The Icarus Void

by CK Burch

  Now she seethed from between her teeth, exhaling hard, spittle launching from her mouth.

  ″Sydney,″ he whispered. He didn't know what else to say.

  Doctor Sydney Kerrick screamed with inhuman intensity and pitch, her eyes wide, comical, frightening, and she ran towards Straub with her arms raised. Straub fell backwards in surprise and landed on his back, stunned and unprepared. He thought, I deserve this, and as he looked up from the floor he saw Kerrick leering, leaning forward, her hair entangled and wild and she looked exactly like Sarah. Like Sarah from old.

  Then Laguardia was behind Kerrick, swinging her HES helmet in her hand, and the Laguardia hit Kerrick over the head. There was a hollow, heavy thunk and Kerrick's eyes went glassy, even the red one, and her spitting seething teeth parted to let her tongue fall loosely past her O-shaped lips. Kerrick fell forward, hit the ground just to Straub's left, and was still.

  ″Women,″ Laguardia muttered.

  ***

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Captain Markov stroked his chin and sighed. He was tired. The whiskey that Mac had promised had needed to be put on hold for a multitude of reasons: first and foremost was the fact that the port engine was almost shot from heat damage, and if they wanted to make necessary thrust to get to the nearest outpost for full repairs, Mac was going to be spending the next twelve hours in engineering figuring out a way to cobble a temporary solution together. They could just contact the Prometheus via communications, but that was another multi-aspect problem. First was that the comm in the Captain's Boat of the Prometheus was no longer transmitting or receiving. And even if that were not the case, the second was that the Prometheus herself was no longer within scanning range. Markov had ordered multiple and continued scans to ensure that this was the case. There was no debris, no engine wash detectable, just a wide open area of space. Icarus had settled into standard orbit around Sol to ease use on the thrusters, but at this point whatever they did didn't seem to elicit a single goddamn bit of good regardless. Engine coils and heat shielding and communications notwithstanding, there was the matter of this fucking mess that he was looking at in the sick bay, and as he stroked his chin and sighed again, he wondered if Doctor Fleur had been worried about the wrong person all along.

  Doctor Gaines was treating the deep cuts on Straub's face – scratch marks, he was told, fucking scratch marks from Doctor fucking Kerrick, who was currently lying unconscious on a nearby medbed under sedation. Heavy sedation. If Laguardia hadn't seen the damn thing herself, Markov wouldn't have been able to believe it. Kerrick was the type of person, male or female, who was more passive than aggressive. But, according to Straub and Laguardia both, she'd been wild-eyed and very fucking aggressive outside the cargo bay. Something about betrayals and double-crosses was what Kerrick had been raving about. Had the pressures of the dive and the retrieval gotten to her? Made her snap? Gaines hadn't had any definitive answers yet – he was no psychologist however – and Markov wasn't ready to call in Fleur for an analysis. For the time being, Kerrick asleep and restrained was enough, and Straub's story was backed up by the chief of security. Sometimes all anyone can do is just sigh and nod and move on to the next big problem on the ship.

  Case in point: the engines. The heat shielding, despite rigorous testing, hadn't held up as well as had been expected, but this was probably due to the maneuvers during retrieval. All the heat and radiation had been focused on the port side instead of an even distribution, and according to Mac (after lengthy investigation) the heat shielding had not just failed, but multiple systems had been either damaged or burnt through completely. The communications array on the outer bulkhead was gone, so even if the ship's long-distance comms could work there was nothing to transmit with. Internal comms were still down, and not high on the priority list. Captain Udeh had been found passed out in the mess hall, and Markov had him carried to one of the guest quarters at the very least. The man deserved that much respect. Must have been the medication; he hadn't even woken up during the turbulence coming out of the dive. In a way, Markov was thankful for that fact. He wasn't entirely sure how to tell Udeh that his ship was missing without a trace.

  Laguardia stood next to him, watching as Gaines treated Straub. ″Strangest damn thing I think I've seen in a long time,″ she said.

  Markov sighed again. Sighing felt like the only coping mechanism he had at the moment. He called out to Straub. ″How are you feeling, son?″

  Straub smirked, then winced as Gaines passed his meditool over the marked cheek again. With each pass, the deep cuts – Gaines said they had gone half an inch – coagulated and scabbed over. A few more passes and the infection would be gone, but the scabs would need to heal and peel naturally. ″Does he have one of these things for my pride?″

  ″Medical technology hasn't developed that far yet,″ Gaines deadpanned, then turned off the tool. He lifted his glasses with his free hand, inspected the wounds, and proclaimed, ″You're fine enough to live, Doctor. Now, if you will step down, I've another doctor to make my patient.″

  Straub raised an eyebrow and looked at Markov. ″Is this normal for him?″

  Markov nodded. ″Doctor Gaines has a unique bedside manner.″ He waved Straub over. ″How are you feeling? Honestly. I need to have as clear an ascertation of my ship as possible at the moment.″

  ″Honestly? I'm feeling shocked and awed and more than a little bit confused.″ Straub had his hands on his hips, and he glanced over at Kerrick. Straub frowned; it was clear that the man had some sort of genuine affection for the woman, despite what she'd done. ″I just don't get it. One moment, she was...and then the next, pow. She was almost frothing.″

  ″Anything like this happen before?″ Laguardia asked. ″Have you two had any disagreements? Arguments?″

  ″No,″ Straub said. ″I've known her just a little bit longer than we've been on the ship. It was a one-thing-led-to-another-thing relationship. I liked her, she liked me. We hadn't had an argument before until just outside the cargo bay. And that wasn't so much an argument as a series of accusations before she lost it.″ He nodded at Laguardia. ″You saw her.″

  ″I saw the back of her,″ the sergeant said. ″I heard her. She sounded like any poor fuck under the conditions of a solar dive: stressed to point of snapping. So yes, I heard her lose control of herself. But even when she was out cold, she looked wild. Just wild. There's no other word I have for it.″ She turned to Markov. ″Sir, unless there's anything further, I feel like I ought to begin patrol of the decks. Given Kerrick's break, and the current situation, it's important that I maintain my presence on the ship.″

  Markov didn't like it, but he'd held her back on the bridge during the dive. She'd done her job saving Tybalt and Straub both, and had brought the artifact on board, which was an entirely different can of worms he didn't feel like going into. He nodded his acquiescence and saluted weakly. Formality was a minor thing at the moment.

  Laguardia spun on her heel and departed sick bay. Straub exhaled deep and long; he rubbed his eyes and said, ″Captain, what the hell is going on? Does it seem to you that things are a little bit more screwed up than they ought to be, or am I just a little tense from all this?″

  ″It's not just you.″ It was the whole fucking mission. One thing after another after another, from discovering the artifact's existence onward as far as Markov was concerned. He'd known the thing was bad fucking hoodoo from the beginning. Should have trusted his instinct and aborted the mission. A little late now. Now was the time where he had to captain up and take charge and see the crew through to the end. And the end meant gearing up repairs for subspace crossing to Outpost 12. Anything beyond that goal was below his radar.

  ″Captain,″ Gaines said. He was standing over Doctor Tybalt, stretched out on a medbed of her own. She was beginning to stir.

  Markov went to her, flanked by Straub, and as Tybalt began to open her eyes, Markov spoke. ″Welcome back to the waking world, Doctor. You're in sick bay right now. How do you feel?″r />
  Tybalt tried to sit up and then quickly plopped back down into a prone position. ″I feel like hell,″ she said, her voice raw and croaky. ″What happened?″

  ″Radiation sickness,″ Gaines said, ″followed by a little too much of the cure for it. You were hit hard with massive rads and then caught in the scrubbers you set up in the cargo bay. You should be feeling dizzy, nauseous, vertiginous, sweaty. Anything of the above?″

  ″Yes,″ Tybalt said simply, and swallowed hard.

  ″Ah,″ Gaines said. ″Low blood sugar from the decontaminants and anti-radiation flow in your system.″ He pressed a button on the bed control panel. A sliver of blue liquid flowed up and through the IV tube connected to Tybalt's arm via the bed. ″How's that? Better?″

  She nodded, opened her eyes, and looked at Straub. ″You,″ she said. It was little more than an acknowledgment. ″Next time I tell you to set equipment to something specified, I expect it to happen. Otherwise I'll see your academic career flushed down the toilet.″

  Markov looked over at Straub; the scientist only looked confused.

  Tybalt nodded her head, and continued. ″That's right. The scrubbers. God damn near killed me, and you had better count your blessings that they didn't. It would be on your head and your conscience.″

  Straub opened his mouth, then shut it. He was searching for words. ″Doctor,″ he said carefully, ″I don't know what you're talking about.″

  ″The scrubber. Wide-spread setting instead of field-stream. You changed the setting.″

  ″I didn't. You were with me when I set them to field-stream.″

  ″They activated at a wide-spread setting, Straub. You went back and changed it. Look, I'm alive, I won't hold it against you, but next time you do something reckless – ″

  ″Doctor,″ Straub said. His voice was firm and commanding, but he sounded worn. Markov didn't blame him; attacked by a colleague and now getting hit with an accusation from the project lead. ″I didn't reset any of the scrubbers after we left the cargo bay. I went with you and Doctor Kerrick to the science deck and then to the bridge. I never left your side.″

  Tybalt looked confused.

  ″Straub,″ Markov said. ″Have a seat and a minute to yourself before we continue this conversation. Alright?″

  Straub nodded and wearily sat down on one of the beds on the opposite end of the sick bay. He looked angry. Markov had seen guilty looks on many men in his days as ship's captain, and Straub's features reflected none of this. Which meant either two things: Straub really hadn't done anything wrong or he was adept at covering it up. Markov begrudgingly wished Laguardia was still in the room; her instinctual lie detector was flawless. But that was ancillary. The moment required his attention to Doctor Tybalt, as frustrating as she made him, she needed to be looked over and heard.

  Tybalt was rubbing the back of her neck and stretching. Gaines, standing next to her, looked over his glasses at Markov and made an OK with his left hand. Then he gestured that he was going to be over next to Kerrick and walked away.

  Tybalt watched him go. ″Is that Doctor Kerrick over there?″

  ″Yes,″ Markov said. ″There was an incident while you were out.″

  ″Jesus, what happened?″ She turned to the captain, worry and concern in her eyes. It was comfortingly strange. This wasn't the animated, reckless, insistent Tybalt that had been on the bridge yammering about retrieving the artifact and diving half an hour early and all sorts of business that put everyone else on the ship at risk. She seemed calmer, more subdued, and not because she'd been knocked out. She actually had a feeling of normality to her. Markov counted himself lucky; everyone else on the ship was pulled thin, like taffy, worn, pale skin and cold sweat and dark circles under their eyes. Tybalt was fresh-faced and renewed by comparison.

  Markov kept his voice low for Straub's sake. ″Kerrick attacked Straub outside the cargo bay,″ he said, and Tybalt recoiled. ″I gave Straub a personal comm before you left the bridge and told him to contact me if anything went wrong. He did, which resulted in your life being saved, but we believe that the pressures of the situation – the dive, your life in danger – combined with what she perceived as a betrayal on Straub's part sent her over the edge and she struck him. Pretty bad, too.″

  ″Is that why his face is...?″

  ″Yes. Deep scratches. Fortunately Laguardia was coming out of the cargo bay in time, and she stepped in. It was the second time within five minutes that she had to do so. Unfortunately we've had to keep Kerrick under heavy sedation. Even unconscious she was erratic.″ He remembered the way Kerrick had been thrashing about on the medbed as Gaines had administered another dose of sedatives. Calling her erratic was like calling a wild horse ″testy.″

  Tybalt was working all this over in her mind. ″My god,″ she said. ″It could have been her that switched the scrubbers back. I mean, if she's been working under this pressure continuously, and if she was acting as you say she was – ″

  ″Laguardia confirmed Straub's version of the story. She said Kerrick had...lost touch.″ Actually, she'd said Kerrick had looked off her fucking rag. He really needed to talk to Laguardia about professionalism. That was the kind of shit that couldn't be printed in reports. ″Doctor, while you were out, we've lost primary engine thrust, subspace drive, and we are in total communications blackout. On top of that, the Prometheus is missing without a trace and I've got no clue where to begin with that. The tension and the terror isn't over yet. For your sake, I recommend taking time with your remaining project member, make sure he's not cracking over the stress like his girlfriend did.″ Markov jerked a thumb towards Kerrick. ″Try and keep yourself in perspective as well. We've got another seven hours before the Chief Engineer has a potential solution for us to move into subspace. It's going to be a little more than a little tense until then.″

  Tybalt nodded, looking away and staring off into space as she absorbed all this information. Markov was still trying to absorb it all himself. He needed rest, he knew it, maybe he would go visit Doctor Fleur and speak with her. He smiled slightly. In his mind, he called her Rene again. If anything were a bright spot in this whole fucking mess, it was this connection. He'd loved her for a while now. His ex-wife, well, she'd been a mistake, a huge one and he'd not wanted to repeat the experiment after the mess of the divorce. That was 25 years down the drain because of her idea that he was too ″devoted″ to his career. Rene, she might understand, and besides, he was retiring soon. If only this could all work out.

  His comm chirruped. ″Markov.″

  ″Nurse Weiland, Captain. I just made my round as requested, and sir, Captain Udeh is awake and looking to speak with you.″

  God. Here we go. But why hadn't Udeh just called himself? ″I'm on my way, Nurse, please keep him company until I arrive. Markov, out.″ He switched off the comm and looked at Tybalt. ″Are you okay?″

  She nodded, distantly paying attention. She looked like a million thoughts were racing through her mind.

  ″I'll check in on you both later,″ Markov said. He turned to go and patted Straub on the shoulder as he went. Goddamn if he didn't look like he'd been through a little slice of hell and back. They all had. ″You're fine,″ Markov said quietly. ″Try and get some rest in.″

  He left the medical ward, thinking about Rene, thinking about his friend Udeh, wondering what he was going to say to both of them. On Udeh, he had no idea; how the hell do you tell someone their entire crew is gone?

  ***

  If anything on this worthless, cocksucking fuck of a ship would just Christing work, then maybe –

  Mac sighed. ″Don't hold it against me, baby,″ he said, rubbing a bulkhead with his palm. ″They're just thoughts. Just frustrated thoughts. But I'd appreciate a little help. Okay?″

  Mac was reclined in one of the ducts, working on reinforcing the primary heat shielding sequencer in the engine bay. Talking to the ship wasn't anything new, pleading with it wasn't anything new, but reassuring the ship that he meant well? No
rmally it was the other way around. He worked, he did his thing, and then the ship came around and said Oh, sorry, mea culpa, let's get this show back on the road. And then Mac would forgive the ship for being such a silly, ha ha ha, what a kidder, good job for getting back to work as always.

  But now he found himself whispering, ″It'll be alright honey, it'll be alright. I'm gonna fix you up like new, just you wait for it.″ Because this time around, Mac felt like he'd let the ship down. He couldn't understand how so many goddamn things could have gone wrong. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. Power routing was wrong; it was flowing in opposing directions, making systems act slower than normal. The bulkheads, which had been tested over and over again, had melted at the worst time; he'd already been through the linings between interior and exterior shielding to view the damage on the port side, and what he saw was not reassuring for the experimental research boys back home. It was a good goddamn thing that they'd pulled out of the dive when they had, otherwise the whole of the port side could have melted through and collapsed. If the structure of the ship had been weakened any further...he shivered as he thought of that one. Right now he was grateful that the ship had held together as it normally did and always should, and so returned to the power relay station. He had Clarke and Hartman working on the engines personally. Mac didn't want any of the younger staff, however experienced, near the big job. Clarke was a senior on the ship, he'd done his dives, and despite his relative newness to the Icarus, Hartman had more than proved himself earlier. Right now they had engine duty while Mac worked on finessing the routing systems. Everyone had jobs to do, and everyone was in their places as the chief engineer saw fit. Sure, he could have been anywhere else overseeing things, but Mac felt a little more at home right now in between the bulkheads, crawling around ductwork, intimate and husbandly with his ship. People say captains marry their ships; no, they just steer. Engineers marry the ships. Engineers keep their ladies happy and fed and taken care of. At least starships had schematics and blueprints for how to fix things when they go wrong. Women leave you and find someone else.