Thomas nodded, then gagged as a foul stench blew through the hatch and into the shuttle. He hastily clicked the air fresheners to full, then triggered his implants and ordered them to dim his sensitivity to the smell. What had happened on the freighter? It smelled worse than the dorms at the academy! He’d been told, by some of the newcomers from Earth, that the planet smelled bad, but surely it wasn't as vile as the freighter? How could the human race have survived?
“They’ve overloaded their life support, sir,” Senior Chief Brian Siskin said. He’d somehow wrangled his way onto the mission, even though Thomas wasn't sure why the Senior Chief was considered necessary. Maybe his job was to keep an eye on the young ensign. “That’s the smell of too many bodies in close proximity.”
“Reminds me of Haiti,” the XO said. He didn't sound pleased. “Have the shuttle cleaned thoroughly once we return to the ship.”
“Yes, sir,” the Senior Chief said.
Thomas kept one eye on the live feed as the marines moved through the freighter, securing the bridge, life support system and engineering compartment with practiced efficiency. There didn't seem to be any resistance, merely a string of remarks about helpless people. The XO rose as soon as the ship was secured and motioned for Thomas and the Senior Chief to follow him through the hatch. Thomas checked the pistol on his belt - he’d spent hours on the range, as per regulations, but he was no expert marksman - and locked the shuttle’s controls before rising. If the freighter was a threat, the crew would be unable to turn the shuttle against her mothership.
“Remember to set your implants to record,” the Senior Chief muttered, as they stepped through the hatch. “You might find yourself giving evidence later.”
“Yes, Chief,” Thomas said. “A full-spectrum recording?”
“Yes,” the Senior Chief said. “You never know what might be important.”
He cocked his head as he sent the commands to his implants, even though it bothered him on a very primal level. What was in his head should stay in his head. The cadets at the Academy had suspected that their superiors could access their implants at will, even though hacking a person’s implants was a guaranteed death sentence once the perpetrator was caught. He’d certainly been told there were times he’d have to share his recordings, no matter what rights he thought he had. Joining the military meant giving up a few rights to protect everyone else’s rights.
Warning icons flashed up in front of his eyes, informing him that the atmosphere in the freighter was barely breathable for unenhanced humans and compatible races. The Senior Chief had been right, Thomas realised; the freighter’s life support had been pushed right to the limits. Judging by the number of contaminants in the air, it might well have gone over the limits. It was a frightening thought - Thomas knew just how much over-engineering was worked into life support systems - but for the moment it posed no threat. His augmentations would be more than capable of ensuring his survival.
He sucked in his breath as they passed through a solid metal airlock and into a long corridor leading towards the bridge. It was crammed with people; men, women and children, all staring at the three Solarians with terrified eyes. Thomas wasn't sure where to look; his gaze moved from refugee to refugee, even though he wanted to look away from them. There was a mother, sitting against the bulkhead, rocking her child against her breast; there was a young girl and boy, holding hands as they stared at the newcomers, terror clearly visible on their pale faces. The XO looked neither left nor right as he made his way through the mob of desperate people; the Senior Chief showed no visible reaction, but his stiff back suggested he was just as horrified as Thomas himself.
“Contact the ship,” the XO ordered, as soon as they passed through a second airlock. “Tell them we need additional life support and ration packs, now.”
“Aye, sir,” Thomas said, relieved to have something to do. “Do you want them teleported over?”
“Teleport them onto the shuttle,” the XO said, after a moment. “We don’t know if there’s any clear space on this damned freighter.”
Thomas hastily keyed his wristcom, forwarding the XO’s commands, as the next hatch opened. The XO led the way through another hatch and onto the bridge. Thomas looked around with interest, taking in the number of jury-rigged modifications to the original design. He’d been taught the basics of Galactic technology, back at the Academy, but he’d never seen any ship that had been so obviously modified by her owners. A handful of sleeping rolls lay against one bulkhead, as if the crew had been confined to their own bridge. If the remainder of the ship was crammed with refugees, Thomas told himself, they might well have been.
“Mr. XO,” Hyldkrog said. “Allow me to present Captain Ryman of the Speaker to Seafood.”
Thomas stepped back as Captain Ryman nodded tiredly to the XO. He was a tall man, clearly a second-gen Solarian judging from the way he held himself, but he looked almost unbearably tired. It was evident, from the way his eyes were darting left and right, that he was running on coffee, energy pills and implant stimulation. There was a reason, Thomas recalled, why abusing energy pills and implants was against regulations, certainly on active duty. After a few days without sleep, Captain Ryman had probably started having hallucinations. He was lucky that his heart hadn't given out, despite all his augmentation.
“Captain Ryman,” the XO said. “I’m Commander Wilde, XO of Jackie Fisher.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Captain Ryman said. His voice sounded slurred. “They killed Kenny, didn't they?”
The XO frowned. “Kenny?”
“Captain Kenny Rogers,” Captain Ryman said. He yawned, suddenly. “My partner. Commander of Speaker to Morons.”
“I’m afraid they did,” the XO said. “There are no survivors from the other freighter.”
He cleared his throat. “With your permission, Captain, we will bring a team of medics over to your ship to assist your crew and passengers,” he added. “And we can teleport you back to our sickbay for examination. We can even start on basic repairs.”
“Too much to do,” Captain Ryman said. “I ...”
He stumbled, then toppled forward. The XO caught him before he hit the deck; a pair of marines hurried forward, pressed a sensor against Captain Ryman’s neck and then lowered him to a blanket on the ground. His crew, Thomas noted, didn't look in any better shape; a teenage boy had fallen asleep at his console, a pair of middle-aged men were eying the newcomers warily and a young girl, barely entering her teens, was cowering back against the rear of the compartment, her eyes wide with terror.
“Give them all a sedative, then take control of the vessel,” the XO ordered. He turned to look at Thomas. “Update on our support?”
Thomas hastily checked his implants. “The engineers are beaming over now, sir,” he said, “along with additional marines. There’s a pair of medics waiting to be teleported.”
“I can work on the life support, sir,” the Senior Chief offered. “We really need to get some of the refugees off the ship, though. There are just too many of them to be transported safely.”
“See to it,” the XO said. He looked at one of the middle-aged men. “Can you give us the control codes for your processors?”
The man looked doubtful - Thomas knew it was rare for a starship crew to willingly hand over their control codes to outsiders - but cocked his head, sending commands to the bridge’s processors. A moment later, a new icon popped up in front of Thomas, informing him that the local computer network had just unlocked itself. The XO thanked the man, then nodded to the marines, who administered the sedatives. Thomas suspected, as he helped to prep the crew for teleport, that they were grateful they finally had a chance to sleep.
“That girl may have been molested in some way,” one of the marines commented. “I’d advise keeping her sedated until we speak to her parents.”
“Understood,” the XO said. He glanced at Thomas. “See if you can download the ship’s logs.”
“Aye, sir,” Thomas said.
He sat down at the nearest console and keyed commands into the system. It was an odd combination of human and alien technology, as if the freighter crew hadn't been able to obtain a number of subsystems from Earth. Given how far they were from the Solar Union, they’d probably been forced to jury-rig a great deal more than just the control consoles. He would have been impressed, if the system hadn't been so clunky. Half the files spat out by the damaged system had nothing whatsoever to do with either operating a starship or whatever had forced Ryman and his crew to run for their lives, carrying thousands of refugees and chased by three warships.
“We just completed the headcount, Commander,” one of the marines said. “There were six thousand refugees, mainly human, crammed into the hulk. At least nineteen died in transit, sir, and thirty died when a shield generator exploded. I honestly don’t know how they survived as long as they did.”
“We’ll have to ship them over to the base or down to the planet as quickly as possible,” the XO said, slowly. “Inform Captain Stuart that we may need to request support from the local authorities.”
Thomas shook his head in horrified disbelief. Speaker to Seafood was seven hundred metres long, one of the largest ships that could land on a planetary surface, but cramming six thousand humans into the hull would have been damn near impossible. They’d have to be crammed into the ship like sardines in a can. What the hell had they been running from, he asked himself as he drove further into the computer network, that impelled them to take the risk? Losing only nineteen passengers to suffocation - or whatever - had been amazingly lucky.
A new file popped up in front of him. “I think I’ve found something, sir,” he said. “It’s not the logbook, but it is a personal diary.”
“Skim the last few entries and summarise them,” the XO ordered. “Can you tell who wrote it?”
“I’m not sure,” Thomas confessed, after a few moments. “It reads like it was written by a young person, but there’s no way to be certain.”
“Never mind, for the moment,” the XO said. “What does it say?”
The girl wrote it, Thomas thought, as he brought up the last few entries and skimmed them as quickly as he could. He couldn’t help feeling as though he was intruding on her privacy - she talked about video stars she liked as well as her feelings for someone who remained nameless - but there was no choice. Why doesn't she say anything useful?
He paused as he read the last entry, dated three weeks ago. “She talks about the ship landing on Amstar,” he said, slowly. “There’s a long section in which she complains about being confined to the ship, about being told she can't even cross the landing pad to visit her ... her friend on the other freighter. The grown-ups are apparently talking about something she’s not supposed to know about, then ...”
The XO leaned forward. “And then?”
“Nothing,” Thomas said. “That’s the last entry, sir, but assuming they made all speed from Amstar to Martina they’d have been in transit at least a week. What happened between the last entry and their departure must have been bad.”
He glanced back over the prior entries, but saw nothing remarkable. The girl had hoped to be a trader herself, he noted; her parents were teaching her the tricks of the trade, in-between making sure she had a well-rounded education. He couldn't help feeling a stab of envy - he’d grown up on an asteroid himself; he hadn't seen an alien until he’d enrolled at the academy - at the life she’d led, before dismissing the thought. Whatever she’d experienced on Amstar had traumatised her.
“No doubt,” the XO said. “Continue searching for files, Ensign. If you find anything useful or informative, let me know. The intelligence staff will want to take a look at them too.”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. He moved away from the personnel files and glimpsed into the engineering records. Years ago, he’d been shown how to interpret the different files and put them together to build up a picture of what the ship had been doing. Now ... he frowned as a number of automated statements suddenly fell into place. “Sir?”
“Yes, Ensign?”
“I think the freighter went FTL while she was still in the planet’s gravity well,” Thomas said, slowly. It was impossible to be sure, but why else would they have expended so much effort compensating for outside gravity fields? And yet, it was generally agreed that trying was certain death. “They must have been frantic.”
He pulled up the dates and checked them against his internal logs. Speaker To Seafood had gone FTL barely a week ago, suggesting she’d been running constantly since then. Given the damage to the drive, Ryman must have feared being unable to go FTL again if he stopped for repairs - assuming, of course, he’d been able to evade his pursuers. His partner hadn't been lucky enough to survive.
“Sir,” he said, “what were they running from?”
“Good question,” the XO said. “I have no doubt Captain Ryman will be happy to tell us, when he wakes up. Until then ...”
He pointed at the console. “Back to work, Ensign.”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said.
Chapter Three
In a landmark statement last night, the Houses of Parliament in London declared the adoption of Islamic Law throughout Great Britain and its own dissolution and replacement by a council of clerics. Since then, thousands of refugees have been making their way to Scotland or the Solar Union.
-Solar News Network, Year 54
“There’s nothing wrong with Captain Ryman, save for exhaustion and fatigue poisons,” Doctor Shari Carr said. “I’ve given him a booster, for the moment, but he really needs at least a day or two of sleep. Once you’ve spoken to him, Captain, I want to put him back under.”
“Understood,” Hoshiko said. She’d had her staff drawing information from the freighter’s computers and intelligence from the refugees, but she wanted to hear Captain Ryman personally. “Can I speak to him now?”
“He’s awake,” Shari said. She ran her hand through her short blonde hair. “Like I said, though, he really needs to go back to sleep. I wouldn't have woken him if I hadn't needed to place his implants in stand-by.”
Hoshiko nodded and followed the doctor through the hatch into the private room. Captain Ryman lay on a bed, his arms hooked up to a life support machine. He looked tired, Hoshiko thought, despite the brief period of enforced sleep. She privately resolved to take as little time as possible as she sat down beside his bed, studying him closely. He looked back at her, his eyes very tired.
“I’m Captain Hoshiko Stuart,” Hoshiko said. “Commanding officer of this squadron.”
“Stuart,” Ryman repeated, as he sat upright. “One of those Stuarts?”
“I’m afraid so,” Hoshiko said, stung. Was there nowhere she could get away from her family’s legacy? “I’m afraid I have some questions I need answered.”
“I understand the routine,” Ryman said. He gave her a tired smile. “But you’d better ask quickly before I fall back into blackness.”
“It's a simple question,” Hoshiko assured him. “What happened on Amstar?”
Ryman laughed, harshly. “That doesn't have a simple answer,” he said, after a moment. “Let me see ...”
He took a breath, clearly composing his thoughts. “Captain Rogers and I have been partners ever since we bought our own freighters and set off to explore the galaxy,” he said. “We had an ... understanding with both the Deep Space Corporation and the Independent Traders Association; they’d underwrite some of our expenses in exchange for a detailed report on trade prospects within this sector. The ITA, in particular, was very interested in making contact with human settlements, believing they would serve as a way to defeat the trade cartels that dominate a number of sectors. That was two years ago.”
“Before the Battle of Earth,” Hoshiko commented.
“Barely,” Ryman agreed. “We only heard rumours until we got a message packet from home ... anyway, by that time, we had managed to make a few contacts with human settlements, including a number of communities on A
mstar. They were quite friendly to us, Captain; my crew enjoyed their times there. It’s one of those worlds where hundreds of different races rub shoulders frequently. It was a good place to gather intelligence as well as pick up trade tips and make new contacts.
“But we couldn't stay on Amstar, so we more or less made it our home base as we wandered the sector, buying and selling trade goods of all descriptions. Most of the cartels collapsed when the Tokomak withdrew ... life was good for independent freighters, particularly as the cartels had forgotten how to turn a profit. We were actually taking on apprentices from Amstar, all human, and thinking about investing in more ships. I was looking forward to the future when we landed on Amstar once again, three weeks ago. But things were already changing.”
He shuddered and lay back on the bed. “Amstar is - was - ruled by a cooperative council, set up by the Tokomak when they colonised the world,” he explained. “Every race with more than ten thousand sentient inhabitants was allowed a seat on the council, including human settlers. It worked fairly well as no one wanted the Tokomak to take direct control of the planet or turn authority over to one of the races that serve as their bully-boys. Most races did what they wanted as long as other races weren't involved. But a week after we arrived, the Druavroks launched a coup.”
The Black Sheep (A Learning Experience Book 3) Page 3