by Gem Jackson
Gently, with a few fine adjustments, Leon brought them to within a few metres of the Aggressive before handing over the auto-dock to complete the process. With a shunt, the two vessels made a soft-lock, then a hard-lock with each other. And just like that, he was back.
The airlock opened and Leon peered into the bare, flickering room across from him. Even with the malfunctioning lights it was the same familiar space in which he had awaited the arrival of the APSA agent. He remembered how agent Long had swung through from her shuttle into the waiting area, adjusting to the new gravity orientation with ease. He didn’t count on himself being able to show such acrobatic prowess and instead braced himself for the awkward shuffle between vessels.
“Here, take this.” It was Sleet. She held a pistol out towards him. He grasped the handle and took it from her. She had her rifle slung across her back. Torren stood behind her toting a pump-action shotgun. “You’re coming too?”
“Hail is staying behind to keep the ship running hot. I’m leaving Six—”
“It’s Birch!” he shouted from somewhere further back.
Sleet continued, “—Birch, sorry, to guard the airlock. If we come across anything too crazy, me and Torren will be back here faster than you can blink. Understand?”
“I understand.” He smiled. They were in this together now.
He shuffled across the divide and stood upright on the Aggressive side of the airlock, his stomach doing somersaults in the process. Sleet flicked on her rifle torch and scanned ahead. Just the long, empty passageway into the ship. Leon took up position ahead of the others.
“Follow me, I’ll take us to the control room.”
He walked briskly, taking the most direct route. The ship was deserted. Aside from the lights, Anton couldn’t identify anything wrong. There was no damage, no signs of conflict. Back on the Jackdaw’s Straw they had determined the radiation levels were within normal limits.
“This doesn’t feel right,” said Torren.
Sleet smirked. “You don’t say.”
They descended through the decks and circled round to reach the control room. Leon stepped back a little; there was blood on the walls. A hand print and a few smears around it. Looking more closely he saw faint, bloody footprints leading away from the doorway back into the ship.
“You first, Starflight,” said Torren. “He’s your buddy.” He pumped a round into the shotgun chamber and pressed it firmly into his shoulder. Sleet had taken up a similarly combat-ready posture. Leon clicked the safety catch off the pistol he held and heaved the hatch open.
Warm air rushed out, catching Leon in the back of his throat. He had never smelled or tasted anything like it in his life. It was something thick and warm, like the taste of nails, mixed with faeces and sweat. He gagged and turned away, scooping in snatches of clean air from behind. The others weren’t faring much better. He steeled himself and pushed ahead into the room.
There was blood everywhere. There were bodies everywhere. Before he could stop himself, he doubled over and began retching.
“Buckle up, Starflight, your boy is in here somewhere.”
“Uh-huh.” It was all he could manage. Once more he straightened up and ventured further in. Torren and Sleet were both sweeping the room, gingerly prodding bodies with their boots and guns.
“They’re all dead.”
Leon stumbled over to the comms area of the bridge and found Ramis lying prone upon the floor. He had a wound in his chest. It was big. The front of his tunic was soaked with blood and was cool to the touch. Leon dropped the pistol and knelt down, checking first for a pulse and then for breathing. There was neither. He started chest compressions.
“Quick, Torren, there’s a cabinet in the wall behind you with a medical kit in. Get it out for me and bring it straight over.”
“He’s dead, Starflight. Has been for a while. I’m sorry.”
“Just get the kit! Bring it over!” He couldn’t see what they were doing because of the tears. He tried to wipe them away on his shoulder while continuing resuscitation.
Sleet put her hand on his shoulder. “Torren’s right. He’s gone. He’s bled out. He was probably gone the moment he stopped talking over the communicator.”
She was right. He stopped the compressions and wiped the tears from his eyes. Ramis was dead. He let out a cry of anger, pain and frustration. He felt rage running through him like an electrical current. It was something supernatural, a well of hate that pooled deep within him.
“Fuck! Why? Why him?” He glared at the others, accusing them, daring them to answer. “What did he ever do? He was a fucking idiot, he never hurt anyone. It doesn’t make any sense.” Neither answered.
Sleet shifted her rifle behind her and embraced Leon in a tight hug. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t hug her back, though the human contact felt good. Gently, he pushed them apart. He picked up the pistol, his knuckles white as he grasped the handle.
“I’m done with this. Someone is going to pay. I don’t know who, I don’t care who, but I will find someone, I swear to God.”
“C’mon,” Torren led him away from the body. “There’s nothing for you here. Let’s go.”
“No. I’m staying.”
“You’re staying? You can’t be serious?” said Sleet. She stepped away from him. For a while he had been in awe of her, but not anymore. He saw now how slight she was. Muscular and strong, it was true, but no more so than himself. Here, surrounded by bodies and death, she was as lonely as he was; just one person, scared, making their way in a cold universe.
“I’m staying,” he said. “It’s my ship and I’m staying.”
“I’m sorry, what do you mean it’s your ship? Starflight, we’re in the middle of a shit-storm here, you’re not making any sense.”
He turned on her, letting his anger spill out. “As if any of this makes any goddam sense?” She stepped back again, hurt by his outburst. They didn’t understand. What did it matter anyway? “It’s not important. Come on, help me check the others. I’m doing this with or without you.”
They stayed with him, for which Leon was grateful. He didn’t want to press ahead alone, though he was committed to the idea now. After checking for survivors—there were none—they moved the bodies one by one to the front of the bridge, laying them out carefully and making what paltry attempts they could to make them appear at peace. That, Leon decided, was not easy with gunshot victims.
After they finished, Sleet and Torren moved towards the hatch, ready to leave.
“Are you ready? Or would you like a little more time?” asked Sleet.
Leon tilted his head, unsure how to respond. “I meant what I said. I’m not leaving. This is my ship.” He looked around the control room; empty, silent. “I’m staying here.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” said Torren, irritation spilling into his voice, “but there is a warship out there. A warship that had already captured us once, and I for one don’t want to be within a million miles of it ever again.”
Sleet stepped in, more conciliatory, “He’s right, Starflight. This is a system-wide stand-off. We’re in the middle of something that’s just,” she hesitated, groping for the right words. “It’s bigger than us. It’s too big. This is our chance to run.”
Leon swept to the command centre in the middle of the room. He gestured in the direction of the Cronus, or at least where he imagined it lay.
“That’s the Cronus out there. Captain Thomas Motion—” he began.
“Exactly. The psychopath who wanted us dead before we boarded this ship. Imagine what he’ll do if he finds us here?”
“Who cares? I don’t.” Leon sat down in the captain’s chair. It was a hard-wearing fabric, cool to the touch, without a square inch of leather anywhere. It was nice. There was quite a lot of blood on the arms. “Let him find me. I’m sick of running, of hiding. I’m sick of being scared.” The image of a hammer hitting bloody fabric flashed across his mind. He coughed, his throat irritated
by a phantom blockage. “You understand what this is, don’t you?” He gestured round at the ship. “This is the Aggressive. There isn’t a more powerful ship than this between here and Jupiter, and even that I’m not convinced about. That, out there, Motion’s ship, that’s nothing. It’s fancy, I’ll give it that, but right now, we are in possession of the most powerful warship around Saturn. If Motion, or anyone else on the Cronus, wants to pry us out of here, they’ll have to do more than just glue a bomb to the windscreen and a show threatening white-board. It would take a fleet to bring this ship down—and it’s ours! The crew have gone. We watched them abandon ship.” Sleet and Torren looked at each other. “We own this ship.”
“So tell me,” Sleet inched towards him. “How are a bunch of small-time space pirates and a commercial yacht pilot going to operate and run a military-grade capital warship?”
Just like that, Leon felt all his inertia fall away. He had to come clean. He laughed a little and rubbed his chin. Before he could answer, Torren interjected.
“We know you’re APSA, Starflight,” said Torren. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. You’re a shit liar and the least convincing private yacht captain I’ve ever seen.” They both laughed, though without the meanness that he was used to. “But it’s a serious question. How are half a dozen people meant to crew a capital warship? It’s a nice idea, but it’s not practical. The Jackdaw’s Straw is our best chance of getting out of this alive.
“You’re wrong.” Leon beamed, for once holding the upper hand. “Let me show you why.”
He spent the next ten minutes explaining the nature of the Aggressive; it’s extensive use of AI and automated systems, navigational and weapon assists. He showed them the different parts of the control room and how the basic functions could be manipulated with relative ease, at least in the short term.
“A full complement of crew are needed to run the ship at maximum efficiency and to keep it running on long tours as wear and tear occurs. But if you don’t mind compromising efficiency in some areas, a handful of people can run an action without too much of a problem. I’ll admit, this probably isn’t a long-term solution, but right now, this ship is our best hope.”
“Why did everyone abandon ship though?” asked Sleet.
“I think it was something to do with this,” Leon held out a small data-stick. “It was plugged into my old pilot station. I know the handbook to that console inside out and the only reason to put a data-stick in is to update the firmware or load navigational patterns, and you wouldn’t use an unbranded stick like this for either. I don’t know if you noticed, but as soon as I removed it, all the readings normalised again. I’d bet that whoever did that,” he pointed to the bodies laid out at the front of the room, “also used this stick to trigger the abandon ship. Or maybe it was the Captain? I can’t be sure. But I don’t think we’re in danger.”
Torren had moved to check various readouts around the room. “I agree. Everything is within tolerance, from what I can tell.”
“And this ship can jump?” asked Sleet.
Leon nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, she can jump, but we’re not going anywhere. Not with Motion out there.”
They stared at one another. Leon knew he had the advantage. He was the only one who stood any chance of operating the ship effectively. Without him, the others would have to make do with the yacht which was slower, low on supplies and was still a good few days away from having an operational jump engine—but he needed her consent. There was still the hierarchy, and though the balance of power was shifting, the re-alignment was not yet complete. She needed his ship, and he needed her crew.
“Okay,” she said finally. “What do you have in mind?”
“Call the rest of the crew over. It’s a highly automated ship, but having more hands still helps. Get them here and we can look at what to do next. Figure it out together?” He stepped up from the captain’s seat and held a hand out towards her. Sleet took it firmly with a single shake.
“Agreed. Together.”
Chapter 26 – September
“What am I looking at?” Tem stared at the screen but to no avail. Ramachandran had once implied that detective work was about asking the right questions. She was wrong. It was about observation. All detective work, ultimately, was about seeing things as they really are. Aggressively. Detectives were needed the facts were hidden; either by circumstance or some pernicious agent. Ordinary people made the mistake of assuming observation was something passive. As if all you needed to do was open your senses to the world and the truth would reveal itself. That wasn’t how it worked. Observation was about understanding what your senses tell you; sifting through the chaff to organise the facts, finding patterns and locating causal relationships. You don’t observe with your eyes; you observe with your brain. It was for this reason that Tem was grateful to have the scientist around, because trying to make sense of the information before her. It felt like trying to complete a jigsaw in a dark room. Using her feet.
Ramachandran tried again.
“You’re looking at the data charting how the chemical facilities on this station were used over the past eighteen months. This is relevant because this reference here tells us that your ship—”
“The Enigma.”
“That’s it, the Enigma, got it’s fresh water restock from tanks twenty-eight to thirty in zone D of the station. Now, look at this,” she pointed to a trio of columns next to one another with figures and letters running down the screen in long trails. “Tanks twenty-eight through to thirty in zone D are used exclusively for hydrogen extraction. You see, hydrogen is plentiful in the universe, but it’s damn hard to keep hold of because it’s so light. It just—poof—disappears into space. Which is fine if you’re scooting about all over the place with a huge Bussard ramjet,” she looked at Tem for any sign of recognition. There was none. “Exactly, they didn’t really take off, and, as it happens, neither does anyone else, from anywhere else, without a good supply of hydrogen. This is where Titan comes in. It’s got enormous volumes of ammonia on its surface. Lakes of the stuff. What can you do with ammonia?”
“Make hydrogen?”
“Yes! You make hydrogen and shift it all over the Solar System for large profits. What’s interesting about that is how you make the hydrogen.”
“I know this one,” interrupted Tem. “Electrolysis. It’s the only damn thing I remember from school, I swear.”
“Precisely, so what does that tell us about tanks twenty-eight to thirty?”
“They are used for electrolysis.”
“Indeed, they must be. So, why is it that out of nowhere the ammonia gets flushed and instead these electrolysis tanks are committed to making clean water for an APSA military vessel?” Ramachandran raised her eyebrows, as if the answer were screamingly obvious. Her shoulders slumped and her chin collapsed into her neck as she realised Tem was still a while away from the answer. “You don’t create water through electrolysis.”
“You don’t?”
“Well, you can, it’s just stupidly inefficient. We’re next to Saturn. It has rings of ice. It has a whole ice moon that shoots ice plumes out into space. If you want water around here, then you scoop it up, melt it and stick it through a simple purifier.” She stabbed a finger at the screen. “Electrolysis is a ridiculous way to make clean water—but it’s an excellent way to make heavy water. I’d bet an awful lot of money that those tanks were producing your heavy water. There’s more too. The Enigma ordered thirty thousand litres of water, but these transfer records show they got just over twenty-seven thousand. That’s a tenth less than they were expecting. It’s not a coincidence. Heavy water is around ten percent heavier than normal H2O. It all adds up. It might not have a label slapped on the tanks, but that is your heavy water.”
Tem rubbed her cheek. This all but confirmed the heavy water theory, only that didn’t leave her any closer to figuring out who was responsible.
“You said you had a paper trail.”
“I do. I
just showed you most of it.”
“Okay, I need to think. Are there any names attached? Who made the order? Who was invoiced? Anything.”
“Well,” Ramachandran flicked through the menus with preternatural speed. “There are no names on the invoice or order docket. In fact, the order itself was completed in through a hard copy. I’ve got an engineer who oversaw completion if that’s any help?”
“Good. Who’s the engineer?”
Ramachandran turned back to the terminal and in a few seconds brought an employee record onto the screen, complete with name and image.
Tem held her head in her hands. “Oh, fuck. Of course it’s him.” The face on the screen was that of the trouser-less engineer who had greeted them earlier.
“Aspen Todd, site engineer for area D. He’s our man,” said Ramachandran. “Shall we go and talk?”
“Not yet. We’re fucked as soon as any of them figure out what’s happened on Titan, remember? We’ll get him on the way out if we can. You said that the order had been placed by hand. That’s interesting.” It meant few digital fingerprints. That was Biarritz’s style. He worked faced to face. A people person. He was old school that way. Rarely used electronic communication. Lots of direct encounters. It made him much harder to trace and, from the few witnesses she had ever managed to meet, it made it easier for him to threaten and coerce people into doing what he wanted. He would have visited the station, she was sure of it.
“This place must be crawling with CCTV. Can you access it?” asked Tem.
The scientist navigated her way through the system. “Yes. I can do that.”
“Good. Let’s hope there is CCTV covering the airlocks. Get me footage of every visitor to the station in the month running up to the start of heavy water production. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You heard Aspen, it doesn’t sound like they get a lot of visitors here.”