The Jovian Run: Sol Space Book One

by James Wilks

  “You know, I have some work to do, so I think I’m just going to take it with me,” she addressed the cook, trying to keep from turning her eyes back to the men at the table. “I don’t want to give you any trouble.” She opened the nearest unit and fished around until she found a prepackaged cheese and crackers kit. She plucked it out along with a bottled water. “Okay if I take this?” She held them up for the cook’s inspection. Piotr looked at her, then nodded and turned back to the sink. She decided that this was the unfriendliest room she had been in on the ship thus far and made a hasty exit.

  Several hours later Evelyn was finishing up in the small communications room. She had nearly completed the work that Yegor had begun - the installation of the coms suite from the satellite. It was a bizarre feeling, knowing that the man whose job she was working to finish had died. Though she was not a coms expert by any means, the interfacing of the two modules was not overly complex, only a bit tedious and time-consuming. First, she had had to puzzle out what Yegor had been doing. Once she had accomplished that, she was able to extrapolate his overall plan. Now that the new suite was installed, a job she morosely thought that would have been better suited to Herc, she would have to work to get the new and older systems talking. That would involve writing some programming code, but that was far more her specialty than the heavy lifting of replacing data cards, swapping components, and running wires.

  After extricating herself from the machinery in the room, she gave it one more examination, double-checking her work. There were no errors as far as she could see, but it would be impossible to tell until she got the system fully up and running. She packed the scattered tools she had borrowed from the ship’s engineer back into the bag she had been given, wiped her slightly greasy hands on a rag which she bagged as well, and made her way out of the cramped and warm room.

  Parsells and Quinn stood side by side outside the door, Quinn looming even larger than Parsells, and both wore plain blue flight jackets. The two men had been waiting for her, she judged as she stepped into the hallway, for a little while. As far as Evelyn could see, they didn’t appear to be armed, but she could detect the strong scent of alcohol in the corridor. A second’s assessment told her that she was in real danger. She considered trying to talk them out of it. She could appeal to their better natures, if indeed they had them. She could also attempt to explain that they would never get away with it, though she couldn’t think of a book or movie where that threat had ever worked. She might even be able pretend to be playful and flirtatious. If they thought she wanted them, perhaps it would allow her to slip past them. Unfortunately, doing so would only lead her to a ladder she would need to descend carefully lest she fall half the length of the ship.

  In the end the look in their eyes settled things. It was all over their faces; there was no doubt what these men had in mind. They weren’t trying to decide what to do. They had decided.

  Evelyn took a step back, swung the toolbag behind her, and threw it right at Quinn’s face. Under ordinary circumstances a bag of heavy tools might have been too much for her to hurl successfully across a meter and a half of distance at a man’s face, but the lighter gravity made it quite possible for her. Unfortunately, the reduced gravity that made the bag easier to throw also lessened its impact significantly. Instead of ten kilograms of toolbag hitting Quinn’s face, a hit that might well have broken his nose or jaw, four kilos of assorted wrenches, screwdrivers, and small power tools surrounded by canvas like a pillowcase merely knocked him back. He gave a surprised grunt, but that was all. As soon as the bag left her hand, she reached for her watch. She wasn’t familiar enough with the device to activate it without looking at it. She hit the coms button with a shaky finger and was about to press a name when Parsells, faster than he looked, lunged forward and caught her left arm. He clamped his meaty fingers around the watch and ripped it from her wrist. It clattered against the far wall, and Quinn, his balance regained, stomped his foot on it, then slid it back with his foot.

  Evelyn tried to wrench her arm away from the man, but his grip was like a vice, and now he was reaching for her other hand. She brought her leg up in a savage arc to knee him in the groin. He saw it coming and rotated his hips quickly. As a consequence, she dealt him a swift kick in the thigh, and it seemed to do him no harm. His movement, however, had given her a moment of opening, and she tore her wrist free and backed up a step. Both men advanced on her. Parsells’ face showed anger, and Quinn wore the same leer he had given her in the mess hall.

  From behind her attackers, she saw a shadow appear, and a voice said, “Mind if I join in, boys?”

  Chapter 12

  Dinah Hazra crept up the ladder formed by the retracted slats in the corridor. She had learned the trick of moving silently a long time ago, and though every instinct in her told her to rush, she knew she must not. She was nearly at the top when she heard the struggle begin. A crash sounded, which she suspected was her toolbag dropping to the floor, and a grunt followed. Slowly, silently, she told herself. She climbed up into the corridor, putting first one foot down, then the other. In front of her, Parsells had one hand clamped on the woman’s wrist, and he was prying her watch off. Quinn was regaining his balance, the canvas toolbag already forgotten at his feet. Parsells tore the watch off and tossed it against the wall. Quinn’s foot crashed down on it, then sent it flying back. It slid along the thick hull metal, passing right between Dinah’s legs and stopping before the drop.

  The element of surprise was probably not necessary for her to take these men down. She suspected that they knew how to handle themselves in a fight. Templeton would not have hired them if they had not, but they were not trained, not like she was. Even so, combined, they outweighed her by close to a factor of four. The corridor was not wide, and that would limit their mobility, but there was no reason not to give herself every advantage. One did not seek to create a fair fight; one did everything one could to ensure that the odds were in one’s favor. That was how to win a fight. Even so, she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to see the looks on their faces.

  “Mind if I join in, boys?” she asked.

  She didn’t wait for an answer. As Parsells’ head snapped around, shock dawning on his face, she was already kicking him in the knee, taking care to use her actual foot. Quinn was the larger of the two, but she judged Parsells to be the faster, and that made him the greater threat. Parsells cried out as his leg buckled. He staggered, but did not fall. Quinn’s face as he turned his head to look at her wore a frighteningly vacant leer. She had judged him a sadist, but there was something more in his face, a detached expression that spoke of casual brutality and indifference to suffering. She would have bet money that he had killed before. No matter; he was not the only one.

  She struck Quinn with a straight jab to the nose, and his head rocked back, but only for a second. The punch had not had much behind it. Force equals mass times acceleration, and her fist had less than half its usual mass at the moment. Fighting at lower gravity called for different tactics. The large man’s eyes had closed instinctively when she punched him, and as he brought his head forward and his eyes opened, his boxer’s nose not even bleeding, she grabbed a handful of his sandy hair and yanked him down and forwards. He had been prepared for another blow meant to drive him back, but not to be pulled forward. He staggered and nearly lost his footing. He was momentarily bent over as far as his friend, but he did not fall until Dinah dealt him a follow up heel kick in his kneecap. She sidestepped, and over he went, his stomach hitting the ground first. He managed to break the fall somewhat by splaying out his hands in a pushup position. This did not help him when Dinah stomped on the back of his head, driving his chin and nose into the metal beneath him. Now his nose was bleeding copiously.

  Parsells, meanwhile, had gathered himself enough to throw a punch at her. It came quickly, a practiced roundhouse from his right hand, and she was barely able to duck beneath it. Predictably, he followed up with a left, but this time she was ready. She steppe
d inside his guard, twisting as she did so, careful not to trip on the man at her feet, and his fist sailed through air. As he was resetting, she brought her right elbow up into his throat, a blow that pushed him back against the corridor wall. She hit him again, in the nose this time, with the same elbow. Before she could do so again, he brought his fists and forearms up in a boxer’s guard to protect his face. Striking his large stomach was a fool’s game in this environment. Experience told her that men often thought that their opponents would follow the same rules they saw when people fought on broadcasts. She was not the least restricted.

  Dinah lifted her heel and slammed it into Parsells’ already wounded knee, and it buckled again. He didn’t go down this time either, but he backed off a step, which gave Dinah a moment to slam her foot down on the back of Quinn’s head and grind his nose and face into the floor again. He moaned and tried to rise, but then she repeated the process, and instead he slithered to the side in an attempt to escape her.

  Meanwhile, Parsells was preparing himself for a more drawn-out fight. His fists were up and his elbows were in. He had shifted stances to protect his wounded leg, and he would be weaker for it. Every fighter had a favored side, but despite the fact that Dinah had made his untenable, he was no less strong and ready and large. Dinah took a step back and regarded him for a moment. No words passed between them; she saw no point in talking. Had he been sober, he might have realized that he was outclassed. His opponent was as yet undamaged. He might also have given it up; there was no endgame here, no way out of the trouble he was in one way or the other. But he was drunk and angry, and he came on like a bull. She kicked Quinn sharply one more time in the face, then dropped into a fighter’s stance and backed away, giving ground, acutely aware that the end of the corridor and a severe drop was only a few meters behind her. He closed the distance, limping as he came, but still with plenty of fight in him. He glanced only briefly at his friend, who was drooling blood on the floor and holding his ruin of a face.

  Suddenly he feinted right, and then jabbed with his left. Dinah was ready, and turned the hit aside with a forearm. A flurry of blows followed from the man. Alcohol had done far less damage to his reflexes than to his reason, but she blocked or dodged every swing. It was just dawning on him that she was playing possum when a heavy wrench hit him in the back of the head. He staggered forward and reached his hands behind his head to protect his skull. The protective gesture perhaps saved his skull but did little for his fingers as Evelyn swung the wrench into the back of his head again, this time breaking a finger. He tumbled forward onto flooring, crying out and snatching his hand away from his head. Evelyn stepped forward, straddling his back, and hit him once more on the top of the skull with the wrench, though this time some of the fight seemed to go out of her. As Parsells slowly dragged himself into a fetal position and his hands moved up to cradle his head again, Evelyn lowered the wrench.

  Dinah looked at her pointedly. “Are you all right?”

  The redheaded woman was shaky and breathing fast. The wrench hung loosely in her hand at her side. She raised it again as if to hit the two men, then let it to the floor with a bang. “I think so. Jesus. Thank you.”

  Dinah only nodded once. She looked down at Quinn and Parsells, both still conscious but seriously injured. “Do you want to hit them some more?”

  “What?” Her eyes moved back and forth between the pair. “No.” Her breathing was beginning to slow. “I mean, yes, but no.”

  “All right then.” Dinah tapped her watch without looking at it, keeping her eyes on the downed men, and then raised it to her mouth. “Sir, we have a situation in D27, the corridor next to the coms room.”

  “What kind of situation?” Templeton’s voice was wary and concerned.

  “Parsells and Quinn are in need of medical attention, sir.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They attempted to assault Ms. Schilling, sir. I prevented them.”

  There was a distinct pause. “Are they still alive?”

  “They would hardly need medical attention if they weren’t, sir.”

  “All right, I’m on my way. I’ll have Doc, Jang, and the captain meet us. It’s going to be a pain to get them out of that hallway if they can’t walk.”

  “Feel free to keep them here indefinitely, sir.” She lowered her wrist and finally looked away from her incapacitated adversaries to the woman standing in front of her. “Nice choice.” She nodded at the wrench on the floor.

  Evelyn looked at it. “Oh, thanks. Actually, I meant to grab a screwdriver.” She leaned against the wall, then slid down it into a sitting position. Her head hung between her knees, and one of her boots rested in a small pool of Quinn’s blood. It was clear to Dinah that she was in shock.

  “Doctor Iqbal will be here in a minute. He’ll look you over.” Dinah attempted to sound reassuring, but her voice came out in its usual flat tone.

  “I feel like I just came from Medical.” She looked up at Dinah, her eyes wide. “This is not my best trip ever.” The dark-skinned woman did not reply.

  The next two minutes that passed were filled only with Evelyn’s breathing, the moans of Parsells, and the bubbling gasps of Quinn. Neither man made an attempt to do anything but lie still. From below, the sounds of climbing came to them as several others clambored up the length of the ship.

  “Thank you. Again. Thank you for helping me, and thank you for letting me hit him.”

  Dinah nodded again. “I wouldn’t have let you if you’d had the screwdriver.”

  Don Templeton knocked on his captain’s door. A few moments later, the handle turned and the door opened. Staples stood on the doorway, looking up at him, her brown eyes intense. It was near to three, but she wore slacks and a white tee shirt, and there was no trace of sleep on her face.

  “You asked me to come by when everything was sorted out with Parsells and Quinn,” he said simply. She nodded and stepped aside to allow him in.

  Staples’ room was the same size and layout as his. Indeed, it was only a few doors down from his, though hers was quite different in appearance. Like most of the rooms on the ship, it was long and rectangular, and at the far end there were two doors, one a closet, the other a bathroom. That was the extent of the similarities. While his room was sparse with items but thick with pictures of his family, Staples’ was packed with books. The variations of gravity on the ship made conventional bookcases impractical, but there were cases of books stacked against nearly every wall. This was the sign of a true bibliophile, as nearly every book a person could want was available digitally. There was no need to keep paper books, especially on a space ship, but the captain did just the same. One was left open on her bed now, and he was just able to read the cover.

  “This can’t be the first time you’ve read The Odyssey,” he said, indicating the book.

  She did not turn, but instead sat at one of the two chairs clamped to the floor next to a writing desk. “No, but it’s an old favorite. I’m reminding myself that hardship and journeys go together.” She sighed deeply, clearly not wanting to discuss the matter at hand, but unable to avoid it. “What did Jabir say?”

  Templeton moved past her and took the other seat, putting his arms on the table as he leaned forward. “Doc says they’ll be okay. No life-threatening injuries. He stopped the bleeding and stitched them up, but they’ll both need surgery in the long run. Parsells’ knee is a mess. Busted ligaments, dislocated kneecap. He’s also got a bad concussion from Evelyn’s wrench. Quinn is worse. His nose and jaw aren’t just broken; they’re shattered. He’s going to need reconstructive surgery on his face. We’re lucky Dinah didn’t kill them.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You know as well as I do that luck has nothing to do with it. If she wanted them dead, they would be.”

  “Yeah,” he assented. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Anyway, I did what you said. Once Doc stopped the bleeding and made sure they won’t die if we stick them in a room, that’s exactly what we did. I had Jang escort th
em to open quarters we have on deck 5, well away from the rest of the crew. They’ve got food, and water from the sink, obviously. Jang removed their cuffs and locked them in there. You should have seen Jang; he looked ready to finish the job Dinah started. Putting them in there is as much for their safety as anyone else’s. They can rot there until we figure out what to do with them.”

  Staples mused on the information for a few seconds, then said, “Thank you for taking care of that.”

  “It’s my job.” He let another few seconds pass. “What are we going to do with them?”

  She stared absently at the open book on her bed. “What do you think we should do with them?”

  “It ain’t my decision, Captain. It’s yours.”

  “Of that I am well aware. I didn’t ask you to make the decision, Don.” She dragged her eyes away from the book and met his gaze. “I asked you what you thought.”

  “I… I might let Evelyn decide. Or take a vote from the crew. Or I might just beat the hell out of them myself.”

  “Don, listen to me.” She leaned forward, her own arms on the table, and they were less than half a meter apart. “It’s impossible to be unbiased about this. We hired them, we trusted them, and they betrayed us. It’s not our fault. It’s not your fault.”

  Templeton did not reply, but the look on his face made it clear that he thought otherwise.

  “Did you check their references?”

  He sighed. “Yes,” he admitted with reluctance.

  “Did you conduct the background checks?”