gun but only two reload clips for the slugs, and he didn’t know how to check the ammo on the flechette.

  As he peeked his head out from the alcove, the smoke began to dissipate — heavy ventilation fans had activated. But no one was nearby. Konami silently pulled himself into the passageway, following the sound of the nearest vent fan. It was above him, set into a corner where the bulkhead met the overhead. Without freefall, it’d be nearly impossible to reach on his own, but he easily drifted upwards and pulled himself to the grating. A few seconds of prying with a screwdriver and the grating was loose — Konami lifted a corner and wedged in a wrench, first banging the fan blade then sticking it, wedging the tool against the fan housing.

  He looked back — no one seemed to have noticed yet. But the fan wasn’t overheating as he had hoped. Screw it. He took the screwdriver by the insulated handle and thrust it, bracing himself against a protuberance in the bulkhead, into the fan’s motor housing.

  This time he was rewarded by sparks and a grinding noise, and he backed away. Still, there seemed to be no response. Maybe Papka is a bit understaffed today...

  He grinned as a thin line of smoke started to trail from the fan, and moved to the next one. Twice Konami had to dodge a conspirator coming to check the fans he damaged. And more than twice he gritted his teeth in anger after coming across a corpse with a red sash, but he could scramble the fans far faster than they could fix them, and within fifteen minutes, all the nearby Engineering spac
es were starting to fill with smoke, with no fans operational to vent.

  It was time to get to Fusion Control.

  Someone certainly seemed to have noticed the damage to the fans — angry voices ricocheted off bulkheads and through the passageways that connected the Engineering and Reactor spaces. An announcement was made — Papka’s voice — ordering repair crews to the vent fans.

  Konami aimed one slugthrower in front of him as he pulled himself along with his other hand, focusing hard on his low-light goggles — the breather mask slightly obscured the clearer vision of the goggles. A shape approached, and Konami squinted, then pulled the trigger twice. He got a muffled groan in response, and then more shouting — the gunshots obviously resonated through the spaces. He continued along, ignoring the splayed corpse except to appropriate another ammunition clip, as he pulled, one-armed, down the passageway.

  Someone was coming from ahead of him — more than one. He pulled himself aside into an alcove, listening and watching with his head peeked out, trying to interpret the vague, distant shapes projected on his goggles through the smoke. Perhaps ten meters down the passage, the shapes resolved into three, making their way slowly and carefully. He hoped they were so slow because they couldn’t see through the smoke. His first instinct was to draw a second gun and charge out, guns blazing; his second was to stay hidden and let them pass by.

  Somehow hiding just fueled his anger at Papka and the rest of the conspirators. Fuck the rules. Once the three crewmen — fully distinct in his goggles now, older firsts and a chief — passed his hiding place, he leaned backward into the passage and pushed gently off with his feet against the alcove bulkhead. Drifting into the passageway, Konami aimed, gun in each hand, and fired repeatedly, two shots for each conspirator. The last one twisted to the side of the passageway, firing blindly — seeing red, Konami kept firing, finally sweeping over the last conspirator and sending him limply drifting, bleeding a trail lit pink in his goggles.