by TW Iain
That calmed Tris. Cathal knew what he was doing, slipping into routine when things went awry. Known tasks gave the illusion of control, if nothing else.
The scans came to her, and Ryann stored them after giving each a brief but intense read.
It took her a couple of seconds to summarise each report.
Ryann paused. It wasn’t like him to be this slow.
It came through, with a marker that indicated a physical push. That was strange, maybe worrying. Normally, the lattice pushed the scan her way as soon as it was completed.
He wasn’t, but at least he was trying to keep his spirits up.
Ryann perused his scan before reporting to Cathal, although she was unsure how to phrase this.
Cathal paused.
Ryann knew that was potential trouble.
Going dark was part of training, and some people even liked the sensation. But that was a conscious decision. When a lattice failed, it was usually during tweaking, when medics and tech teams would be on hand to reboot. A lattice fail in the field could be catastrophic. Ryann had only heard of two such incidents, and both resulted in fatalities.
If Brice was going dark, that would impact the whole crew.
Ryann knew he was smiling. She glanced through his scan, although it told her little she didn’t already know.
Cathal didn’t respond instantly. He shook with a silent laugh.
And there it was—his inner warmth. He wouldn’t allow the rest of the crew to see it, but if Ryann could coax that from him, she knew he was at ease with himself. If she could keep the troubles of his command from clouding his thoughts, then he could lead them to safety.
Ryann smiled. Cathal was in control, and she had faith in him.
When the Proteus came to rest, Brice let his fingers relax, wondering when he’d gripped the arm rests so tightly.
His neck was sore. His lattice reported mild whiplash, and it was already firing impulses to correct any damage. There was a bruise on his arm, and he had no recollection of when that happened.
Brice looked around the cabin. The light was dim, like they were on emergency power. The Proteus lay on its side, and although Keelin and Tris were still in front of Brice’s seat, Ryann was now underneath him. If his restraint gave, he’d land on top of her. He doubted she’d look so calm then.
But as she analysed their scans—and Brice was annoyed he had to push his—she seemed relaxed. She even smiled at one point.
“Keelin, report.” Cathal’s voice was loud, but only because there were no other sounds in the cabin.
“Just completing diagnostic.” She looked uncomfortable, with her hair falling away to the side of her head. “Full report logged.”
“Give us a verbal summary.”
“Resting on the river bed, mixture of rock and mud, so unstable.” Keelin’s voice was flat. “Completely submerged. Out of the main flow, roughly twenty metres from the nearest bank.”
“And the Proteus?”
Keelin took a long breath before answering. “Hull holding, but the data contains anomalies. Not too sure what that means. Power’s…temperamental. Some of the data streams are elusive.”
“I don’t need uncertainty, Keelin.”
“Sorry. This baby’s hurting. It’s like she doesn’t want me prodding where she’s injured. It’s like she’s curling up on herself.”
It annoyed Brice when Keelin talked like the craft was sentient. The Proteus was a piece of kit, all tech. The river was more alive than this hunk of metal.
“Okay. This is what we do,” Cathal said. “Keelin—keep working on the craft, see what you can do. Tris—work on the systems, focusing on contact with Haven. Ryann—check externals. Brice—cabin, manual check.”
Ryann’s head jerked towards Cathal. It must’ve been a private suss.
“And Brice.”
“Cathal?”
“Keep in contact. Report anything.”
“Will do.” He looked around the bridge. “Once I get there.”
Cathal nodded, and then his eyes glazed as he retreated into his lattice, doing whatever he did while the others worked. And the others sat almost as motionless, all working internally. He was the only one who needed to leave his seat. Typical.
And with the Proteus on its side, this wasn’t going to be easy.
He grabbed the seat with his hands and tensed his body. He told his lattice to release the restraints slowly.
“You want me to move?” Ryann asked. Brice looked down at her. She had one eyebrow raised, but didn’t look worried that he’d fall.
Tris shuffled in his seat, turning to watch.
The easiest thing would be to ask Ryann to move, and then he could drop. But where would be the fun in that?
Beneath her, the hull of the craft was a smooth wall. Smooth enough to walk on.
“No need,” he answered. “Could do with the exercise.”
His restraints parted, and he gripped his seat as he swung his legs, building momentum. And then he released.
Brice’s boots hit the wall with a thud, and Keelin flinched. Probably upset that he’d scuffed her baby.
“What, no somersault?” said Tris. Brice ignored his jealousy.
The door to the cabin ran on a self-contained system, and slid back when Brice pushed the release. With the tilt of the Proteus, the opening was at head height. He grabbed the frame and jumped, balancing on the thin lip, his lattice pushing and pulling at his muscles, synchronised to keep him from tipping too far either way. He smiled, relishing the control.
It was dark, the dim g
low from the bridge failing to penetrate beyond a metre or so. Brice called up night filters on his lenses, and objects glowed green. He added other filters, and the image morphed into something almost like normal. Almost, but everything had an indistinct edge, like a dream.
“Be back in a bit,” he said.
“Be back when you’ve done a thorough check,” said Cathal.
“That’s what I meant.”
He jumped and let the door seal behind him.
The cabin was about twice the size of the bridge. For this mission, Cathal had ordered standard config, so there was a table in the middle, and a bench along the wall that was now at his feet. The bench was locked upright, which made walking across it so much easier.
He started at the crew’s quarters. He’d never liked that term, and didn’t care that it was traditional. The fractional sound of it just reminded him how small each one was.
Five of them, of course, little more than pods in the wall. Five quarters—something else that annoyed Brice. Each contained storage and a mattress, giving just enough space to sleep.
Home away from home, Cathal always said. Brice was never sure if he was joking.
Cathal insisted that communal spaces were kept as clear as possible, and Keelin didn’t like anything interfering with the smooth lines of her baby. But the quarters were personal. So Tris had pictures stuck to the ceiling of his—real pictures rather than projections—and Brice wondered how Data-boy could sleep with all those faces staring down at him. Keelin had a few extra cushions on her red fleece topper, and Ryann had crisp white bedding against green mottled walls that, he assumed, reminded her of the forest or something. Brice’s quarters were nothing special, and although Cathal said they were a mess, Brice just thought of them as his.
Of course, Cathal stuck to standard-issue bedroll and plain walls.
Brice sealed up each of the quarters as he checked it, then moved on to the storage units and kitchen area. Everything was in its place—tools, utensils, foodstuffs, extra clothing. And their pathetic array of weapons.
Brice loved firearm training, and he’d looked forward to using those weapons in the field. But the company didn’t allow that. Kaiahive were setting up outposts, not invading enemy territory. The area had been scanned by drones, and there was no need for lethal weapons. Even the warths were not dangerous if left to themselves.
And so, for the sake of the company’s image, the crews had no firepower. Everyone held a lash, true, but these only sent out a short burst of energy. Hit a warth with one, and if you got it right, you might knock the beast over. And, as the company said, that should give you enough time to get the hell out of there.
So their weapons were next to useless.
Of course, the company allowed them to carry knives. But they were tools, not weapons. They were for cutting through undergrowth, not for hacking at living things.
He pushed through the door into the heads, and nothing was amiss—two shower cubicles, toilet, couple of sinks. The mirrored storage was sealed and, when he opened it, nothing moved. Another of Cathal’s demands—always use webbing. Just in case.
And why? Because he was green. To Cathal, he’d always be the newbie, and he’d never be good enough.
Brice pulled out of the heads, shutting the slightly lemony, slightly medical smell behind him. Just the hatches left to check.
There were two of them, the main hatch to port (now over Brice’s head), and the smaller reserve hatch in the topside. As far as Brice could tell, that was one of the few times the company actually put major money into a safety feature. Of course, they had little choice after that crew had been trapped in the burning Proteus. They talked of learning lessons, and of ensuring those lives had not been lost in vain, but it was clear what they were doing—limiting damages. As usual, they were looking after their own backs.
But they did install reserve hatches in all craft after that.
Brice had only ever used one in training, crawling through the hatch as dense smoke filled the craft, his lattice warning him of danger that he knew was only a simulation programmed by the trainers. But he’d still felt the adrenaline rush.
The door was circular, with a number pad in the middle. He keyed in the release code, not wishing to use the emergency over-ride. That would trigger all kinds of signals, and probably annoy the hell out of Keelin. And then Cathal would have a go at him for upsetting his crew, like he wasn’t supposed to even be there.
The door hissed and dropped back, swinging on heavy hinges. The movement was quicker than Brice expected, and he stumbled out of the way, putting a hand out to steady himself but falling anyway. The impact jarred him, and for a moment his lenses flashed, and a sharp bolt of pain surged through his head.
He swore under his breath and brought a hand up to his temple, where he’d struck the wall. It felt tender, and he winced as his fingers probed. Shaking his head to clear the grogginess, he punched the hatch door. Stupid, pointless job! There was nothing to find. Any problems would show up on sensors, even with the Proteus on emergency power. This was nothing more than a way to get Brice out of the way, to keep him occupied. What else was he good for?
But he’d see this through. Just the hatches to check, then he’d go back up front and give his report. Maybe make a spreadsheet, like Tris would, building a simple task into something important, making out it was life-and-death.
If Tris was so good at his job, why hadn’t he contacted Haven yet? Why were they stuck here?
Brice looked into the hatch. It was dim; green and murky. That was the filters on his lenses, he told himself. But the lines were indistinct. Usually, these settings gave him a crisper image.
Maybe that was because of the hatch being a cylinder. Maybe the curves distorted the filters somehow.
But when he looked back into the cabin, the murkiness remained. It was nothing he could put his finger on, just a general…haziness. Like he was looking through a semi-transparent film, or like he was underwater.
He almost laughed at that thought, remembering exactly where the Proteus lay.
Maybe it was a lens glitch, or something in the stale air from the hatch. It was nothing to worry about.
The main hatch was large enough for three to walk through at a time. It had to be, in case they needed to exit at speed. That was the phrase used in training—not ‘make an emergency exit’, or ‘get the hell out of there’, but ‘exit at speed’.
With the angle of the Proteus, the hatch was way above Brice. He climbed onto the side of the table, balancing carefully as he reached up. He ran a hand round the outer edge of the door, where it sat smoothly against the inner hull of the craft, cool beneath his fingers.
But there was one patch, to his left, that felt a few degrees cooler than the rest. Brice let his hand linger, and he focused on the tilt of the craft. The Proteus lay not only on its side, but also facing ever so slightly nose-up. That mean the cooler patch was to the aft of the door. Brice knew that should be important.
He connected with the door controls and gave it the instruction to open. It slid to one side, opening up the hatch chamber.
Brice swallowed. They were in trouble.
On instinct he pulled up more filters, but he didn’t need to do that in order to see the darker patch. An ominous deep green ran from the outer door to where his hand still rested on that cooler patch.
And it did run. It flowed towards his hand.
Brice screamed for his lattice to seal the hatch, and it slid shut with a hiss. He took a breath, calming himself, and he wavered for a moment on the edge of the
table, his stand still on the cooler patch.
It was larger now, and he could feel the moisture.
His mouth was dry.
Brice opened up his lattice to the rest of the crew, and sussed.
Brice got no response. He tried telling himself the dampness beneath his hand was just sweat, but he’d never been good at lying to himself.
He closed his eyes, the misty green after-image in his lenses fading to a washed-out black.
Brice swore under his breath, and shouted back at her.
He connected to the sensors within the hatch. At first they slipped from his grip, but he focused and held them, zooming into the monochrome image. The water—and he couldn’t pretend it was anything else now—flowed with mercurial slivers from outer to inner hatch. And where it started there was a kink in the metal. It was the slightest of misalignments, but it was enough.
What the hell?
What was the point of sending him back here and then ignoring what he said?
Brice felt a chill run through him. And something dropped onto his head.
He looked up, moving his hand across to the edge of the inner hatch. Liquid ran towards his finger, pooling until it could no longer support its own weight, and then it fell, landing on his cheek like an icy pin-prick.