by M. R. Forbes
"How do you know?"
"Because you're a pilot. A warrior. You said so yourself."
Mitchell stared at her. She was right. They both knew it. Still, M had warned him to find the Goliath. How was he going to do that trapped on this ship?
"The S-17 and the helmet will only work with my brain, and I know that's a resource you aren't going to want to waste. It also has an FTL engine. How do you know I won't cut and run the first chance I get?"
She tapped the side of her head. "Watson's working on a replacement for your implant. We don't have the standard issue or we'd be outed as military any time we went near an outpost. It has a kill switch built in that I can activate from here. If you give me any reason at all to think you're planning on going hyper, I won't hesitate to drop you." She got to her feet and walked over to his side of the table. She put her hand on his arm and looked down at him. "Besides, you know the value of discipline and the chain of command better than most of the cons on this ship. I know you won't abandon your team."
He wouldn't. They both knew that, too. "There may be an enemy out there. One that's going to overpower us before we can act, if we don't act with the information we've been given."
"There are real enemies of the Alliance out there, Mitchell. Threats we already know about. We're in a unique position to try to stop them." She paused for a few seconds while she thought. "Tell me you'll become one of us and I'll do my best to get you whatever information I can on the Goliath. If you get me a concrete lead on its location, either we'll go and check it out as soon as our docket is clear, or maybe you'll earn enough trust that I'll allow you to go on your own. I don't have to make you this offer, but I'm smart enough to know how valuable you can be to our mission."
It wasn't as though he had an abundance of options. "Fair enough," Mitchell said. "I only have one other condition."
"Trying to bargain? I've already been more than generous."
"You have. Consider it an ask, then. I want to report to you directly."
She smiled. "That was a given. You're the second-highest ranking officer on this ship."
Mitchell returned her smile and waved towards her empty chair. "In that case, Admiral, please, sit. Eat. We don't want to waste a perfectly good whatever-it-is."
"Please, call me Millie when we're alone, and Captain when we aren't. The crew responds better to me that way." She returned to her seat while Mitchell picked up his fork and grabbed another slice of the pheasant.
"Have it your way. So, Millie... You know my history. What are you in for?"
He figured it was something white-collar. Money laundering, tax evasion, fraud, that sort of thing. Despite Ensign Brigg's veiled warning, the Admiral seemed too together to have done anything violent.
She didn't hesitate to answer. Maybe it was because she was used to the question from being a criminal in charge of a ship of criminals. Maybe it was because she had no regrets. Either way, the answer sent a chill through his spine.
"Murder."
28
She didn't say anything else about it, and Mitchell was afraid to ask. They finished their meal, with Millie doing most of the talking, taking the time to explain what was expected of him, and what life on her ship was like. It wasn't too different from life on the Greylock, a life he had been missing so badly. The main adjustment would be in his need to learn different aspects of the ship's operation in order to help the too-small company keep it all running as efficiently as possible.
Afterward, she sent a knock to Anderson, to have him escort Mitchell back down to B-Deck and his new berthing.
"Once you've settled in, you're free to roam the Schism as you will. Just make sure you find your way to engineering before you bunk for the night so Watson can install your new implant."
"You named this ship the Schism?"
"I didn't. General Cornelius did. It was to remind us that we're in this together. It's a word that symbolizes the constant threat to our cohesiveness. As I said, some of the crew are here for some very ugly crimes, and we tend to hold our own opinions more strongly than the typical soldier."
Crimes worse than murder? He wasn't sure he wanted to know what they were.
"So Cornelius knows about Project Black?"
"Of course. It was his idea."
"What time is it now?"
"Eighteen-hundred Earth-standard. I'll be holding a mission briefing at oh-six-hundred."
Twelve hours. It would be plenty of time to explore a little bit. "How soon can you get me the data on Goliath?"
"Not until we come out of hyperspace. I'll have to be subtle with the request. We don't want to draw any unwanted attention, and believe me when I say we're under more constant scrutiny than the rest of the armed forces. The only reason we have any autonomy at all is because we require custom implants."
A heavy fist rapped on the door. It opened a second later, and Anderson stepped in. His glance crossed over Millie and landed on Mitchell. He still had the gun in his hand.
"You won't be needing that any more Lieutenant," Millie said. "Captain Williams is one of us now."
He scowled at Mitchell.
"Holster your sidearm, Lieutenant," Mitchell said. "That's an order."
Anderson looked like he was going to explode. His face turned beet red, the muscles on his neck throbbing below his collar. He slowly put the gun away, remaining silent.
"Captain Williams doesn't exist. Do you understand, Lieutenant? He's a ghost on this ship."
"I don't have to take orders from a ghost."
"You'll take orders if he gives them," Millie snapped. "Don't test me, Anderson."
His forehead wrinkled and then he bowed to her. "Yes, ma'am!"
"Good. Take Mitchell down to berthing. He'll be getting Yasil's quarters."
Anderson was silent, but by his expression he didn't look happy about that decision either.
Millie turned to face Mitchell. "I've already sent a message to Lopez to bring down enough grays for a week. If you want something fancier, you can find your way to supply. You might want to stop by there anyway, we have a few replica paintings and things like that you can use to decorate your room."
"You're giving me a whole room?" He had never had his own quarters. The idea made him more uncomfortable than he would have guessed.
"That was my plan."
"No offense, Captain, but no thank you. I know Ilanka is one of your pilots. Just put me near her."
"Are you sure?" Millie asked.
"Positive. I don't want special treatment. I told you I was in. I'm going to earn my keep."
She smiled. "Okay. Ilanka is in B-23. The bunk above hers is open. We had a second pilot, but we lost him during a mission three months ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was a stupid asshole. He died because of it."
Mitchell didn't know what to say, so he just started walking towards the hallway. Anderson glared at him as he passed.
"Good night, Captain," Mitchell said, turning and giving her a slight bow. She returned the gesture.
"Good night, Mitch."
The door closed behind them, leaving him alone in the hallway with Anderson.
"Well, Anderson?" Mitchell said. He expected the older Marine to have something to say, or maybe to try to level him.
"Well, what?" Anderson replied.
"Do you want to have it out here and now, or are you going to pull some kind of passive-aggressive bullshit when people's lives are on the line?"
Anderson bit his lower lip and shook his head. "No, sir. I expected you to be all full of yourself. Forget Liberty, Greylock was still the envy of every Marine. You didn't take Yasil's quarters. You want to be one of us. I respect that."
Mitchell buried his surprise and put out his hand. "No hard feelings then, Lieutenant?"
The man took his hand. His palm was calloused and rough, his grip firm. "No, sir."
They walked to the lift and took it down to B-Deck. Anderson led Mitchell to B-23, one of the
smaller berths with just enough space for a bunk, a pair of footlockers, and room to maneuver to each. Ilanka was laying on the top bunk, her eyes closed but shifting beneath them.
"Lieutenant Kalishov," Anderson said, loudly enough that he was clearly making an effort to surprise the pilot.
Her eyes opened slowly. She smiled when she saw Mitchell. "Captain Williams," she said. "What brings you to my bunk?"
"Captain Narayan offered me a job," Mitchell said. "We're going to be roomies."
Her face lit up at the news. "Really?" she said. She sat up and slid off the bunk, hopping to the floor. "I was worried about you, when you vanished like that. Millie has reputation to uphold, after all." She wrapped her arms around him in a friendly embrace. "Do you like top or bottom?"
"I'm fine with either."
She pulled away from him. "Then, I'll take top. You don't snore, do you? Sevrin snored like bear."
Mitchell assumed she was referring to the lost pilot. "No, the Marines corrected that when I enlisted."
"Good. Good."
Mitchell felt the new presence behind him, though he didn't hear the man approach. He looked back and found himself face-to-face with a frail-looking bald man with a large tribal tattoo running across the entire right side of his face. He had a bundle of clothes in his hands.
"Lopez, I assume?" Mitchell said.
"Private Alvaro Lopez, sir," Lopez said. "I brought down the grays as the Captain requested. Where would you like them, sir?"
"Put them in there," Ilanka said, pointing to one of the footlockers.
"Okay."
"I have to finish my rounds," Anderson said. "If you need directions, Ilanka knows where everything is." He headed off before Mitchell could thank him.
"There you are, sir," Lopez said. "Knock if you need anything else, anytime. I don't sleep much."
"Thank you, Private."
Lopez bowed and vanished from the room.
"So, Millie told you all about our little family?" Ilanka asked.
"She did. To be honest, I didn't see that one coming."
She smiled. "It's all very mysterious. I was hoping she would try to recruit you, when you said you wanted to disappear."
"It would have been nicer if she had decided right away. I spent eight days locked in a storage room."
"You're fortunate she wasn't as direct with you as she's been with some of the others."
"What does that mean?"
Ilanka paused as if she regretted the statement. Then she shrugged. "The military sends all of their top rejects to us. Anyone who has high skill but occasional, shall we say... lapses in judgement." She laughed at her joke before turning eerily serious. "Not all of the rejects are a good fit for our mission, and Millie doesn't like to take risks. The way I see it, this ship is a sheet of ice, and the people on it are cracks. If one of those cracks gets too big, or goes too deep, the entire sheet falls apart. She makes sure those cracks are never made."
"How?"
"How do you think? These people have already been court-martialed and sentenced. If there's no life for them here on the Schism, there's no life for them at all."
The thought was a chilling one. "How long have you been on board?"
"Since the project was launched. Five years. Anderson, Millie, Watson, and me are the only original crew members left. We've had a lot of memorials, a lot of eulogies. The nature of our mission means a hard life with a short expectancy. Even so, I've made it longer than I expected to after I was found guilty."
"What did you do?"
She put her hand up and patted his cheek. "Mitchell, I'll share this advice one time, because you're new. If someone wants to tell you why they're here, they will. If not, it is offensive to ask. I'm here because I'm here, and that is all there is to it."
"Understood," Mitchell said. "I'm sorry for asking."
"It is not a thing," she replied. "Are you hungry?"
"No. Millie fed me before sending me down here."
"The pheasant?"
"Yeah. How did you know?"
She chuckled. "She gives that to all the new recruits their first night. I hope you enjoyed it. It's the last good meal you're going to have for long, long time."
29
"Come in."
Watson's voice was muffled from the other side of the doorway, disguised even more by the shuddering of the walls around engineering. Mitchell pushed open the hatch and stepped in.
The engineer was sitting on a stool at a small workbench, his mass overflowing the tiny seat and leaving Mitchell to wonder how it as supporting him. He had his face right up against a tiny transistor that he was cradling in a pair of tweezers, a small tool pressed to it.
"Ah, Mitchell," he said. "Millie told me to expect you. I was just putting the finishing touches on your implant."
"What is that?" Mitchell asked. He looked around the room. It abutted the engine room near the rear of the ship, a workshop filled with what looked to him like nothing more than debris, but was probably everything the two engineers needed to keep them online.
"This?" Watson asked, holding up the tool. "It's a nano-laser. I didn't have a high-qubit micro-controller to match your existing implant, so I had to devise my own upgrade. I'm not actually guiding the laser though, just holding it over the chip. It's programmed to do the rest."
He put the chip down on a black surface. His hands moved in front of his face, working an overlay that Mitchell couldn't see.
"That's better. Give me two minutes to update the firmware and we'll get you ready for surgery."
"Surgery?" Mitchell scanned the room again. There were bits of wire and metal everywhere, and grease stains lined the walls and floor.
"Not here," Watson said with a laugh. "Medical is down on G-Deck, near the belly where it's most protected. I'd introduce you to the ship's doctor, but we don't have one."
"No doctor?"
"I'm afraid we don't rate medical personnel," Watson said. "We have some high-quality bots. The military sends them to us for testing. We're better than any guinea pigs."
It wasn't a reassuring thought.
"Fifteen seconds," Watson said, watching the progress of the update. "Once we confirm the update is working, I'll have to flash it to the rest of the crew. Millie insisted that we change our encryption schemas."
Mitchell smiled. She had at least believed him strongly enough to not take any chances with their implants.
"There we go." Watson picked up the implant with the tweezers again and placed it in a small dish of clear liquid. "Follow me."
"I was hoping Singh would be around," Mitchell said as they left Engineering. "I haven't gotten to meet him yet."
"Her. She usually bunks down pretty early and takes the morning shift. There are just the two of us trying to keep all of the systems running. It would be easier with a little less ship."
Mitchell was curious. He had just come from B-Deck, and Ilanka was the only crew member he had seen. "She has her own quarters?"
"I know what you're thinking. She isn't on B-Deck. We have berths right outside engineering, to keep us closer to the action."
They reached a nondescript part of the corridor. Watson put his hand to it, and a hidden hatch slid aside, revealing a small lift.
"Service shaft," he said. "I'm not supposed to take you this way." He shrugged and they piled in together.
It was a tight fit, but a fast ride, dropping them off deep in the ship's center, somewhere above the hanger. Another corridor greeted them. This one was spectacularly clean and well-kept, the poly-alloy reflective from the embedded lighting in the ceiling. A bot crawled slowly along the wall, continuing its endless task of keeping the area sanitary.
"Have you ever experienced a clean tube before?" Watson asked when they reached a hatch along the corridor. It had a glowing red cross to the left of it.
Mitchell shook his head. "I don't know what that is."
"Experimental tech. Uses nano-scale bots to remove one hundred percent of contam
inants from the surface layer - your clothes, your skin. We're the only ship that has one right now." He smiled. "At least the side effects have been minimal so far."
"Side effects?"
"Itching mainly."
The hatch opened into a dark room constructed of clear carbonate. A small vent rested to the left, and Mitchell could see the medi-bot station in front of him. They stepped in.
"The hatches on both sides won't open again until we're clean," Watson said. The rear hatch slid closed, leaving them in dim silence.
"How long does it take?"
"A few minutes."
"Where are the bots?"
"Already on you. They're nano-scale. Invisible to the naked eye. Once your ARR is back online, you'll be able to see them. It's pretty cool to watch them swarm over you."
Mitchell thought he felt something on his eye. He blinked a few times.
"It's a very impressive system. The nano-bots collect the contaminants, and then carry themselves out to a tiny airlock and are jettisoned into space. There's a machine behind the vent there that continually builds new ones."
"Why not just let them loose on the whole ship?"
"They can't be replaced quickly enough to keep everything in this tub germ-free."
A soft tone sounded, and the clear hatch ahead of them slid open.
"Shall we?"
Mitchell followed Watson through and into the infirmary.
"I assume you know what to do?" the engineer asked.
Mitchell stripped off his clothes and laid down on the padded machine. Even though the work was being done on his head, the medi-bot wouldn't activate as long as he was clothed.
Padded arms fell across his chest and his groin, offering a small amount of patient decency that doubled as a restraint system. The arms on the track above him came to life, small, dextrous fingers opening and closing. Watson placed the small tray with the chip in it on the counter and hit a few buttons on the machine. The routine to remove a faulty neural implant was pre-programmed.
Mitchell closed his eyes. He heard the arm sliding along the track, and then felt a soft prick in the side of his head. Everything went numb in that area immediately after, and when he shifted his eyes to look over in that direction all he could see were the limbs of the robotic arms making the smallest of adjustments.