The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2)

by L. J. Simpson

  Pulling the pistol from his belt he checked that it was set to stun. Both DCI Burns and the Captain Norris had politely requested that Larson find some way of bringing the operation to a successful conclusion without dispatching Jacks into the afterlife. Requested politely because it was in all conscience an unreasonable demand, but one requested just the same because both the District Attorney and the High Command were looking forward to having their respective days in court.

  Larson would have quite happily killed the lot of them but in truth, it took no more or less effort to stun an adversary than to shoot them full of holes. Another point to consider was that an XL50 could make a very nasty mess at close ranges and Larson would be the one who’d have to clean up the blood. Much better to stun – much better indeed, but if he could catch them all together on the bridge he might not need the gun at all…

  * * *

  Before Chuck could think about attaching the new cables to Pod 2 he needed to reverse the flow of hydraulic fluid to the clamps that held the pod in place. Not a particularly difficult job, it was just a matter of swapping over the flexible hoses that led in and out of the pumps and then topping up the system with fresh hydraulic oil. The worst part was handling the oil itself. Disagreeable stuff at the best of times, the variety used in off-planet environments was downright noxious. Seasoned spacefarer that he was, Chuck knew the list of warnings on the side of the container without having to read them.

  Contact with skin: If contaminated wash immediately with soap and water. Protect exposed skin at all times.

  Yes, sound advice – wear gloves.

  Inhalation: Prolonged inhalation can cause weakness and may lead to permanent nerve damage. Use in a well ventilated area.

  More difficult – I can’t exactly open a window, can I?

  Accidental ingestion can cause internal bleeding from which death may result.

  Chuck just shook his head, carefully topped off the last hydraulic fluid reservoir and tightened the cap. The pumps should automatically bleed any unwanted air out of the system and with that the clamps would be ready to go.

  With the hydraulics sorted he picked up the first of the heavy duty wiring harnesses and hurriedly checked the connectors against the blueprints. More haste, less speed, he reminded himself. Let’s see… Primary power feed, Node A to Socket 27-C. Node B to Socket 33-D. Threading them through the internal bulkhead he pushed the connectors home and snapped the retainers in place. One down, a couple of dozen to go…

  * * *

  The Reaper’s flight deck was located one deck up from the galley and crew quarters. Creeping cautiously up the flight of stairs, Larson emerged into a wide open area directly behind the flight deck. To port and starboard were the ship’s airlocks and to the rear were the captain’s day cabin and stateroom – his day cabin and stateroom. As his head rose above the lip of the stairs he cast a wary look around, mightily relieved to find the deck space empty. He ascended the remaining steps one at a time, measuring each footfall and handhold with care. The stairs and handrails were metal – they wouldn’t creak but would give his position away in an instant if he were to allow his pistol – or anything else – to bang against the sides.

  Finally, the top was made and with pistol drawn, he edged towards the forward bulkhead beyond which lay his final objective, the Reaper’s flight-deck. The door was set to the right, adjacent to a porthole on the starboard side of the hull.

  Edging away from the bulkhead Larson could clearly see part of the flight deck reflected in the glass of the port-hole. There was the bench seat at the rear of the deck – the one where the wound up Lenny had fidgeted in the hours before they had intercepted the prison transport D47. Leaning to his right, Larson could see the now unattended tactical station. Leaning still further he could make out the head and shoulders of a man facing away. Tallish, the man had silver grey hair. Another step and Larson could see virtually all there was to see. The man he’d known as Barnes was seated in the pilot’s chair and Jacks was hunched over, both of them concentrating on the view out of the cockpit windows.

  He’d never get a better chance than this.

  Larson pushed the pistol back in the holster and eased one of the concussion grenades from his belt. Clasping his hand around the handle he pulled out the pin and crept up to the edge of the door.

  “Hi, Barnes,” he said brightly, leaning around the door jam. “Long time no see.”

  Both Barnes and Jacks turned and gawped in surprise. Barnes’ jaw had dropped so far that in any other circumstances it would have been comical. Larson wished he could capture the moment for posterity but without further ado lobbed the grenade towards the opposite side of the flight deck. Barnes eyes darted from Larson’s face to the grenade as it sailed past just out of reach. Jacks reacted more quickly, scrambling for the grenade even before it hit the floor.

  Larson wasn’t hanging about to see what happened next. He dove for cover and wrapped his arms around his head, protecting his eyes and ears.

  WHUMMPH!

  Even outside the flight deck the detonation was deafening, the blast shaking Larson’s rib cage as he lay huddled on the floor. He turned to see a small cloud of dust billow out of the flight deck. Then jumping quickly to his feet he darted for the entrance, dropping to his knee with pistol raised. Both Jacks and Fletcher were down. Jacks was lying up against the tactical console, blood coming from his nose and one of his ears. Fletcher was face down on the deck next to the pilot’s seat. As Larson watched, Fletcher let out a low moan and tried to raise himself to his knees.

  “Think again,” said Larson, raising the pistol. He took careful aim and loosed off a stun shot which hit Fletcher right between the shoulder blades. With a loud grunt Fletcher promptly collapsed back to the deck and lay obligingly still.

  Larson’s main worry now was that there were supposed to be three of them. If that was the case, where was the other one? The sound of the grenade should have brought him running. Where the hell was he?

  Larson crouched down at the entrance of the flight deck and waited… and waited… and… nothing.

  That’s enough of that, he thought. He stuffed the pistol back in its holster and turned to Fletcher’s still inert form. Grabbing a leg in each arm he dragged him off the flight deck and shuffled towards the port-side airlock. Opening up the inner door he heaved Fletcher inside, gave him a kick for good measure and then hurried back to the flight deck.

  Jacks was lying up against the console exactly where Larson had left him. Breathing slowly but rhythmically he definitely looked unconscious but Larson was in no mood to take chances.

  ‘Blam’ went the pistol and Larson gave a nod of satisfaction as Jacks slithered down to lie flat on the deck. Another trip to the airlock and that was that. Larson closed the door, opened up the panel and removed the relays. When Jacks and Fletcher eventually woke up the only way they’d be getting out of the airlock would be through the outer door, a surefire ticket to death by sudden, catastrophic decompression. I can live with that, thought Larson.

  He retreated to the flight deck and sealed the door. It was a heavy duty affair designed to seal off the cockpit even if the rest of the ship was compromised. The third crew member – if he was still here – would have to work very hard to breach it.

  Sitting in the captain’s chair Larson was unsurprised to find that most of the ship’s functions were offline; nav, coms, the lot. As expected, the blast from the concussion grenade had tripped all the breakers. He’d have to open up the junction box, reset the breakers and then re-boot the computers before he could do anything else.

  But who the hell cared? He was back in business.

  * * *

  Picking the very last cable from the floor, Chuck plugged one end into the Artemis’s power grid and lined the other end up with the pod’s main input panel. For one horrifying moment he thought it wouldn’t reach but the cable was simply snagged around one of the pumps. Straightening the run of the cable, Chuck pushed the final block
connector into its socket with a satisfying click. He had a final look around the pod, checking and rechecking that everything was as it should be. It all seemed in order. All he could do now was whisper a silent prayer and flip the main power switch.

  There were no bangs, no sparks and no spurting hydraulic fluid; just a faint hum and a little green light besides which read the notation ‘Systems Online’.

  That warranted sigh of relief. A deliciously, extraordinarily long sigh of relief. By the time it was finished, Chuck had expelled every last molecule of oxygen, nitrogen and trace gas from his lungs. Another look just to be sure, but there it was, ‘Systems Online’, and all with time to spare. Not much time, to be sure, but time enough.

  He threw his tool bag to the floor and ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time as he charged up to the upper deck.

  “All done,” he said in triumph as he dashed onto the bridge. “We’re good to go.”

  To Chuck’s surprise, Penny and Bruno barely looked up from their consoles.

  “Chuck, we’ve got a problem,” said Bruno.

  “What do you mean, we’ve got a problem? The pod’s online. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “We can’t,” said Penny. “Hellion is still on a collision course with Lyra.”

  “But the scans said a two hour burn would be enough. The two hours are up like… now!”

  “I know, but according to the telemetry we still need another twenty to thirty minutes. Either the original scan was in error or the laser drift has had a bigger effect than we thought.”

  “Damn,” groaned Chuck, looking out of the front screen. When he’d left the bridge to begin work on the pod, Lyra had seemed no bigger than the moon when viewed from Earth. Now it filled almost his entire field of vision. “Another half hour? Will we still have time to eject?”

  Penny shook her head. “I don’t think so, no… I just ran the numbers. The pod just doesn’t have the power to escape Lyra’s gravity. We’ll be pulled in and…”

  “Burn up in the atmosphere,” said Chuck, finishing the sentence. “Can’t we increase the power of the laser?”

  “Already did,” said Penny. “We’re maxed out. It’s still not enough.”

  “Well there must be something we can do… surely? Isn’t there? Try and get a message to the Temujin, maybe?”

  “If the Reaper isn’t still jamming us.”

  It wasn’t fair, thought Chuck despondently. They’d all but saved the colonists on Lyra. They would save the colonists on Lyra, but in the final reckoning they’d be denied the chance to save themselves. Damn, damn, damn! Perhaps he’d get that park bench dedicated to his memory after all.

  “Chuck,” said Bruno quietly. “There is another option.”

  “Which is?”

  “The escape pod is operational, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s online and ready to go.”

  “Then you need to take the girl and leave.”

  “What?”

  “Take the girl and leave,” repeated Bruno. “I’ll look after things here.”

  “But we can’t just leave you here.”

  “Yes, you can. It’s the only option that makes sense.”

  “No!” said Penny forcefully.

  “Surely there must be another way,” said Chuck. “Something we haven’t thought of.”

  “There isn’t. Chuck, listen to me… it was me. The bomb on Orbital One – it was me. I’m sorry.”

  “The bomb? But–”

  “Like I said, wrong choices – the story of my life. But this is the right one, Chuck. I know it and I think you know it too. Take Ensign Parker to the escape pod and abandon ship. I’ll keep transmitting a distress call to the Temujin as long as I can. Go now.”

  Chuck wavered. With his moral compass in complete disarray he stood rooted to the spot. Bruno was right – almost certainly he was right. But deep inside Chuck also knew that he wanted him to be right; it would make leaving – running – so much easier. And that was just plain… wrong. He wished Dolores was here. She’d know what to do; she always had that happy knack of putting things into perspective, of making even the most difficult choices seem easy.

  “And just so you know,” said Bruno. “If you don’t go now I’ll beat you into submission and carry you to the pod myself.”

  “He’s right, Penny,” said Chuck finally. “I know you don’t want to leave but it’s time to go. Come now.”

  Penny opened her mouth to speak but all that came out was a stifled sigh. She rose from the console and rested her hand on Bruno’s shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Bruno gave her hand a brief touch and nodded his head towards the exit. “Safe journey,” he said. “Feel free to say ‘you too’. I promise I won’t hold it against you,” he added with a rueful smile.

  “Take care,” was all she could manage as she made her way off the bridge.

  “Good luck, Bruno,” said Chuck as he turned to follow.

  Bruno gave Chuck a thumbs-up and returned the console. The beam was losing coherence again. He made a few adjustments to the focusing array and tightened the stream into a gossamer thread of pure energy. Satisfied, he scrutinized the other instruments; power output was steady, the beam was precisely on target and the scanners were delivering an update on Hellion’s trajectory. By the time he looked up from the console again he found himself quite alone.

  * * *

  With the re-boot complete Larson did a quick tour of the Reaper’s flight deck. He could call up most of the systems from the pilot’s station but the Reaper had never really been designed with a one man crew in mind. In its present configuration with the weapons pod slung under the hull, three was ideal; a flight crew of two and a dedicated operative at the tactical station. For the time being at least Larson would have to manage on his own.

  The first thing he did was check that the grenade detonation hadn’t compromised life support or hull integrity. It hadn’t. Next on the list was to conduct an internal scan; if that third crew member was still on board he wanted to know where he was hiding, and that was something he could accomplish from the tactical station. If there was anything moving or even breathing, the sensors would pick it up. Several minutes later he had the results – the only contacts came from the port side airlock. If there was anyone else on board they were either dead or had the capacity to hold their breath for a very long time. Good news, thought Larson. Perhaps the third crew member had jumped ship or maybe the intel was just wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. Either way, it made his job a lot easier.

  Before he left the console he took the weapons offline and closed the gun-ports. It was then that he noticed that the electronic countermeasures were operating; sensors, sub-light and sub-space communications were all being jammed. A tap of the finger and the ECM package also powered down.

  An instant later the com system sprang into life with two separate messages arriving simultaneously on different channels. The first one was from the Artemis.

  ‘Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. SV Artemis escape pod launched at position 219.885.99-66. Time stamp 2384-76. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.’ The message repeated itself endlessly in an automatic loop. Cutting the channel, Larson listened to the second signal. It was a homing beacon, quite obviously from the escape pod itself. A minute later he had the coordinates locked into the nav-computer and he was on his way.

  * * *

  The mood in Escape Pod 2 was no less somber than it had been in Pod 1, Chuck and Penny feeling just as downcast as Lt. Commander Savage, James and Angus.

  As Chuck sat hunched by the pod’s forward window he wondered why so many negative feelings and emotions began with ‘D’. Despondent, downhearted, disconsolate, dispirited… The only good news was that on launching from the Artemis Jacks had been nowhere to be seen. No doubt he’d got his ransom money and was safe back in fringe world territory by now. All Chuck and Penny could do was to pray that Bruno was successful and that the Temujin would pick up the pod’s dist
ress beacon.

  Gazing through the reinforced glass he noticed a bright dot off in the distance. A star..? No, it was just a little too bright and it was definitely moving against the background of space. That meant it was a ship. At once Chuck’s mood changed, the dismal ‘D’s making way for encouraging ‘E’s – excitement, elation, euphoria even, for their rescue was at hand.

  “We’ve got company,” he said. “It’s the Temujin.”

  Penny joined him at the window and together they peered into the distance, watching the point of light grow and slowly take shape – but not into the chunky, workmanlike shape of a Tribal Class frigate. It was smaller, it was sleeker.

  It was the Reaper.

  As realization dawned the ‘D’s returned with a vengeance. Deepest, darkest despair.

  Chuck half expected the Reaper to open fire and blast the pod to smithereens but instead it maneuvered smartly around the stern of the pod and began the docking sequence.

  “Any ideas?” said Chuck.

  “Look for a weapon,” said Penny.

  “In an escape pod?”

  “I did a survival course at the academy. The instructor said that with a little ingenuity you can turn any manner of everyday object into some kind of weapon.”

  “Great. Now if you can figure out a way of turning a couple of armrests into automatic plasma rifle in the next three minutes, just let me know. But for the time being…”

  Chuck opened up the survival locker and rummaged about inside. There were some insulated suits, a couple of oxygen cylinders, some cartridges for the CO2 scrubbers and a few ration packs and water bottles. The only things that might do any damage were the O2 cylinders, but even they were only made of some kind of sturdy but lightweight plastic.

  “Here,” he said, handing one to Penny. “Try this. Don’t bother trying to hit anyone with it – it’s not heavy enough. Just point the spout in their direction and spring the valve. With luck it will distract them enough.”