by Sharon Lee
“For safety, Kara, it is best that the flotsam continue along its course, undisturbed,” Bechimo continued aloud. “We must not touch it. We certainly must not search, board, nor deflect it. That is my suggestion, Captain. Avoid entanglement.”
Theo stared at the wreckage, wondering if it had been a battle, a piracy, or the actual end of a universe that had brought the ship to this. She shivered.
“Agreed; let it take its own course. We’ll record, and log.”
She took a deliberate breath, and tried to pitch her voice for brisk matter-of-factness: the same tone Kamele used to cool overanxious students.
“Clarence and Kara—it’s your off-shift.
“Win Ton and Joyita—please monitor the…debris. Look for recognizable markings, objects, or writings. Bechimo, please continue recording, as much and as deeply as you can. I’ll take flotsam watch.”
“Captain,” Clarence acknowledged. He locked his board and rose, waiting while Kara did the same.
“Captain,” she said, throwing one last look over her shoulder at the tangled wreckage that had, until very recently, been a ship.
Clarence touched her shoulder lightly. She took a breath, nodded. They left the bridge together.
Theo slid into her own chair and leaned forward to the board.
* * * * *
The passage beyond the undogged door was lit in pulsating red with the green glow of a fading emergency light tube providing a steadier light. The man who held the tube was leaning against the dogged door at the far end of the passage through a cylinder of stasis units. The red strobe was a warning light: the units were failing rapidly.
They hurried, this section having no obvious bends or dangers, Stost nearly overstepping Chernak’s lead. The light bearer raised his face at their approach, and Stost barely recognized the engineer who had brought them aboard. His face was battered behind the strap-on mask, his eyes holding no certain focus, his forward leg bloody and half bare in shredded uniform, his booted foot at an odd angle—sprained, broken, or worse.
He raised a hand against their motion toward him; their intention to assist—
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t touch me.”
He flinched, as if speaking damaged him further; froze, and shrugged himself heavily into a seated position against the door.
They waited, Stost wondering if that deliberate change of position had killed the man—but no.
He breathed—rasping and haltingly, but he did breathe, trying his lungs into a harsh cough. Chernak’s hand twitched, and the engineer waved her back.
“No sense going on. They’re dead up there. The crew, all of them—bridge ripped open. Took a blast; shrapnel, too, I guess. Lifeboats are gone, cut loose or destroyed.”
He’d let the light fall; it rolled and lodged against the heel of his broken foot. For a long moment, he stared at his gloved palm, then raised the other hand and touched finger to palm, counting his points. “Passengers dead—they were all in commuter pods, dammed fools, couldn’t have lasted a long transition anyway! Comm—didn’t try—the bridge is ripped open.”
His breath rasped, voice sinking. Stost leaned forward to hear.
“Should have stayed in my cabin.”
That was a touch point, and the man seemed to draw energy from it. He raised his head and focused hard on them, breath rushed.
“Should have stayed with you; damn the luck…”
He moved then, fumbling at a shirt pocket, until he pulled out a medi-disc. Deliberately, he crushed it against his leg, sighing and closing his eyes. Another moment and he opened his eyes again, and sought them.
“But the transition?” Chernak asked. “The timing units?”
“Self-contained, in this section. The captain had a coord set, strange coords, trick coords. Shouldn’t have taken us beyond the cometary clouds…so they ought to time back soon. Surprised they got us anywhere at all.”
A buzzing came then, growing gradually louder. The engineer snatched an instrument from his belt, cursing weakly.
“Grab on,” he gasped. “Transition ends.”
Stost snatched a grab bar with one hand, Chernak’s arm with the other, as she braced herself against the wall.
It was a bad transition.
The sense of leaving elsewhere and arriving here ran through their bodies, accompanied by nausea, then a lurch, and a twist. Stost hung on, though he wanted to curl into a ball and hide his head, and again it came—the sense of arriving, the sense of falling, a stuttering, a moment in which he was certain his heart had stopped; his sight went grey; the universe twisted into nothing—and suddenly he began breathing again, in great, tearing gasps, without any recollection of having stopped.
He blinked; found his fingers strangling the hold-on, and Chernak’s hand over his, easing his grip on her arm. The engineer—
For a wonder, the engineer lived, well braced against the door, the lightstick yet resting against his boot. He sighed, gave a low laugh, coughed, and looked up to them.
“Ten tens. Salute me, if you will, Pathfinders, my hundredth transition ends successfully. I retire, effective immediately.”
One hundred transitions was a life mark, indeed. Stost straightened and saluted, as did Chernak, ignoring all else a moment longer, to show proper respect, and pay what honor was due.
The engineer began to speak again, initially too low to hear, then gained strength.
“Just you two and—” A gasp here, and a small silence, while the man ordered himself. “…you and Grakow. Keep him happy as long as you might, please.”
He gathered himself, voice steadying as he reached to his belt: “You’ll want this.”
This was a snap ring. He raised it, before unsteady fingers betrayed him. Stost swooped forward and caught it deftly in the failing gravity.
“I give you command of this ship,” the engineer said. “Used to be nicer.”
That came with a head shake and what might have been a failed smile, but the light was dimming.
“Bleeding bad,” he said then. “No facilities, no blood. I’m on my fourth jolt of stim, triple-dosed on painless. Dog the doors on your way, and I’ll take what I got left. It’ll do me fine.”
“We—we have our grace blades…” Chernak offered, as gently as she was able, aware that what was mercy to a soldier was…not always so, to others.
A weak smile and a strong cough.
“Scared of blades, soldiers. My call. Ship’s yours.” Another cough. “The unmarked key—my quarters. Grakow’s. My possessions are yours.”
An attempted salute or a sudden new pain jerked the man’s hand up, and he leaned harder against the door, crouched against strain behind the mask.
“Purple-striped key does the hatch on Jarbechapik, ’spector’s bug’s there. You’ll want it. Power-up keys is zero and as many sevens as it takes. I give you it.”
The engineer paused, winced, said words Stost didn’t know, couldn’t hear. It seemed that he had forgotten them entirely as he pulled drug packs into place on the floor.
That done, he raised his head and gave them a long look.
“Go,” he said with breathless harshness. “My job is done.”
They went, back the way they had come, the light fading into darkness behind them.
* * * * *
Theo stared hard at the image of the hulk, the camera’s varying magnification making it appear just a moment or two away, and closing. She knew better, reflexively checking other views in other screens to be sure.
She sipped her tea, staring into the main screen, trying to gauge size, wondering how they might begin to search something of that scale, that had taken so much damage. Who knew what might be lurking inside the wreckage? There could be a hidden armada of ships Bechimo’s size…
The possibilities rode with her as Bechimo’s full sensor array was brought to bear as…
The touch in her mind was one she knew…and welcomed: alien and familiar at once, comfortable and demanding as it could be, c
urious and—
A tap, just above and behind her knee, not in her mind.
“Hevelin, what are you doing here?”
The norbear looked up, arms outstretched, hands open. He murbled at her attention, and she received the impressions of joy and concern, and a demand to be lifted to see what she saw.
She reached down and helped him up, allowing him to perch with his weight on her left hip; sadness touched her then, and she knew his attention was on the screen, watching the overlays with as much interest as she was. Might he have an idea of what they looked at? Did he recognize a dead ship when he saw one? Was he understanding, through her, that they overlooked a tragedy?
The other presence at the edge of her mind now fretted. Bechimo was less than happy; he had argued vociferously against becoming involved with the ruined ship, arguing also that any crew must have died instantly when the hull was breached. Joyita, Theo, and Win Ton had all talked with him: survivors were possible; there were several sections that seemed intact; it was their duty, as pilots, to offer aid, or to be certain that there was no one left to aid.
Together, they’d worn him down, and he’d closed the distance between himself and the hulk, worked out a scanning regime to differentiate between what were likely left-over automatics and any potential live signals.
“Joyita,” Theo said, her eyes on the screens, “I have a visitor. Has he arrived here without assistance?”
Not mere curiosity, that question. She honestly wondered if Hevelin was in league with Joyita, or with Bechimo, or if the greying old norbear was operating ship’s access controls himself.
From time to time Joyita took longer answering than he might, and this was one of them. His image on-screen looked toward her, unfocused, then to the ambassador.
“In general, on alter-shifts,” Joyita finally said, “if Hevelin wishes to join us here, I open the doors. I’ve assigned a subroutine to it.”
She looked speculatively at the comm officer, shook her head.
“So he’s not sleeping as much as I thought he was?”
Joyita showed a brief smile. “Unable to compute, Theo. We haven’t discussed it.”
“Clarence doesn’t mind having Hevelin wandering about?”
Joyita grabbed the nuance.
“I believe not, generally. Clarence discusses fine points of piloting and dark-watch with him, then assigns him a seat for the duration of the watch. He’s sat in all of them but yours, to my knowledge. Generally he naps after being brought up to speed.”
A tiny murble in her right ear, a chuckle more hinted than delivered, a celebration of clever Hevelin.
“Is it the same for Win Ton and for Kara?”
“Often, yes.”
A jolt went through her—direct from Bechimo. Joyita turned his head, canting an ear as if he heard some distant storm rumbling.
“What?” she demanded, with Hevelin holding on tight as she scanned all the screens, seeking some new ship, or teapot, or—
“We have a power pulse!” Joyita said excitedly.
Screen Two went to zoom, as all the other screen scans, external video and radiation scans focused on the same section, the rest of the hulk left unobserved as the absolute stern of the dead vessel came under intense scrutiny.
The quality of Bechimo’s thought went from intent to precipitate. Shields came up, sensors detecting a movement more definite—more purposeful—than drifting flotsam ought to be.
“All crew to bridge,” Theo thought—or whispered. She was in her chair with no clear memory of having gotten there. Webbing was tight and Hevelin was on her knee.
“All crew to bridge,” Joyita said, his voice ringing across the in-ship. “All crew to bridge.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Orbital Aid 370
The ship was quiet.
To them, being experienced in space, this was…unnerving. Nonetheless, they did not panic. They made certain of their burdens, and by unspoken agreement, sat upon the couches available in the engineer’s quarters, watching the lights, which did not flicker. Pressure was firm for now, though how long that might continue was something Chernak did not care to speculate upon.
They must move soon—and there was only one move available to them. First, though, they must take stock. Chernak cleared her throat.
“Are you rested, Pathfinder Stost?”
The question was not idly asked—and it was a routine of theirs, born from the habits a creche-mistress had long ago instilled.
“Yes, Pathfinder Chernak, I am rested. I am fed also, well enough to continue any mission to hand.”
Chernak signaled acknowledgment, since they were easy on admitting such things, having leaned heavily each on the other over time. A weakness of one would be met by strength of the other, as well as might be done.
“And your recent wounds. Are your wounds a problem?”
“They are not.” He looked at the scratches, moved his wrist, and sighed.
“I have not much experience,” he admitted wryly, “in reading the body language of such civilians, as you know.”
“Indeed, such have rarely come our way. You did well. The civilian is unharmed, if dismayed. I will admit to dismay, as well.”
Grakow, as the engineer had promised, had been waiting in the man’s quarters.
Grakow had been less than interested in meeting new people, and even less interested in giving up his perch so that the pathfinders might sit and study the dials and readings available regularly to the ship’s head engineer. Thus had Stost taken his wounds.
Having now studied the screens, it appeared that one section of the ship, out of forty-four reporting, held air and other pressures at reasonable levels. They were in it.
Three sections reported reasonable power levels. Two would be, according to the engineer’s report, now unreachable by ordinary means, being on the far side of the sundered bridge. The inspection bug, however, was on their side—and so their choice was made for them.
After his discussion with Stost, Grakow had fallen back to a capsule tucked undertable, which was complete with bedding, small amounts of food, and water. He was, apparently, willing to defend himself again if need be. Also, there was evidence that Grakow had eaten well during the transition to this space, as they had not.
Chernak touched her wrist, pulling back the sleeve to show the thin band of the comm she wore. Stost touched his own, right there near several of the scratches, and the quiet blip told her that they were on the same frequency.
“We are,” Chernak said quietly, “arrived at a point where orders, experience, and training give us little in the way of a rational and obvious path forward. We must rely on the intent of our orders, the intent of our training, and the support and intent of our history. I shall sum up my thoughts and make a suggestion, if you are able to listen.”
Stost glanced at his uniform’s blouse front, ticked at the pathfinder’s star beside his name, and nodded toward her. “You are senior and I will defer if you have an alternative suggestion, or guidance.”
“Yes, Pathfinder, of course.”
Grakow stirred, yawned, and stretched, staring with green eyes up into Stost’s face.
Stost nodded gravely. “As you are the de facto civilian advisor to this expedition, your needs and suggestions shall also be considered, Grakow.”
He carefully reached toward the open door of the capsule in salute, receiving attention in the form of careful eyes, and then in an open-mouthed half word “Grakow…” before the capsule’s inhabitant settled down again.
“So,” Chernak said. “To sum up…”
* * *
Summing up had not taken very long; their choices were limited and they did not even consider putting aside their orders, or those precious things that they carried.
So, they traversed the corridor one more time, to the Jarbechapik, where they used the engineer’s keys to good purpose. Stost strapped Grakow’s capsule into the observer’s seat while Chernak took the pilot’s chair, and used
yet another key to bring the tiny ship awake.
The ship oriented itself with the lightweight beacon the compact dock emitted. There were stars visible, which relieved her, however foolishly, and which meant that the lock was fully open. The minuscule amount of power required to remove them from the well was applied to underjets of compressed gasses; motion happened. The radar would begin as soon as they cleared the dock.
The repair bug’s computer was stupid, but even it knew within seconds that the other inputs it should be receiving were missing. Tiny dishes sought particular signals, other sensors looked for absent running lights or orient marks. The unfamiliar board flashed, gave warning in colors, drastic colors. None were about the condition of the craft; all detailed missing signals and networks.
“It complains,” Stost said, who was sitting with his seat back to hers. “It fails to locate the Primary Navigation Points, and offers the rails as security.”
Chernak chuckled grimly—they’d found the volume control while familiarizing themselves with the vehicle—and had turned it as low as it could go.
“The complaints make themselves known here, as well. I have no confidence in the grid rails…”
“The computer tells me that we can begin a skin check at any point, via the rails.”
“The computer is a fool.”
“The computer is logging skin breaks now. It reminds me to report in, though it fails to find the correct frequency for doing so. Your screen?”
“The screen shows our ship, some bits of debris, and…dust. And how shall you report in? Our comms heard nothing.”
“It was a large ship, and two compartments on the other side hold air. Our engineer may have been a pessimist.”
“Check, if you like,” Chernak allowed her second. “You are comm. But think—where would we put a fourth and fifth, even if we had airlock access?”
Stost mumbled, reached across the panel to flip a more distant switch. “Local radio. No stations.”
There was background noise, a hiss of static from guttering connections somewhere within the dead vessel.