Mila's Shift

by Danielle Forrest

  “Excellent. Why don’t we sit over there?” He pointed to an area out of earshot, but still within visual range of everyone.

  She nodded and went to sit on some debris. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s coming along. The engineers are hopeful. They say there’s a chance they can get the engine operational again.”

  “That’s great. Then I’ll have a job again.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  The next words spilled out of her without her intent, making her want to cover her mouth to keep them in. “I missed you.”

  Putting down food halfway to his mouth, his lips curled at the corners. “I’ve missed you, too.” He paused, then resumed eating, resolutely chewing before stopping again to speak. “I’m not sure how to do this, Mila.”

  Do what? She didn’t voice it, wanting him to finish, afraid of what he would say. Would he say he didn’t want to, couldn’t, handle her being a shifter? In her mind, it always came back to that.

  Shifter.

  Freak.

  Monster.

  Outlaw.

  “I want you, Mila. I like you. But I don’t know how to have a shipboard romance, or a relationship with a subordinate. And with everything going on, this should be the last thing on my mind, but it’s not. I think about you most of the time.”

  “It’ll either work out or it doesn’t. No use worrying about it.”

  He nodded and they lapsed into silence.

  Of course, he knew her secret, which made the stakes much higher.

  Too high.

  A klaxon went off, causing Mila to cover her ears, her heart pounding in her throat. It blared three times, then paused, then repeated. Tristan jumped up, grabbed her hand, and dragged her to her feet.

  “Come on.” Authority, and a twinge of fear, colored his words.

  Mila tried to keep pace as he flew through the ship. It didn’t take long for her to realize they were heading for the bridge. “What’s going on?” she asked between breaths.

  “Imminent attack.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Comms were down, are down. We needed a warning system. Three notes means imminent attack.”

  “Who signaled it? I thought it was an automated system.”

  “We tweaked it, wired it to the radar console. And a few other places.”

  She nodded, but he didn’t see. She couldn’t keep up with him and several feet now separated them. Her heart pounded, but a smile also crossed her face. Oh, we’re so dead.

  She skidded onto the bridge, slightly less graceful than Tristan, who immediately started barking orders. She ran to the pilot’s chair, testing the systems, looking, hoping.

  They had sub-space, but no propulsion. “Do we have weapons?” She looked over her shoulder. No one sat at the weapons consoles, so no. Shit. “Can we get propulsion? Any propulsion?”

  “Engineers are working on it. They’ll do what they can. They know the drill,” Tristan said.

  Good thing, because she didn’t.

  She sat, waiting, her fingers twitching over the controls, her breath shaking with the need to do something, anything. She tested propulsion again. Nothing. “How far out?”

  “Couple minutes based on current speeds.”

  Mila nodded, crossing her fingers the engineers could manage a miracle.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mila felt a rumble and hoped it wasn’t the engine room blowing up again. She checked. “Yes!” She dropped the ship into sub-space, watching as it distorted everything around her, bouncing in her seat.

  Come on.

  Mila urged the ship to crawl forward, not wanting to overtax the engines. She feared what would happen if she did what her entire body was screaming to do. “How close now?”

  “Almost visual range, ma’am.”

  Mila looked around and smiled, seeing their salvation at the same time she caught sight of the first ships in her periphery. She slowly increased speed, steering the ship toward her destination. She watched as the ships got closer, closer. When would they be within firing range?

  “Trace? What are you doing?” Tristan said, anxiety in his voice.

  “Something they can’t.”

  She felt a small shudder in the controls and someone said, “Impact.” She picked up speed.

  “May Trace, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Those are gas-rings.”

  “And they’re too small to survive gas-rings, captain. We can.”

  “Don’t do this, Trace. The ship’s old, has taken substantial damage. We might not survive it either.”

  “But we definitely won’t survive another attack, sir.”

  She sped up, grinning as Tristan cursed under his breath behind her.

  As she approached the gas-rings, visibility decreased. She knew she’d hit them when a large rock smacked into the shield in front of her. Visibility growing worse, she slowed as rocks clanged against their outer hull.

  You couldn’t avoid rocks in a gas-ring. The gas cloud made visibility all but nothing. The rock and ice from the planet’s rings were like land mines in a minefield. You knew they were there, but you had no idea where. All you could do was cross your fingers and pray.

  After a few minutes of pinging and clanging noises, she felt confident the POS could manage. It had maintained structural integrity. But now what?

  She slowed further, but the controls felt weird for a moment, then a red light gleamed on the console. “Shit.” She slammed her hand down. “Goddamn it.” She leaned back and sighed. They were dead in the water again.

  “M—May. What the hell were you thinking? You could have gotten us all killed!” Tristan came to his feet, chiding himself for almost calling her Mila.

  She turned in her seat and glared. She’d caught that slip.

  “If I hadn’t done what I did, sir, we’d all be dead. We couldn’t outrun those fighters and, like you said, we wouldn’t survive the impact. We had a better chance against the gas-rings.”

  He sputtered, fists locked at his sides, but kept quiet. His jaw clenched as he took in slow breaths, determined to be calm, professional, when he opened his mouth again. “Okay, I need an all systems check. We still have no comms so spread out. Report back here.”

  “Yes, captain,” everyone chorused as they fled the room.

  “Not you,” he said, teeth still clenched.

  Mila sank back in her seat, glaring at him again. “You almost called me Mila. In front of everyone.” She waved her hand, indicating those that had already left.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry isn’t good enough,” she said as she stood. “I’ve told you this before, Tristan. You hold my life in your hands.” By the time she’d finished speaking, she’d closed the gap between them. “No one can know.”

  “I know,” he said, cupping her cheek.

  She raised an eyebrow at him, patting his hand before moving out of his touch. “What should we do? You have them determining the status of the ship. Kind of leaves us with nothing to do.”

  He smiled. “I could think of a few things.”

  She shook her head and swatted at him. “Perv.”

  “Tango leader, please advise.”

  “Stand by, Tango one. Will inform when a new strategy has been formulated.” He closed the comm and resisted the urge to rub his face. Of course, he couldn’t. Not with the suit and helmet on.

  The ship had been badly damaged. It had already sustained one attack and he saw evidence of further damage on another part of the ship. That pilot had to be crazy to enter a gas-ring. In perfect condition, that ship was too old to enter safely.

  Granted, none of their fighters could enter either, even in the best condition. They weren’t durable enough, large enough, and certainly were too damned fast. Gas-rings had zero visibility. You couldn’t see the obstacles before they hit you, destroying your craft.

  At this point, they wouldn’t find the ship without a homing beacon.

  “Tan
go unit, flank the gas-ring. I want full coverage. They have to leave some time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mila yawned, stretching out at the pilot’s console. Why couldn’t they have waited for reports in his office? It was a hell of a lot more comfortable.

  Tristan had worn a steady path in the center of the bridge from his pacing.

  “Would you relax, Tristan?”

  “Relax,” he said, whirling on her. “You think I should relax? My ship is dead in the water. Again. There is an entire fleet of fighters outside that gas-ring. Again. I’m not sure we can survive long enough to run out of power. Again.”

  “Relax, Tristan. Or you’ll have a heart attack long before any of that happens, or whatever other dastardly fate you’ve decided we’ll meet.”

  He glared, but it didn’t look like his heart was in it. “Sorry.”

  “No sweat. I get it. These aren’t exactly the best of circumstances here. It tends to bring out the best and worst in people.”

  “It only seems to bring out the best in you.”

  “And you’re any different?”

  “Do you think I’ve handled any of this well?”

  “You’ve done the best you can, the best anyone could have expected.” Mila saw movement past him. “I think that’s our first report.”

  He waited, listening as his unit continued to report on the quarter hour, reporting back no change. All of a hundred fidgets and gestures had gone through his head as he sat there, but the bulky suit prevented them, driving him half mad with the urge to do something.

  Then, his console lit up and he touched it, bringing up a map display. A homing beacon.

  “Tango unit. Sending you coordinates now. Go to the edge of the gas-ring and disembark. We’ll infiltrate in the suits.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Brought you food again.” Mila waved it under Tristan’s nose.

  He’d started supervising the repairs in the engine room again. She watched as a swarm of men raced around the room putting things to rights.

  “Do you think they can manage?”

  “Before? Maybe. Now? Probably not. They’d pieced the engine together before the second attack, but now even more of it’s damaged.”

  “Sorry,” she said, her head falling. If only she could have come up with another way. Something, anything.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said, grabbing her shoulder.

  Well, that’s a change from his earlier assertions. “Still, I feel like I could have done better. Like maybe if I’d stopped sooner, the engines wouldn’t have conked out the second time. I don’t know.”

  “You respond well in a crisis, Mila. Don’t ever doubt yourself on that front. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else at the helm today.”

  “Thanks. Now eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It was slow going through the gas-rings. The suits had limited propulsion, and they had to feel their way blindly around boulders and chunks of ice, using the homing beacon to guide them to their target.

  A little farther and he saw his first glimpse of the Orleans since it had disappeared into the gas. Just an outline showed through the thick fog, but he saw it.

  Success was within reach.

  One of the unfortunate tasks after a strike was checking the outer hull for damage. It couldn’t be done from inside the ship when most of her systems were down, which meant someone had to check it visually. Outside.

  Him. Him and about a dozen others. He traveled across the surface, tools magnetically clamped to his belt. He found a spot that looked weak, made his way toward it and got in close. Better safe than sorry. He pulled out a patch and a tool, and melted the patch in place.

  He moved on, looking up around him.

  It really was quite beautiful inside a gas-ring. He’d never imagined he might see something like this someday. Sure, he’d expected to have adventures, see the universe, but mostly those had been pipe dreams. It was rare to experience something that struck his heart with wonder like this.

  The surrounding space exploded in colors like an aurora, but with the faintest hint of something in it. Depending on the planet, could be ice or rocks. Either could destroy a ship if hit just right.

  Still, beautiful.

  He furrowed his brow, looking closer at an odd-shaped rock not far off. It’s getting closer. He squinted, remembering to lift the solar shield. Definitely, odd shape. It continued closer, and he wondered what could have set it adrift.

  Oh, shit, he thought, as the thing took a recognizable form. Right before the projectile pierced his brain.

  He crept to the airlock, reaching for the controls to the left of the door. Fortunately, the ship was old, and lacked any recognizable security measures. He just pressed a few buttons and the outer hatch opened. He went in, waiting for a few of his unit to follow before closing the outer hatch and re-pressurizing.

  Air hissed into the room and a light turned from red to green above their heads. He nodded to his men and opened the inner hatch. His men moved out, guns at the ready. Their first priority would be taking out any hostiles quietly. He didn’t expect much of the crew to be armed.

  Once they were through, he sealed the way out and motioned them to a closet to the right. One dragged a man with him, having snapped his neck. They entered the small room and removed their suits.

  “Second wave, ready for entry.”

  She checked the time. He still wasn’t back yet. “Hey, John.”

  A man holding his helmet under his suit-clad arm turned to her. “Yeah, boss?”

  “Put your helmet on again. Someone’s missing.”

  “Ah, come on, boss. Max never reports on time. You know that.”

  “It’s not Max. And we’re missing a suit, too. Someone’s still out there.”

  He nodded, putting his helmet back on. “Yes, boss.”

  John made his way back from the suit room absently. Turning a corner, he looked up, and dashed back out of sight. “Shit,” he hissed. He looked over his shoulder. Nothing should be around that corner. Think, damn it. There had been six men. All dressed in uniforms. Not their uniforms, though.

  He slipped slowly, and hopefully quietly, back the way he’d come, hoping he could alert someone before it was too late. His suit didn’t help. Much more streamlined than the original space suits back in the 20th century, they were still bulky and designed for space. They tended to clomp their way along the flooring, making him curse every step he took.

  Clomp, clomp, clomp.

  He reached the suit room and pushed the door open, fearing he’d gone too slow, fearing they would shoot him in the back any second. Come on. Just a bit farther. He reached the door, opened it, and closed it behind him, leaning against it with a relieved breath.

  He removed his helmet and assessed the people in the room. None were armed. “We’ve got intruders.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Since their uniforms weren’t designed for this ship, they’d had to “borrow” from the crew. Not being able to walk, having no leverage to use, could devastate their chances. Even firing guns would drive them helplessly in the opposite direction.

  All dressed in the uniform of the USS Orleans, they traveled swiftly, grabbing people and snapping their necks with quick twists. The bodies sagged, then they dragged them to the first available space before moving on. They advanced with precision and determination, like a wave eradicating the ship of vermin.

  She slipped out the back of the suit room, grateful for the second exit. Many rooms on this ship didn’t have two doors. Most of the men were still removing their suits. They’d told her to run. Bring word to somebody, anybody. Damn, what she wouldn’t give for a working comm right now.

  She raced on, her mind consumed with the idea that the people she’d just left behind might already be dead. They had no weapons. They were still in their suits. They couldn’t escape.

  Why are the corridors so quiet? There’s no one here. She passed one crossing after
the next, but she encountered no one. Over the last few days, she’d gotten used to people running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Now? When the engines were down and the ship’s fate lay in the balance, uncertain? No one.

  She turned a corner and bumped into someone. “Oh.”

  She stepped back, looked up, and snap.

  “I need a break.” The engineer sat, wondering if he could maybe catch a smoke. He’d snuck some cigarettes onto the ship. Technically, they weren’t allowed, but he liked to light one up in the airlock, then let the smoke drift out into space once he’d closed the hatch. “I’ll be right back.”

  He had his favorite airlock. Not far from the engine room. He always took a shortcut. Through a back corridor, it emptied out in front of the airlock in question. He rushed, his nerves on edge from too many hours on the job and not enough nicotine. He should have gone on the patch. Then he could have at least not had nicotine withdrawal.

  A bit farther and he exited onto the hallway. He walked to the next door, a supply closet. He kept his smokes in there. Best not to keep them anywhere they could be found on a spot inspection of his bunk. He opened the door and a body fell out.

  “Fuck!”

  Tristan watched, feeling half asleep. Mila had gotten bored a while ago and had been entertaining herself with snacks she’d stuffed in her pants pockets. He found himself fascinated by the plethora of hiding places she’d come up with.

  An irate voice shocked him out of his stupor. “No smoking in the engine room! Where the hell did you get that?”

  “Oh, fuck off, man. I’m not in the mood.”

  Tristan looked over at the smoking man and stormed his way.