by Nick Webb
The marine nodded, and whispered something into his headset. While he was distracted she keyed in the rest of the modulation sequence into the power plant’s cycle, struggling to remember the Morse code. Given the events of the recents weeks, it should be something the bridge crew would recognize. Maybe. Humans could be forgetful, though. Not like her machines.
“What are you doing?” said the gun. Or rather, its owner. But so much easier to converse with the machine. The beautiful, deadly machine.
“Just making sure the engines don’t explode while the bridge crew is locked out,” she glared down at the gun, imagining a rigid mechanical mouth where the magazine joined up with it. The trigger guard was like a tiny eye, with the trigger itself a raised eyebrow, making the rifle look surprised, especially with the marine’s finger stuck squarely through its eye socket.
“Well hurry it up, then get back in there with the rest of the engineering crew,” said the gun’s meat sack, waving over to her office off to the side of the engineering bay where her people were locked up.
“Patience, dearie, don’t rush an old lady. You might get more than you bargained for,” she mumbled at the gun, finishing the code sequence and setting it to auto-repeat.
She overheard him whisper again into his comm headset. “Engines secured. Working to clear path to shuttle bay.” Good thing he thought she was a deaf invalid. One last set of adjustments to the morse signal….
There. She turned toward the gun, looking down to address it. “Will that be everything, Mr. Firearm?”
“No. I want you to lock out all the doors leading to the hallway outside the shuttle bay, except for the one leading from sickbay and engineering.”
She shrugged down at the gun. “I assume you want me to release the locks and clamps on one of the shuttles, too?”
The marine snapped his finger, and waved a hand down in front of her eyes. “Hey. Eyes up here. Stop that, it’s creeping me out.”
She kept her gaze steady on the rifle’s trigger guard, staring it down, eye to eye. Damned if she would be the one to blink first. “I’m so sorry to hear that. You should really think about getting your owner some counseling. Seems he’s intimidated by the granny.” She gave the trigger guard a small wink. A little joke between friends.
The marine, clearly exasperated, shook his head. “Just … just get the hallways locked out. Now.”
She turned back to the engineering command console and began entering commands, the corporal watching her every finger tap very, very closely. “You know, dearie, I’ve shit bigger things than that owner of yours….” She needed to turn that exasperation into something more … potent.
“What did you say?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the marine’s face was going red.
She finally flashed her eyes up to meet him, momentarily. “Not talking to you. Butt out.” She turned back to stare the trigger guard in the eye. “If it might help him, I know a doc who specializes in low T, if you catch my meaning.”
Her fingers worked independently of her mouth, and out of the corner of her eye she saw that the marine’s eyes had drifted from the console to her. And they looked angry.
“What … what did you say?” he repeated.
Her fingers worked. Her mouth worked too. “Just saying, dearie,” she said, addressing the gun. “If your owner really wants some help, the doc is fantastic. Low T is an epidemic these days, they say. Some young men have taken to waving around fine upstanding rigid boom sticks like you to compensate for the flaccid stick down under, if you catch my meaning.” She gave the trigger guard another knowing wink.
“Shut your mouth and work.”
Her fingers worked. And her peripheral vision told her that the marine’s jaw was clenching, his brow furrowing, his eyes squinting. His mind most likely weighing the prospect of how good it would feel to knock on old lady upside the head, versus calming down and completing his mission. Hmm … looks like he needs a bit more encouragement.
“I was friends with a big boom stick like you, once.” Her fingers worked. Her mouth worked too. “I rode him. Oh, man did I ride him. His equipment was … finely crafted. Expertly engineered, if you catch my meaning.” She winked at the trigger guard again. “Not like,” she nodded upward, “you know. I know, I know, you’d rather be held by a big, strong man and not a flaccid boy—”
Boom. That got him. He reached out and firmly grabbed her face in one of his massive hands, wrenching it up to stare her down. And in that moment, she made her critical move. Rather, her fingers did. The commands were entered in, even as the spittle accompanying his threat sprayed her cheek. “I … said … shut … your … mouth … bitch.”
One last tap of her finger. Done. His eyes still locked on her, she nodded quickly. “Fine. You’re a big strong man. I cower. Please oh please don’t hurt me.”
He glared at her, but released his grip. “Finish. Now.” He jabbed a finger at the console, and she bent back over to complete the sequence he’d demanded.
“Almost there….” A few more taps, and he scrutinized the screen to verify. “Done. All doors locked out, with manual overrides remotely disengaged. All except for the hallway leading from sickbay and engineering.”
“Good.” He traced a finger along the screen, nodding in confirmation that she’d done as he commanded—which of course she had. No sense in pissing off a kid with a gun, after all. He tapped his headset and whispered into it again. “We’re ready down here,” he said.
She smiled. More ready than you know, dickwad. She glanced at the trigger guard, its eyebrow still looking surprised at the finger jammed through the eye. “You have a nice trip now, dearie. Don’t forget to call.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Orbit over Mao Prime
ISS Independence
Deck 12, Hallway B
Proctor walked slowly, carefully down the hall, mindful of the assault rifle aimed at her back, her mind racing to figure out a plan. Clearly, there was some element within IDF that had enough reach and influence to convince a handful of her marines to, in effect, stage a mutiny.
There was only one answer. Admiral Mullins. Probably with the backing of Fleet Admiral Oppenheimer. Without tacit approval at the highest levels, the marines probably wouldn’t be risking their lives or careers in such a brazen move. She’d never, ever, known a marine to perform his duty dishonorably, so they simply must be loyal to what they considered a higher authority, which, technically, Oppenheimer was. And Oppenheimer, with his toady, the late Commander Yarbrough—god rest his traitorous soul—had probably staffed the Independence with loyal people before she even arrived to take command.
“Faster please, Admiral,” said one of the marines, with a nudge of the rifle to her back. Well shit, at least the kid was polite. Marines always were, even when they were about to kill you.
Except these simply couldn’t be marines. Marines were loyal. To think they could participate in a mutiny was … almost unthinkable. Maybe they had stolen uniforms? And guns? And ID’s? And somehow fooled their commander and the biometric identification system? Shit. If they weren’t marines, the conspiracy ran deep. Hell, it ran deep even if they were marines.
She exaggerated her limp. “Working on it, Corporal. Still nursing the injury from the last assassination attempt, mind you. Give an old lady time to heal before you try taking her out again.”
Another nudge with the rifle. “We’re not here to kill you, Admiral. Just to take you to a … safer location. For your own protection.”
“Right,” she said. “And our passenger too? Sounds a little too coincidental to me.” She didn’t need to look behind her to know that the other marine was ushering Fiona Liu along the hallway behind them. Though what the marines knew about her background … and training … Proctor wasn’t sure.
“That’s enough talking, Admiral.”
They came to the utility stairwell and the marine nudged her down. Apparently taking the elevator lift was too much of a risk for them, wh
ich meant that they hadn’t locked down the entire ship.
Which meant that she could count on her people to attempt a rescue.
She kept her senses engaged on every detail around her—almost effortlessly, given the amount of adrenaline pumping through her blood—looking for the opportunity, for any sign that a rescue was underway.
But as they progressed down the stairs, through the next hallway—the shuttle bay was just one more stairwell away—she knew she couldn’t rely on someone else for a rescue. She needed to do something now, or she’d soon be at the mercy of Mullins. And given his recent megalomania, she wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t just airlock her, and write off the incident as a horrible wartime accident.
She could easily duck into the enlisted mess up ahead. Swing around the corner, yank the assault rifle out of her marine’s hands as he advanced around the corner to follow her.
Stupid. She should know better. The marines were far better trained than to be taken in by some amateur attempt like that.
They passed the enlisted mess, and Proctor fought the urge to dash towards the controls to open the doors….
The doors which were closed. The enlisted mess’s doors were never closed. They must have been closed remotely, either from the bridge or engineering—the only two places on the ship with remote control to any other part of the ship. Which had the renegade marines taken? Both? Unlikely. The bridge was too well guarded.
Which meant that whoever was controlling things remotely was doing it from engineering, and the only one with authority to do that, as far as she knew, was Rayna.
And if she knew Rayna, the other woman had done something to sabotage the enemy’s plans. She’d designed the ship, after all, and if there was anything Rayna liked, it was adding in extra features to common systems. Gravity deck plates that massaged your feet. Comm speakers that automatically played ocean sounds tuned to your brain’s delta waves when you were trying to sleep. Emergency atmospheric force shields that glowed in rainbow colors instead of the customary blue—a completely unnecessary feature, but Rayna did love rainbows, after all.
Which meant that in the next few seconds, before they entered the shuttle bay, anything could happen. All she needed was time.
Her ankle twinged as they turned the final corner to the shuttle bay. Her ankle. Hmm … crude, but effective. With a cry, she collapsed on the ground, reaching down for her foot.
“Really?” said the marine. He looked vaguely disappointed. “That’s sloppy, Admiral.”
She rubbed her foot. “It just sprained again, asshole.” She glared up at him, trying to make it look convincing. It hurt, of course, but a sprain would have hurt far worse.
“Get up.” The assault rifle swung towards her.
She got up on her knees, and attempted to put some weight on the foot. With effort, she intentionally made her leg shake, then collapsed on her knee again from the mostly imaginary pain. “I’m … sorry. I can’t. It’s bad.” She bit her fist, imitating what she might look like if the sprain was as bad as she was pretending it was. It was sprained, after all, but the sprain was a few weeks old. All she had to do was remember what it felt like.
And hope that whatever Rayna had cooked up happened soon.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Orbit over Mao Prime
ISS Independence
Bridge
Volz pointed at the two marines. “Is there any chatter on your comm lines?”
One of them shook his head. “I’ve been monitoring all the channels we usually use. One of them is active, but scrambled. They’re using an encryption protocol our comm devices can’t decode.”
“Qwerty, can you do anything with it?”
The comm officer motioned for the marine, and the soldier rushed over to the comms station, handing the headset off to Lieutenant Qwerty, who inserted one of the earpieces in and started fiddling with the controls.
“Standard quantum encryption. Designed to be unbreakable, unless you have one of the devices encoded with the key.”
Volz put his head in a hand. After a few seconds, he looked up. Qwerty was still fiddling with the headset. “Lieutenant? Is it unbreakable, or not?”
“Well, yes and no. Yes, it’s designed to be unbreakable.”
Volz let out a huff of air. “And the no?”
“No, as in, no one has ever designed a code I can’t break.” He looked up with a weak smile. “That is, given enough time….”
“You’ve got minutes, Lieutenant. Or less.”
He nodded and reached down to his station to remotely connect the headset to the console’s computer. “I’m locked out of ship comms, but I can use this in tandem with the computer controls I’ve still got to tap into the signal and, if not decode it then at least figure out how many receivers are tapped into the signal itself.”
Volz nodded, and turned back to the marines guarding the doors. “How many soldiers on board? Around forty?” He looked down at the ranking marine’s insignia and name patch. Colonel Cooper.
“I’ve got thirty, sir.”
“How many of those do you trust?”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “I trust all my men, Captain.”
“Yes, yes, but how many of these are your men? Apparently not all of them.”
Colonel Cooper glowered at him. “Apparently.”
“Got it,” said Qwerty.
“You’ve cracked the code?”
“No, I’ve pinpointed how many are tapped into the encoded signal. Looks like there’s only six. Two in engineering, two in the shuttle bay, and two are in hallway B deck seven. Looks like they’re en route to the shuttle bay.”
“Thirty,” said Volz, turning back to Colonel Cooper. “So, counting the two here on the bridge, you’ve got twenty-two other trustworthy soldiers on board. Where the hell are they all?”
Cooper motioned towards Qwerty. “He should be able to track them all through their comm handsets, assuming they’re all carrying them, if he taps into the standard channel.”
Qwerty was already on it, and seconds later looked up. “Half are in the enlisted quarters, and the other half looked like they’re locked in the ground combat trainin’ simulator.”
Cooper nodded in confirmation. “Sounds about right, except there should have been more on duty. Whoever’s in charge of this op must have sent out orders to the rest without me knowing.”
“Looks like we need to review our ship security protocols when this is all over,” said Volz, in what he felt was the understatement of the year. “For now, we need to activate the rest of your men. Can we get a signal out to them?”
“Negative, Captain,” said Qwerty. “All comms still locked down except for their encoded channel.”
“But there’s only six of them.” He glanced up at Cooper. “You ready to lead a rescue assault?”
The marine looked like he was more than ready to reassert his authority over his men and get control of a situation that had spiraled away from him. “Absolutely, sir.” He hefted his assault rifle.
Volz stood up, reaching a hand towards Cooper. “Sidearm. I’m coming with you.”
Lieutenant Whitehorse and Commander Mumford both protested simultaneously. He knew exactly what they would say. And under normal circumstances he’d agree with them—it didn’t make sense for a ship’s captain to go do the dirty work, especially if it involved live fire.
“Save it. It’s the admiral—I’m going. See if you can’t get ship controls back while we’re gone, and do everything you can to lock down the shuttle bay. Nothing leaves this ship!”
And with a nod, the other marine manually unlocked the doors, and the three of them marched out towards deck seven.
“Captain, wait,” called Lieutenant Qwerty.
Volz turned back. “Yeah?”
“They’ve locked down all the hallways on decks six through nine. The only ones that are open are the ones leading from engineering and sickbay on deck six to the shuttle bay on deck nine.”
&
nbsp; Volz shrugged, and continued down the hall to the stairwell to deck six. “Good, that narrows it down for us. Let’s go save the girl, Cooper.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Orbit over Mao Prime
ISS Independence
Deck 12, Hallway B
Rayna, where the hell are you?
Proctor rubbed her ankle—only partially acting—and tried to make herself as heavy as possible for the marine who was now reaching down to drag her to her feet.
That’s when the other marine yelled. The crack of the assault rifle in close quarters nearly deafened her. Before she knew what was happening, her mind automatically went to Rayna. What had she concocted?
Another crack, and the hand dragging her to her feet went limp. As did the marine the hand was attached to. He collapsed onto Proctor, forcing her to the ground.
Blood spread over her abdomen and legs, and she felt the color drain from her face. So much blood. Where had she been hit? How was she still conscious with that much blood loss?
It took her several confused seconds before she figured out that the blood wasn’t hers. It belonged to the dead marine on top of her. It poured from the side of his head. With a grunt she pushed him aside and looked up.
Fiona Liu was there with Ballsy’s son, Zivic—they stood over her, a triumphant look on their faces. Liu offered a hand. Proctor used it to heft herself to her feet.
“Nice distraction,” said Liu. “And I had some help.” A nod towards the pilot.
“I was in sickbay when they attacked,” said Zivic. “Followed you out and looked for an opening. Nice job, ma’am.”
“Sloppy, but looks like it was enough for you two.” She looked down at the two dead marines. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Liu.” The other man’s blood was bright on her white uniform, and she fought the urge to wretch. The marine’s life was gone, needlessly. He thought he was doing his duty. He probably was—likely under the orders of Mullins or Oppenheimer or … someone. Marines didn’t just take matters into their own hands and start shooting shit. Mutiny for a marine was well nigh unthinkable. She grunted back into a kneeling position, and gently closed the dead soldier’s eyes.