by Gem Jackson
“There are people in that,” Tem whispered. The quiet of the cockpit was oppressive.
Around the remains of the orbital, the closest vessels scrambled to get away in all directions. Every few seconds there was a flash. They lasted for a millisecond, signalling the explosive decompression of another ship as razorblade shrapnel clouds engulfed those who remained nearby.
“We’ve got to get in there. Do something.” She look at Tariq who was shaking his head.
“We’ve got our orders. The Aggressive won’t wait forever.” He spoke softly. His head was tilted away from the view screen, though he couldn’t fully look away from the catastrophe unfolding before them.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
He turned to face her, eyes bright with anger.
“Don’t give me that shit, Long. Like I’m the bastard? You don’t want to stick around to help anyone. You want to stay so you can sniff around after Biarritz, that’s all. And if you hadn’t screwed up on the orbital, we might have stood a chance of leading the damn investigation round here.”
That was only half true. The incident with the Station Commander hadn’t helped, but Mo had been clear. It was a public relations thing.
“If I hadn’t acted in the way I did, there would be thousands more dead out there right now. Every ship that got away on time did so because of me.”
She could feel her chest rise and fall. It wasn’t like Tariq to attack her like that.
“I’m sorry, Tem,” he said. “I’m angry. That’s all.”
“I know.” She reached out and gave his arm a squeeze. It felt like the sort of thing a normal person would do. Tariq didn’t look impressed. “Let’s get to the Aggressive.”
Tariq took a deep breath and drew his gaze away from the view screen.
“Agreed. Let’s get this over with. We’re going to be accelerating hard to catch up. Eight minutes at three and a half G, eyeballs in.”
Tariq checked they were both strapped in and configured the burn. The engines roared into life behind them, throwing the shuttle across space like a cheap firework.
She appreciated that from the outside, the shuttle must have looked very impressive as it lanced it’s way into space, engine flare glinting dramatically. From inside the shuttle however, the whole thing was closer to being physically assaulted in a washing machine. Tem knew she should be using this time to think and plan, but all she could focus on was how ridiculous she must look as her lips were stretched thin across her mouth. It was all she could do to keep her arms crossed, fingers wedged painfully between her chest and the harness to stop them flapping uncontrollably. Grunting, she craned her head to glance at Tariq.
How the hell did he always manage to look so calm? Tariq was strapped in tight though he still shook violently under the heavy acceleration. His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping; his expression bore no trace of the pain or panic she was feeling.
Following Tariq she decided to close her eyes and try not to think about the huge engine vibration shaking any important wiring or safety sensors loose. She focused on keeping her mind away from a subsequent errant spark lighting a catastrophic chain reaction and a surging, broiling inferno barreling towards them and filling the cabin. What was it like to feel your eyeballs boil? How would she know it was happening? Would there be a warning siren first? She couldn’t decide whether she would like to know or not. Surely it would be worse to spend your last few moments trying to swallow down rising panic but knowing full well that your own death was not only imminent, but would be agonising and lonely too. Or maybe it would be worse to be caught unaware? Surely a couple of moments warning would allow her to steel herself, mentally prepare for the end? She tried not to think about the poor souls who never left the orbital before the impact.
Then it was over.
“What happened?” she asked.
“The acceleration is done. We’re on a heading which will intersect with the Aggressive in just over twenty minutes.” Tariq unclipped his harness and made himself comfortable. “You can do yours too, if you like. The deceleration won’t be that bad. Do you mind if I open up a channel and see what’s going on around Earth? This thing has a variable frequency receiver.”
Tem stretched her shoulders and neck, now free of the restraints.
“I have no idea what that means, but go right ahead.”
No images appeared on the monitors. Tariq fiddled with the controls for a while before giving up.
“It will be the satellites,” he said. “Looks like the Kessler syndrome has started.”
“Something has started all right, and it’s not just the Kessler syndrome. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something else coming. Something big.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“I know. So do I.”
Chapter 5 – Leon
Leon arrived at the port side airlock. It was a cramped fist of a room positioned at the end of a long corridor that spanned the topside structure of the ship. Like everything else on board it was functional and little more. Nobody else was there. He paced the room for a while before sitting down. Since there was only one way in or out of the room, two if you counted the airlock, he would hear anybody coming before they arrived and would have time to stand again. If he had to wait, he would at least be comfortable.
This is what it’s going to be like. This is going to be the entire tour. Deciding whether to sit down or stand up in a small room waiting for people who may or may not be coming. It occured to him that the job could be an elaborate hoax. He balled his right hand into a fist and tested it a couple of times against his left palm. He pressed it gently against the hard, cold wall and thought about punching it. No, he would only break a digit or a knuckle. Anyway, someone might hear. They’d love that, wouldn’t they? ‘Loser lieutenant breaks hand while crying and punching wall’.
Steps.
Leon scrambled to his feet and leaned against the wall in an imitation of casual relaxation. The hatch opened and a familiar face appeared.
“Ramis? Have you come to gloat?” Leon stood up straight.
“Leon! Oh, cracking mate. They get you as well? Are you looking after someone too?” Ramis stepped in smiling.
“Not quite. Me and Murray are ferrying some diplomat’s yacht to Titan. You? “
“The miserable bastards in charge of logistics decided that I was,” Ramis paused for a second to purse his lips in order to better imitate his superior, “‘surplus to requirements’. Gits.”
“Tell me about it. We got ‘lowest ranking officers’, if that’s the same thing.”
“Nice. Not sure if it’s the same, but I reckon my surplus wins.” Ramis stepped to the opposing wall and sat heavily on the floor.
“So you’ve got to look after a diplomat. That sounds,” Leon hesitated, “dull?”
“Aye, dull as pig-shit. Apparently it’s all a bit fishy.” Ramis picked at his trousers where they had snagged against something, leaving a hole. “The boss said he could be a spy or something. Nobody wants him poking his nose around the ship so I have to babysit him. Diplomat Dick. I think they just want me out of logistics.”
“He’s called Dick?”
“I dunno. McVeigh, apparently. He could still be a dick. Dick McVeigh. Shittiest spy in the Solar System.” Leon chuckled.
The conversation was interrupted by the high-pitched alert of the internal comm as it announced a ship-wide message. The speaker in the airlock was too loud to be comfortable, distorting the sound painfully.
“This is the Captain. By now you may be aware that a situation has been developing around the Lancaster Orbital and an APSA destroyer, the Enigma.”
Ramis turned to Leon and shook his head, grinning. “No shit?” Leon hushed Ramis and cocked an ear away from him to better hear the message.
“A short while ago we were made aware that the Enigma was behaving erratically. It was suggested that something sinister may have befallen the crew and the ship itself was being used as a wea
pon to perpetrate a terror attack against APSA forces, specifically, Lancaster Orbital. This suggestion has proven to be well founded. Despite our own best efforts, we have been unable to stop the Enigma closing on and engaging Lancaster Orbital.
“In these circumstances I will be plain. The casualties resulting from the attack are large. The order to evacuate the station was made in advance, but nonetheless the Enigma proceeded to collide with Lancaster Orbital at considerable velocity. There is no suggestion this was done accidentally.” Ramis was on his feet shouting expletives at the comm system. Shouts and bangs clattered down the corridors. The Captain carried on speaking.
“At this moment in time, the orbital itself is being considered a complete loss. Though many managed to evacuate, the nature of the attack means large casualties are anticipated. The last few minutes have confirmed suspicions the attack was designed to trigger a Kessler syndrome around the planet, which has indeed occurred and continues to grow. We expect to lose satellite communication with the admiralty at any time, though we anticipate this to be resolved in a timely manner. With this in mind we have been issued with new orders.” As quickly as it had exploded, the ship descended into silence.
“We are to continue away from Earth. We will not take part in the recovery efforts being organised at this very moment. The major battle groups are being recalled to Earth to guard against any attempt to take advantage of the disarray and confusion. We will not take any part in this defensive action either. The Aggressive is a hunter-killer. We are designed to perform away from the battle groups, to be independent and flexible. We are trained to track down, engage and kill the enemy without relying on support from a scattered fleet. This is our new mission. While most of the fleet is involved in rescue and recovery, the admiralty has tasked us with maintaining stability in those areas of the Solar System that may seek to take advantage of our temporary weakness.
“From this moment on, we are on a war footing. I expect each of you to carry out your duties to the highest standards as we root the culprits out from wherever they are hiding. Let us turn our prayers to those we have lost today, turn our minds towards the justice that awaits us in our mission and our bodies to the requirements of the task at hand.”
For once, Ramis didn’t say anything. Leon spoke first.
“Bloody hell.”
The greeting party was eventually made up of Leon and Ramis, along with the master at arms, a woman named Hospers, and two marines. Leon had only met the master at arms a few times. She looked bored. Ramis tried to start a conversation, but was met with a sigh. Within moments Leon heard an irregular, discordant series of thumps and clangs from other side of the bulkhead. The master at arms moved into action arranging people.
“Right. We’re expecting two vessels and we need to get them processed fast. You two,” she gestured at the marines, “either side of the airlock please. And you two,” she jabbed a finger at Leon and Ramis, “stand still and don’t say anything. Clear?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Ramis snapped in reply. The master at arms glared at him before kneeling down and opening a small case, something like a toolbox. After poking round the case she stood back up, leaving it open, and turned towards the airlock. After a moment a panel to the side flashed bright green, accompanied by loud, buzzing alarm. The master at arms entered a code into the touchpad and stepped back. A large, heavy sounding, circular section of the bulkhead wall swung in-wards ninety degrees. They all waited. Eventually two figures clambered, feet first, through the airlock stumbling as they adjusted to the gravity on board the Aggressive. After they were both settled and upright the master at arms addressed them.
“Special agents September Long and Tariq Abbas?”
It was the woman, September Long, who answered. “Correct. Permission to come aboard, I suppose?”
“It’s a little late for that agent Long, and not protocol either way. Though we will have to confirm your identity.” She put on a pair of latex gloves. “I am Warrant Officer Hospers, the master at arms on board the Aggressive and responsible for discipline on board the vessel. You should refer to me as Master Hospers. We need a fast turnaround as there will be another vessel transferring persons shortly. Do you have anything you wish to bring on board?”
“We have some bags and sensitive equipment necessary for our investigation. It’s back on the shuttle.” September indicated through the airlock. “Should we get them now?”
“I think that would be best.” Hospers remained impassive. The agents clambered back through the airlock mumbling to each other.
Leon craned his neck after them. They didn’t look like he expected. In his mind they would be old and administrative. Something like the partners at the accountancy firm he worked at before joining up. They certainly weren’t old and they didn’t have that soft-bodied, sedentary appearance of office workers. The woman, September, looked like she was used to being in charge. In a claustrophobic room with Hospers and the marines most people would be at least a little nervous. September seemed only impatient.
Neither wore a uniform either. She wore a short leather jacket, zipped up, and dark, close, practical clothing. She was obviously athletic, it showed in how she moved. Her brown eyes and curled hair, hanging loose, below her ears, suggested a Latinx or Mediterranean heritage. Her nose wasn’t quite straight, as if it had been broken and reset. As a child, Leon had obsessively watched the old documentaries about wildlife on Earth. September reminded him of a bird of prey—her expression was a mixture of boredom and an unspoken threat.
Her partner, Tariq looked sharper. He was handsome, with short, fashionably styled hair, well-groomed stubble and a fitted, dark grey suit. It looked expensive, though utterly unsuitable for the zero gravity environment of the shuttle they had arrived on. The jacket must have been flapping round all over the place. It was why his own uniform was a fitted tunic and trousers; it was a relic from the early days of space travel.
September swung back through the hatchway, thumping heavily to her feet in a far more deliberate way than her previous effort. She turned and collected a pair of holdalls being passed through. Tariq followed, clambering through with care.
“This won’t take a moment. Is there anything in here that I should know about?” Hospers hunched down and pulled the first holdall towards her. As she did so, September stepped forward and smiled like a shark.
“As far as I’m concerned you don’t need to know about a damned thing.” She folded her arms.
Hospers rooted through the bags, lifting the contents aside to get a thorough look. With a clink she pulled out two bottles of whisky. Hospers held them up to read the label.
“Talisker ten year? Two bottles?”
“Scotch. Good scotch too. I normally keep a couple handy for bribes. It’s hard to get off planet so it does wonders for opening doors.”
“I’m sure.” Hospers stood up, a bottle in each hand. “I’m afraid you can’t keep them on board. I must confiscate them.”
The agent was shaking her head and laughing. There was something electric between the two women. Leon realised he was digging his nails into the palm of his hand and forced himself to unclench.
“All right,” she said and reached behind her back, casually pulling a handgun from a concealed holster. “If that’s how it’s going to be.”
The marines snapped their rifles up.
“Stand down!”
September gave them a look of disdain and flipped the gun around, presenting the handle to Hospers. It was a revolver, silver and small, almost stubby, it’s body barely longer than the grip.
“This is my eighty-five special. It’s about a hundred and fifty years old. It’s light as hell; mostly titanium with a steel barrel and rosewood grip. There aren’t many moving parts. It’s straightforward, reliable. It does what you expect every time. Without fail.” She waved the gun at Hospers. “Take it. But when I leave this ship, I’m getting this gun back, understand?” She took a step forward, leaving barely an inch between
the two women. “With my whisky.”
Hospers grunted at one of the marines, who stowed his rifle and took the gun from September. The agent raised her hands and allowed herself to be searched, with her partner doing the same afterward. Hospers cracked her knuckles.
“Right, just fingerprints and hair samples and then you can clear out before our next guest boards.”
Leon unclenched again.
“Wood,” said Hospers. “You’ve got nothing to do at the moment. Please escort agents Long and Abbas to their staterooms. I assume you know where they are?”
“Yes, ma’am”.
He left the airlock and led the agents to the staterooms, which was an absurdly grand title for the compact guest cabins on board the Aggressive.
Agent Long locked herself away leaving Leon with her partner. Tariq was friendlier than expected. He invited Leon into the cabin and asked him dozens of questions about the Aggressive. He obviously had a love for technology and hardware, drilling down into the capabilities of the ship to the extent that Leon had to resist revealing classified information. The agent was almost certainly security cleared, but he was polite enough not to insist when Leon became uncomfortable.
In turn, Leon asked about Tariq’s role. ‘Special agent’, it turned out, was just a posh name for a detective, except working for the Atlantic-Pacific Security Alliance. Not really a spy and not really police, Tariq explained, his and September’s job was to investigate and hunt down terrorists and criminals.
Ramis arrived mid conversation. He was flushed and sweaty, and desperate to talk to them.
“You two are not going to believe what just happened with the diplomat, I’m looking after. You know Hospers? Well she’s going fucking apeshit. The guy is an absolute legend already.” Ramis could barely contain himself.
“What happened?” asked Leon as Tariq fetched a drink from the coffee machine. This caught Ramis’s attention.