Unfathomed (The Locus Series Book 1)

by Ralph Kern

“And after that?

  “Then we have another two to three weeks of steadily decreasing and limited quality.”

  “And then?” Solberg pressed.

  “And then nothing. The holds and larder will be empty.”

  “So six weeks and then we’re done.” Solberg frowned—a facial expression he had been wearing most of the time recently. “At least that’s longer than our initial estimates.”

  “We have to get started thinking about what happens after that, Lars,” Kendricks said.

  “A lot can happen in six weeks,” Carrie replied. “We’ll be in a worst state if we have passengers rampaging through the ship.”

  “You’re both right,” Solberg spoke slowly. “We need to at least consider that worst-case scenario, that this locus doesn’t pan out, but let’s keep it relatively low-key. No grand advertisements. Just put up a couple of stalls, make it look like it’ll be a fun experience rather than actual work. We can’t afford to wait on this, but neither can we afford to upset the passengers even more. I, for one, don’t want to be keelhauled by a hoard of loyalty card waving customers. Will that satisfy both of you?”

  “Not really,” Carrie said.

  “Nope.” Kendricks shook his head.

  “Tough, that’s as good as you’re both going to get from me,” Solberg said.

  Chapter 24 – Day 9

  I can’t believe we’ve got to this. Solberg thought. A Goddamn job fair on my promenade.

  Despite his tacit approval, Solberg didn’t like the fact they were advertising jobs. Not one bit. It showed just how desperate their situation had become.

  Once again, he stood on the walkway spanning the promenade. Below, crewmembers sat behind tables with large, hastily printed posters showed such titles such as “Farming”, “Security”, and “Fishing”.

  There weren’t many incentives which Carrie had come up with to offer the small queues of people who were lined up at the desks. Free massages in the spa was about the best they could manage, and the promise of recompense when they got home.

  Still, it meant at least a few of the passengers were starting to do something more productive than lounging around on the deck working on their tans and eating.

  ***

  Either reality is setting in for them, or they’re running out of shows to put on to keep these spoiled assholes amused, Grayson thought as he walked down the promenade, passing the few people waiting to ask about getting a job.

  He’d carefully considered the idea of joining the security team. That would presumably give him access to firearms at some point, and that would give him a few options. But that would also limit his movements around the ship, and while he was fairly confident his cover would hold, if someone decided to really press him, he would struggle to answer questions about his time before he was rescued.

  Maybe the farming crew, though? That would give him access to the island more readily, plus there would presumably be less vetting.

  “Karl,” he heard a familiar voice call out.

  “Hello, Mister Kendricks. How are you?” Grayson came to a halt and looked over at the staff captain, his arm still in its sling. “What the hell happened to your shoulder?”

  “This?” Kendricks patted his arm. “Courtesy of our pirate friends.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Grayson said, carefully moderating his voice. “Thanks again, I truly dread to think what would have happened if they had found me first.”

  “Well,” Kendricks gestured widely with his good arm, encompassing the job fair. “This might be your chance to make good. Can we interest you in a job?”

  “I was just thinking,” Grayson ad-libbed, “that I should give something back. After all, you’ve been keeping me in booze and food. Maybe I could help out on one of the farming crews?”

  “Not fishing?” Kendricks grinned.

  “That got me into this mess to start with,” Grayson replied. “No, I think terra firma is where I want to be.”

  “Well, go see Mandy over at that desk,” Kendricks pointed at a rather unpopular-looking table with just a couple of people standing around it. “And sign on the dotted line.”

  “You can be damn sure I’ll be cashing in on those massages the captain promised,” Grayson said with a wink as he walked over.

  ***

  Jack walked up Route 66-B, past the security station, into a section of the ship he’d not visited before. The walls became less sterile seeming, safety notices and official signs giving way to music posters and photos stuck to the walls.

  The crew had made attempts to personalize their little part of the ship, but the fact remained that other than the senior staff, nearly two thousand crewmembers lived in a cramped space. It was crowded, busy, and noisy.

  Finding the cross-corridor he wanted, he turned up it and tapped on the cabin door he had been looking for.

  “Who is it?” A voice called from inside.

  “My name is Jack, from... from security. I just need to speak to you.”

  The hatch opened a crack and a young girl’s face appeared. “Yeah?”

  “Hi, are you Jenna?”

  “Yeah,” the girl repeated. She looked Jack up and down, seeming to assess him. “What can I do for you?”

  “May I come in?”

  “No,” she said pointedly. “It’s a mess.”

  Jack glanced through the crack above her head. It was a disaster in there—clothes were strewn all over the place and magazines filled every flat space. That’s what happened when two people had to live in a space barely bigger than the back of a transit van. Depending on the occupants, it would only go one of two ways; become a pigsty or be obsessively and compulsively tidy. The occupants of this cabin had opted for the former.

  “Fair enough,” Jack shrugged. “I’m looking for Walt Grissom. I’d been asking about, and someone told me you were... friends.”

  “We are, or were,” Jenna said before blowing a bubble of chewing gum, letting it snap. “Then he stopped visiting about a week ago. Now he doesn’t answer his phone.”

  “Any idea where he is?”

  “Nope,” Jenna said angrily. “If you see him, tell him not to visit again. I’m not some bimbo he can just use and discard. I have a degree, you know.”

  Holding his hands up to ward off Jenna’s anger, Jack responded. “Listen, Jenna. We’re a little worried about him. He hasn’t turned up for work in a few days.”

  “Really?” Jenna’s fury abated slightly. “He was always such a... square. He wouldn’t even get drunk if he was on watch the following day.”

  “So I understand,” Jack nodded. “Listen, if you hear from him, or anyone sees him around, let me or one of the security staff know.”

  “Yeah, will do.”

  Chapter 25 – Day 9

  “The word is out,” Urbano Bautista said to Vaughan. They were stood on the bridge of the Titan, high up on the T-shaped superstructure looking out at the huge beached container vessel lying against the island. “It won’t exactly be an armada, but it’ll be a hell of a lot of ships.”

  Vaughan nodded. He was nervous about the proposition of attacking a heavily armed warship. They had it good here. So far they had gotten everything they needed, and Vaughan was content with his lot; after all, he had his own empire. It wasn’t like he was lacking in anything, although some of the lesser crew didn’t have things comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. But if they could take the Atlantica and eliminate the threat of the Ignatius? Then he, Vaughan, would have undisputed dominance in the region.

  “A lot is going to ride on Karl being able to do something about the Ignatius, otherwise we are just going to give them a lot of targets to shoot at. It’ll be the most one-sided battle in history,” Vaughan sighed.

  “He will come through; I have no doubt about that. He is a man of unique skills,” Bautista said. “We are helped by the fact we have a bit of inside knowledge around that class of destroyer from one of the boys who works in the engine room on the Spencer. He w
as in the Navy and served on that class.”

  “Good, I’m sure you’re handling the details. When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow,” Bautista said. “The Liliana is still the fastest ship we have, even with all the holes that fucking helicopter put in it. I’ll be back in a few days. By then, the fleet should be assembled.”

  “And we will have to give the go... or no go,” Vaughan nodded.

  “If Karl manages to do the job we’ve got lined up for him,” Bautista replied. “Then we will be able to sail right up to the Ignatius. We might even be able to take her.”

  Vaughan turned and slapped Bautista on the back. “I like your thinking, but let’s not run before we walk eh? The priority is the Atlantica. If we get the Ignatius too... that’s just a bonus.”

  “Very well,” Bautista said, before continuing in a quieter tone. “We haven’t discussed what happens to the passengers and crew. There have got to be thousands on board.”

  “I know, Urbano,” Vaughan said quietly. “But we’re living in a new world now. We may have to make some brutal choices.”

  “Ha,” Bautista scoffed. “You know, the Urbano Bautista of ten years ago wouldn’t have given a flying fuck what happened to them. But I’m a different man now, we all are. For all we know, we are the last people on the planet. Us and the few boats that magically appear, that is.”

  “Second thoughts, Urbano?”

  “No, Eric.” Bautista turned toward Vaughan. “I’ll do what needs to be done. But I’m not going to smile while doing it.”

  “Neither am I, Urbano, neither am I.”

  Nodding, Bautista walked from the bridge, heading toward the stairwell. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

  Vaughan turned back to the railing and ran his hand lightly over the metal.

  Who would have thought? Vaughan thought. Urbano Bautista showing a conscience?

  Chapter 26 – Day 9

  “How’s your new job going?” Laurie asked.

  Jack and Laurie were walking down the promenade, past the thin crowd of people still surrounding the job tables. She had slipped her arm through his, subtly taking a little of his weight, easing the burden on his now very sore leg that had taken a lot of chaffing in the last few days. He liked that; the touch of a woman who simply wanted to help him. It was a far cry from the Jack of even a week ago. He would have viewed it as a mortal insult for someone to have even made the attempt.

  “Busy,” Jack replied. “I have a missing crew member to find, not to mention setting up something resembling a training program for the new folk. Not that we have many volunteers.”

  “I’m sure you can handle it. You’ve handled everything else so far.” Laurie smiled.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And how’s the leg holding up?” Laurie asked.

  Jack stiffened. Quietly taking comfort in her subtle assistance was one thing, speaking directly about it was another. Slowly he relaxed, the casual way she mentioned it burning through his defensiveness.

  “It’s okay. It still hurts sometimes, but it’s okay.” Jack said slowly.

  “Maybe Dr. Emodi can help with that?”

  “No, I don’t mean the...” Jack trailed off, before speaking more strongly again. Articulating himself clearly was something he had gotten out of practice with in his self-imposed social isolation. “I don’t mean the... stump. I mean my leg itself. I can feel it hurting, even though it’s gone. It burns sometimes. Sometimes it itches, too. You know how frustrating it is when you feel the need to itch something but you can’t scratch it?”

  “I can imagine.” Laurie nodded. “I think I’ve read about that. Phantom limb pain.”

  “Yeah, apparently it’s caused by junk inputs from the central nervous system. I filled three notebooks with the crap the doctors spouted about it, and didn’t take one bit in.”

  The two approached the gaudy café, Art Deco, and Jack saw the place was only half full. “Would you like a coffee?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Laurie said as they changed course and started to head into the coffee shop.

  As they reached the threshold, the phone in Jack’s pocket began to ring. Giving an apologetic glance at Laurie, Jack answered, “Cohen.”

  “Jack, there’s a disturbance in Beachcombers, meet me there,” Solberg said without preamble.

  “Okay, five minutes.” Jack disentangled his arm from Laurie’s.

  “Duty calls?” Laurie asked.

  “Yeah, sorry about this.”

  “No worries, rain check. Go get ‘em, Sheriff.”

  ***

  “Kendricks should be handling this, instead he’s off playing with gadgets and gizmos,” Solberg grumbled as he met Jack and together they walked along into the entry atrium of the buffet hall.

  “I’m surprised this warrants a senior officer’s attention, Captain,” Jack said.

  “Damn premium customers. Apparently Carrie can’t sweet talk him herself.”

  The sound of angry shouting was heard outside of Beachcombers as the doors swept open and the two men entered.

  “—ridiculous! Do you know how much I’ve paid for the fucking holiday? Not only does your incompetent crew get us lost, you have us eating this swill!”

  The voice was familiar to Jack. He racked his brain, thinking back through the many people he had met over the past week. Circling around the buffet table, he saw a red-faced Brett Jenson standing before him, his embarrassed wife next to him and a bemused crowd watching Carrie Matthews try to placate the furious man.

  “Mister Jenson, as I’ve tried to ex—”

  “Finally,” Jenson interrupted, seeing Solberg. “Can you tell your staff that we demand a decent meal?”

  Solberg held his hands up. “Calm down, Brett. I’ve only just arrived. What’s going on?”

  “This is what’s fucking going on.” Jenson reached over to the buffet table and picked up a tray of what looked like ham sandwiches. “I mean, seriously? What the fuck is this? Lunch?”

  “Brett—” Solberg began.

  “Mister Jenson. I am not on first name terms with you right now.” Jenson dropped the metal tray, letting it clatter to the floor, sandwiches and rolls scattering away from it.

  Solberg’s face went bright red in fury. He stepped forward. Jack quickly assessed the situation and lay a placatory hand on the captain’s shoulder.

  “Sir, allow me,” Jack said quickly before Solberg could let rip. “Mister Jenson. We need you to calm down so we can talk about this rationally—”

  “Oh, I’m completely rational.” Jenson turned to Jack, as if noticing him for the first time. “Wait, aren’t you James?”

  “Jack, my name is Jack.”

  “Well, Jack, I fail to see what business this is of yours. Captain, we are all,” Jenson turned and gestured theatrically at the crowd behind him before facing back toward Solberg, “curious as to why you have us eating this swill when we paid a lot of money for decent cuisine.”

  The crowd didn’t look particularly curious about the food on offer; they were far more interested in the show before them.

  “As of a week ago, I have been asked to assist this ship with its security functions,” Jack interposed himself between the captain and man before him. “And your shit attitude is a material threat to that security. Now you need to calm down, or I’ll put you in the brig until you do.”

  “Jack? Go make yourself busy.” Jenson lifted his hand in front of Jack’s face and made a shooing motion.

  That was as far as he got. Jack caught the hand and twisted it around, forcing Jenson to turn away from him. Jack kept the hand in his own, locking it in what would be a painful gooseneck hold up in the small of Jenson’s back.

  “Right, to the brig,” Jack said loudly in the voice he used to reserve for dealing with any of his dilatory or obstructive former troops.

  Pulling Jenson around, Jack shoved the struggling, spitting man toward the door, only hobbling slightly on his leg. Every time Jenson
tried to struggle out of the hold, Jack applied a little pressure onto his wrist, which he knew would translate into agony for him.

  A round of applause erupted from the onlookers.

  Unseen by the crowd, the slightest twitch of a smile crossed Jack’s face. He’d wanted to put this pompous prick in his place the first time he’d met him, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one.

  ***

  “This is the Light Exo Atmospheric Projectile, or LEAP for short, which is mounted on the RIM 161C—Standard Missile 3,” Donovan manipulated the touchscreen interface of the conference room table.

  Visible on it was a small cylinder, which had the appearance of a tiny jet engine. Donovan gestured at it proudly. Kendricks wasn’t overly impressed — it hardly looked like a super-advanced weapon. From the proud look on Donovan’s face, he didn’t think it was wise to say as much, though.

  “At the front, we have an IR sensor head,” Donovan gestured at the components as he spoke. “The job of that is to acquire a target, whether that be a satellite or a ballistic missile. What it isn’t, though, is a camera on the visual spectrum; it only picks up infrared and displays the results in two colors. Behind that, is what we call the bus. That contains the maneuvering capability, batteries, and communication equipment that keeps it in contact with the launching ship.”

  “Okay,” Kendricks said. “And what about explosives? I mean, I wouldn’t be too keen on working on a bomb in our workshops.”

  “It’s a pure kinetic kill weapon. At the speed it impacts a target, it unleashes the same amount of energy as thirty-two kilograms of TNT,” Donovan said. “It doesn’t need explosives, so don’t worry about that. The propellant on board, hydrazine, can be toxic, but I don’t propose we mess around with that side of things too much.”

  “Okay... that’s good to hear,” Kendricks said, slightly mollified.

  “This is a standard launch profile. Please forgive the music, this is lifted straight from the promotional material that Raytheon/Mitsubishi, the makers of this little baby, provided.

  Donovan tapped play on the touchscreen of the table monitor. On cue, dramatic music began bellowing through the speakers.