by David Gunner
Stavener stared at the first officer with little understanding until his mind found the correct gear. “Yes …yes. Following the annex, those that formed the initial resistance needed to get the devices off Earth so they could be used in what was likely to be a protracted struggle. Fortunately for us, The Koll were mostly interested in our military capability, and it soon became apparent that they had a lot of enemies and they used captured forces to fight their battles, rather than committing their own. Following the annex they were preoccupied by our military and paid little attention to our trade and transport systems, well at least initially. And we were able to move the devices via unregistered transport on the grey lanes.”
Both command officers looked up when a double chime came across the intercom. Canthouse automatically reached for his tablet only to close his fist in a God Damn it action when he remembered what he had done to it. He looked to Denz who appeared to have snapped from a waking dream, and indicated a wall mounted intercom. Denz had regained some composure and made a hand signal for Canthouse to ignore the chime.
“The grey lanes.” Canthouse said. “There’s no military protection in these areas.”
“There are no other vessels to spy, either,” Denz said, some of the sharpness having returned to his eyes and voice. He saw something in the operations officers face, “They didn’t reach their destination, did they?”
Stavener let out a despairing breath, “No, they didn’t. The idea was to run dark and hope for the best, but it never worked. The ship was taken and the devices never recovered.”
“All of them!” Canthouse almost spat. “You moved all of them on the same transport?”
“No, two of them. A twinned pair. The others were sent by a different route and they made it. We could only secure two ships,” Stavener shrugged.
“And nothing was heard of them.”
“No, not until today. It’s likely the bandits initially had no idea what they were, and it took them some time to buy the required intelligence and figure out how to use them.”
“And now we know they can.” Denz said.
“And to devastating advantage,” Canthouse added.
“Commander,” Stavener stood to face Denz, his fingers laced and countenance of deadly earnest. “We cannot allow these units to remain with these people. I’m sure you’re aware of the unexplainable ship losses the EDP has been experiencing over the past eight months. Losses we’ve been explaining as accidents or pure judgement, but it’s not. These people have been using the devices to track isolated vessels and the FTL to snatch and overwhelm them, and we were powerless to stop them.”
Denz interrupted, “Is this what happened to the Conqueror?”
Momentarily derailed, Stavener stared at Denz, “I’m not sure, commander. I’ve no idea what happened to the Conqueror.”
Denz sucked on his top lip, “Please continue. You said we were powerless to stop them”
The operations officer gave Denz a low questioning stare as he hunted for his train of thought, “Apart from the edge it gives them, we cannot build more devices as the plans were erased moments before the Koll annexed our covert agencies. Their fabrication difficulties aside, these devices are the single most powerful resource we have in any struggle against The Koll. We have to reclaim them, or at the very least destroy them to rid ourselves of a thorn.”
Denz looked pensive. His eyes fixed on the wall between the two men as he considered. He found his natural instinct to say, yes, we’ll do all we can to assist, hindered by the phantasmal projections of fire lit forms uncoiling over screaming silhouettes. Yet something refused to yield. His head may have been lost in the mists of nightmares but something solid lay beneath his feet. The unyielding deck of a Royal Navy gunboat that he commanded. A ship he had lost once, but would never lose again.
“We have no way of corroborating what you say, Mr Stavener.” The double chime from the intercom sounded again. “And I suspect that that is not your real name, However …” Denz stared at the image of the beacon on the display. “Engineering has corroborated some of the things you have said, and I’m willing to take a look at this unit if for nothing more than curiosity. I –“
“Command staff to the bridge. Command staff to the bridge,” the accented female voice said over the intercom.
Denz glanced at Canthouse who left immediately.
“I’m very tempted to believe what you have told us is true, and I will make orders for this to be investigated as subtly as possible. And should the need arise we will do all we can to assist you in these efforts.” Denz’s eye had regained some of the previous clandestine glint. “We will continue this discussion at some future point. In the mean time, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you not to mention any of this to anyone except to the lieutenant-commander and myself, and only when we’re together. Understood?”
Stavener appeared calm and unflustered, with no sign of his earlier displayed panic when unwittingly revealing secrets. Denz wondered if the man’s apparent loss of control had been part of a command performance, some subterfuge to redirect suspicions. If so it had been worthy of the academy.
The two men eyed each other with a certain suspicion, yet there was something to his countenance that hinted at confidence.
“Of course, Commander.” The operations officer turned to leave and as he neared the door a voice from behind said, “So what did happen to the Conqueror?”
Stavener halted abruptly, his hand on the door handle. He stood inanimate for several seconds before turning to Denz.
He eyed the commander with a low keenness, “I assure you, Commander. At this time there’s nothing I can tell you of the Conqueror’s disappearance.”
Denz never responded. Everything he needed came from the transient lapse in Stavener’s carefully guarded countenance. It lasted no more than a single frame but the knowing look, the slight upturn in the corners of the mouth. It was all he needed.
An understanding passed between the fox and the wolf.
“Very well, Mr Stavener. To your station.”
Chapter 13
The emergency key found the octagonal hole on the second try, and leading hand Alec Payne rotated it several times to disengage the mechanism with a mechanical ‘clack’. Payne returned the key to his belt pouch and retrieved a flattened pry bar from where it leant against the wall next to the door of the storage room. The thick gloves of his environment suit hampered his actions as he manipulated the serpent tongue of the tool into a recess at the doors midpoint.
Whoever had designed the door had not taken into account cold, frustrated, EV suit wearing crew men who just wanted the damn thing open. The tool found the recessed lip and he levered on it, grunting as the strain increased, only for the pry bar to slip from the shallow recess and almost sending him to the floor.
“Shit!” he cried, much to the amusement of an EV suited colleague performing a similar operation further down the unlit corridor.
The bright disc of light from a head mounted lamp found Payne “What’s up Painee? Can’t find the hole?”
“Whoever built these bastard doors needs shootin’,” said Payne bitterly.
“Put some hair ‘round it, Lad. That’ll sort you out.”
“I’ll put some hair ‘round your bloody hole and stick it in that, if you like!” He again stabbed the tool at the slot in the door. The splayed tip found purchase and Payne gingerly applied weight to the handle. The door creaked and slid open an inch, then two and Payne was almost at the point of sliding his fingers inside to open it completely when the bar slipped sending him to the floor as the door thumped shut.
“Shit!” He cried casting the tool aside and struggling to his feet.
Payne rubbed his sweating forehead with a gloved hand, his fogging breath hampering his view as he stood looking at the door. The slot was miniscule in depth, less than the lip of a coin, and looked more like an imperfection in the paint than something to be used in an emergency.
Placing his hands
on his hips he arched backwards, groaning with fatigue as he stretched out the cramps that inhibited his every movement. He was cold, tired, the suit was heavy and he had been wearing it for over fourteen hours. His team had been assigned the task of searching the lower decks of the Bristol in an attempt to locate the missing crew members. They had searched the two decks above and found nothing other than evidence of unsanctioned rest areas, with disabled smoke sensors and cigarette butts crammed into obscure locations, but no missing crew. Initially there had been three teams under the direction of second officer, I’m-better-than-thee, Avery, who spent most of the time watching the wrens from behind. But the other two teams had been reassigned to help with the repairs.
For now it was just his team of six, including that read haired snob, Cummings, who were left to check what parts of the ship had not yet been searched. Cummings spent the time with that other better-than-thou bitch, Hempsey, a slim, large mouthed member of the horsey set whose father - is a General, you know. Whispering and giggling in dark corners whilst the men did all the work. How he hated these snobby bitches. At least Hempsey had the redeeming feature of a killer body, whilst Cummings was a squat blob of a red head, heavy in makeup and self importance.
Payne retrieved the crowbar and returned to the door.
Fortunately, this was the last deck with the fewest rooms, but the task was complicated by the lack of power that had been cut after the accident due to proximity of the magazines to some of the damaged systems. This meant crowbars and curses for the remaining doors, with double shifts and at least another two hours of work before they were relieved.
He took the crowbar in both hands and again prepared to jam it into the recess.
The doors here had no battery backup and were tough to open, much tougher than on the upper decks. These were the deep voyage storage rooms, which contained the dehydrated and vacuum packed supplies required for extended missions when the frequently replenished fresh consumables had been depleted. These rooms often went unopened for months at a time, especially if the ship was hopping from station to station, which the Bristol currently was. Why they were hopping around as they were, he had no idea, but there was at least another year or more before they returned to Earth and the problems he had ran away from.
Maybe by the time he got back she’d be dead from the knife injuries and his problems gone, but he doubted it. No matter what her family would still be after him, so maybe he’d transfer to a station on the return leg.
Payne drew the bar back to jam at the door.
“Oi! Paynee! Give us a hand here will yer.” The shout came from the puddle of light illuminating a door further down the corridor.
He walked to where his friend lay on his back with one foot jammed against the frame and both hands heaving at the crowbar prying open the sliding door a good two inches, but he had no free hand to slip into the gap.
With the pry bar trembling from the strain the man grunted, “Hurry up wiil yer. This one’s a right bleeder. It opens about a third the way and snaps closed again.”
“You’re a useless sod,” Payne straddled the man’s body with one foot sliding between his tensed leg and the door. “Always on your back with your tool jammed in something dry and tight.”
He took hold of the door edge, placed a foot against the frame and heaved. The door quivered in its frame momentarily before grating along its track with a protesting squeal, only to wedge solid a third the way open.
The door felt as if a powerful spring was trying to close it whenever he released his grip.
“Can you hold it, as I need to move?” asked Payne.
“Wait a sec.” The other man tossed the bar away, took hold of the door with both hands and heaved. “Go’on, quick!”
Payne spun so his back was to the frame and pushed against the door, which complained but never moved. He stuck his head inside the unheated room to see if he could find what was interfering with it. The air was musty, coppery, with a strange smell of meat. Maybe there were refrigeration units in here and the food had begun to defrost with the power off.
Sweeping the head light about to try and cut through his condensing breath, he thought he saw something long and cylindrical leaning against the inner door frame. For the life of him he could not imagine how it got there as it looked large and heavy, but it may have been tossed there during the battle, jamming the door.
“Hurry up, will yer,” the straining voice said from outside. “My fingers are beginning to slip.”
Payne leaned out to look at his panting friend. “There’s something leaning against the inside of the door frame. Can you hold it whilst I squeeze in to try and move it?”
“I think so, but put yer bar at the bottom in case my fingers slip.”
Payne retrieved his bar and slipped it under the man’s legs so it was between the door and the frame. Even if it slipped from his grip there was no way the door could fully close again.
“You ready?” asked Payne.
The man nodded fitfully.
Taking a deep breath, Payne sucked in his stomach and squeezed between the door and frame. It was a tight fit with the suit on, but he managed to wriggle through just in time to hear a loud curse from outside and the door slam shut with a metallic thang as it struck the bar.
“Jesus, Bodder! What are you playing at!” cried Payne from where he jumped away from the door.
“Sorry, me glove ripped. You alright, Painee?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Well stop yer whinging and see what’s blocking the door.”
“Give us a sec.” Waving his freezing breath out of the way, Payne looked over what appeared to be a large oxygen tank inclined against the inner door mechanism. It was a good foot taller than him and he estimated its weight at over quarter of a tonne. He placed a shoulder against it and pushed, but the tank never so much as rocked in place. He moved about the cylinder to see what could be holding it when he noticed something strange. A plastic tie strap passed through an eye in the base of the cylinder securing it to a nearby frame at floor level. He glanced at the crown of the tank again, but couldn’t see if anything held it there.
Payne swept his light over the supply crates tossed about by the recent action, looking for something to stand on. Pulling the nearest one to the base of the tank, he climbed up and waved away his fogging breath until he noticed something odd. A second black plastic tie strap secured the crown of the tank to the horizontal sliding arm of the inner door mechanism. There was no way this could occur by accident.
“Hey, Bodder! There’s something odd here.”
“What’s that then?”
“There’s a large gas tank against the door mechanism.”
“Can you move it?”
“No, it’s tied in place with straps.”
“Tied in place! How did that happen then?”
“I’ve no idea, but somebody must have done it. It can’t have happened on its own.”
“Can you shift it?”
“I think so. Let me cut the ties and see what happens.”
“OK, but be careful lad. Hey! D’yer think I should give their majesties a shout?”
“Yeah, yer better had.”
Bodder’s voice could be heard yelling further down the corridor as Payne pulled a retractable knife from his belt pouch and started sawing through the bottom tie at arms length, ready to spring away should it move. The plastic separated with the tank remaining where it was. He climbed onto the box and reached around both sides of the tank so he was hugging it with his cheek pressed against the cold metal. The angle of the tie made sawing through it difficult work, and he was psyching himself up to jump clear the moment the tank so much as creaked, only for the plastic to part and come away in his fingers. It took him a slow second to realise there was nothing holding the tank in place and he quickly jumped down.
“Well?” called the voice from the other side of the door.
“I’ve cut the straps but it’s not moved. I think I�
��ll need to work it loose with something. Maybe if I can find a pole or sum-thin’, I can jimmy it away from the wall.” Payne shone his headlight around the room as he spoke.
“D’yer think you’ll find anythin’?”
“I bloody hope so or I’ll freeze to death in here,” The mention of the cold had him rubbing his arms despite the EV suit. His freezing breath hung in the air like cumulous in a meat locker, with the self made fog severely hampering his vision as he looked about the displaced storage crates for something to pry the cylinder loose.
“Maybe if I shoulder it from this side?”
“No I don’t think so, mate. I’ll keep lookin –“
Whomp!
The door rattled in its frame along with stores on a nearby shelf.
Payne jumped at the unexpected noise. “Jesus, Bodder, I told you not –“
Whomp!
This time the door juddered and somewhere in the vapour obscured darkness, something struck the floor with a metallic tang!
“For crying out loud, Bodder! I told you not to do that. I’ll find something in here.” Payne cried to the general direction of the door.
“I felt something give then. I’ll give it another go.”
“For fucks sake, no –“
Whomp!!
The metallic thang was over powering in the confined space, and Payne believed himself dead as the resonating mechanical peal circuited the inside of his head for what felt like an eternity.
He lay behind a row of cartons in a foetal position with his hands clamped over his ears, a place he had dove to the moment he heard the door mechanism snap. He remained motionless until the ringing began to subside and he could hear the multiple voices calling anxiously from outside as something scraped at the door. He gingerly lowered his hands expecting to see blood covering his gloves as he inspected them in the torch light, but the gloves were blood free.
Then he smelt it.
The atrocious gagging stink of excreta and exposed organs, similar to when he had prised opened the door to burgle his junkie neighbours apartment and found the bloated corpse with a crimson muzzled mutt growling from an excavation in its side. His initial thoughts were he’d shit himself when the cylinder fell, but he thought again when he attempted to stand and his glove skittered on something slick. A glistening brown-red mucus covered the glove and it stunk of piss and shit. His torch beam found what appeared to be an oddly malformed shoelace trapped between two seams of the glove. The dangling purple strand had globules of what looked like bacon fat hanging from it, and pulled on something out of the beams circle when he moved his hand.