The Atlantia’s hull stretched away behind the bridge for almost half a mile. Behind that was the bulky, angular prison hull, enveloped in a cloud of debris and escaped gases frozen in the vacuum of space.
‘What about us?’ the captain asked.
‘The blast has severed fuel lines and power conduits across the stern,’ came a response from Jerren, the ship’s tactical officer and youngest member of the bridge crew. ‘The prison’s still got power but it’s coming from us via the tethering lines – her own fusion core is either ruptured or off line.’
The captain glanced across a bank of instruments before him on his own control panel that relayed vital information regarding the ship’s status. He didn’t like what he saw there.
‘Hull integrity?’
‘Ours is fine sir, but the prison hull is severely compromised in several quarters.’ Jerren turned to look at the captain. ‘She’s dragging us down toward the planet’s surface, sir.’
The captain turned to face the ship’s port cameras, and saw the looming surface of the planet and the bright star rising majestically across its horizon.
‘Can we cut them loose?’ he asked. A hush fell over the bridge as the crew stared at the captain. ‘Can we cut them loose?!’ he roared again.
Jerren nodded, struggling to speak. ‘Yes sir, we can, but… we still have at least fifteen staff unaccounted for.’
A man ran onto the bridge, bearing the shoulder epaulettes of a senior officer. Bra’hiv was a soldier, the commander of a company of marines who had found himself aboard the Atlantia with a contingent of less than two hundred men when everything had gone to hell in the colonies. His shaved head was sheened a gun metal grey, the lines of his face hewn by years of military service, his jaw square and expression always severe.
The captain turned to him. ‘I want to know everything.’
Bra’hiv gave his report as though he were a computer spewing data in orderly lines.
‘There was a blast of some kind between the security wing and the main prison, captain,’ he replied. ‘Not sure of the cause yet: maybe power lines, maybe sabotage. The security wing is lost to us, with all aboard presumed dead.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘The blast started a fire in the aft wing of the prison cell block and damaged many of the cell gate controls. The prisoners got out. As far as we can tell they’ve taken control of the block, the tower and the governor’s command centre, and are moving forward through the prison hull right now.’
The captain turned away from Bra’hiv and stared at the screens behind him.
‘Casualties?’
‘Unknown sir, but the fire protocol engaged when the temperature exceeded two hundred units.’
The captain turned back to the general. ‘The block was evacuated?’
Bra’hiv shook his head. ‘Not of people, sir. The riot prevented any coordinated action. The prisoners were still in their cells or fighting on the tiers when the air was evacuated to choke the fire.’
A ripple of murmurs drifted across the bridge as the captain realised just how awful the tragedy had become.
‘There were over a thousand men incarcerated in there,’ he gasped. ‘Who gave the order?’
‘Hevel,’ Bra’hiv replied, ‘Councillor Hevel.’
The ship’s political officer. Hevel was responsible for the ship’s prison and its governor, Oculin Hayes. As a military captain Idris could not intervene in civil matters, even those that threatened the safety of the Atlantia and the hundreds of people aboard her.
‘How many survivors?’ he asked.
‘Estimates are that less than a hundred convicts have survived.’ Bra’hiv hesitated as he looked at the captain. ‘Your wife is also unaccounted for, sir.’
The captain turned away from Bra’hiv and his hands wrapped around the metal guard rail that ringed the centre of the bridge. His wife Meyanna was the ship’s chief physician, charged with the care of both the crew and the prisoners. She had been performing her duties aboard the prison hull when the blast had occurred.
‘The shuttle?’ he asked.
‘Not an option while the prisoners are in control of the hull,’ Bra’hiv replied. ‘If they were to get aboard here…’
Before the captain could even consider what would happen if a hundred lethally dangerous convicts with nothing but their lives to lose got aboard the Atlantia, a voice called out from across the bridge.
‘Sir?’
‘What is it, Jerren?’ he asked.
‘Our main propulsion units have been damaged by debris from the blast,’ Jerren replied, ‘multiple power lines fractured, several exhaust ports blocked and…’
‘Conclusion!’ the captain demanded.
‘We’re sixty per cent down on power,’ Jerren replied. ‘It could take days to repair the damage and we’re in low planetary orbit.’
It did not take a student of physics to explain to the captain what that meant.
‘How long?’ Bra’hiv asked before the captain could.
‘No more than a few days, sir,’ Jerren replied. ‘Our orbit will decay to the point where we will strike the planetary atmosphere and burn up.’
‘And if we jettison the prison hull?’ Bra’hiv pressed.
‘It won’t save us,’ Jerren replied, ‘but it might give us enough time to repair the damage and escape the planet’s gravitational pull under our own power.’
The captain sucked in a deep breath of air and stood up straight again, reasserting control over both his own wildly swaying emotions and his crew.
‘Focus on re–establishing communication with the prison hull. The more we can find out about the situation there, the better. Make a full account of everything that is known about what happened. If we’re ever found it will prevent a repeat occurrence.’
Bra’hiv nodded. ‘And the prison hull?’
The captain glanced at the screens showing the ugly grey hull behind them, many of the immensely strong tethering lines torn and frayed.
‘We wait,’ he said. ‘As long as we can.’
‘Understood,’ Bra’hiv replied, and turned to leave.
The captain hesitated as a large figure strode onto the bridge. The tall, bulky frame of Hevel barged his way onto the command platform. His size was not intimidating to the captain, consisting more of slack fat and tissue, Hevel’s dark skin sagging beneath his chin and his stomach. His sharp little eyes scanned the bridge without blinking, his skin lightly sheened with sweat in the heat.
‘You should cut them loose, right now,’ he insisted, moving to stand before the captain.
Behind him followed a diminutive, exotically dark skinned woman named Dhalere, Hevel’s legal secretary.
‘Noted,’ Idris replied without looking at Hevel and then nodded to Bra’hiv. ‘As you were, general.’
Bra’hiv left the bridge.
‘That could be costly,’ Hevel said. ‘The longer we stay attached to it the less time we’ll have even once we cut it loose.’
‘I’m aware of that, Hevel,’ the captain said and turned to Jerran. ‘Assuming we lose the prison hull and we manage to repair the damage to our own hull and engines, what are the chances of us standing up to an attack with our current compliment of weapons and Raython fighters?’
Jerren’s features paled as he apparently considered this for the first time. He scanned his instruments intently and then his jaw sagged as he turned back to face the captain.
He shook his head slowly. ‘None, sir.’
The captain managed to prevent his shoulders from sagging. He turned to look at the planet far below, ribbons of cloud glowing orange in the sunrise above endless blue oceans.
‘What about that planet?’ he asked. ‘Could we acquire what we need from down there, use the shuttle to transport materials back up here?’
Dhalere spoke for the first time, her voice silky smooth and calm in contrast to Hevel’s.
‘There are protocols to observe when entering the atmosphere of a foreign planet, both for its indigi
nant species and for our own safety.’
Hevel nodded in agreement.
‘Polluting a foreign world with our presence would violate the Word’s instructions on contamination of…’
‘Do you want to live or die, Hevel?’ the captain snapped.
Hevel fell silent as the communications officer, a young blonde haired woman named Aranna, replied to the captain.
‘The planet has everything we need,’ she said. ‘Mostly we need water sir, for consumption and for hydrogen fuel. We’re leaking both at an alarming rate.’
The captain nodded, and peered at the screen showing the planet below them.
‘First things first,’ he said. ‘We control the prison situation. Then we seek to repair the engine and pull us out of low orbit before we end up becoming permanent residents here.’
Hevel leaned closer to the captain.
‘The prison hull is a scourge,’ he snapped, ‘a stain on our populace. We should cut them loose now, before it’s too late.’
‘Is that why you gave the order to evacuate the air from the cell block?’ the captain asked outright. ‘To give you a reason to run away even faster?’
Hevel sneered at the captain. ‘They were as much a hinderance then as they are now. We should never have brought them with us, thieves, liars and criminals that they are.’
The captain nodded. ‘I feel the same about politicians, Hevel.’
The councillor smiled without warmth. ‘The people follow me, captain. They need me, and they don’t appreciate being ignored while you and your crew bend over backwards to protect a group of savages who have rejected the lives that we hold dear. How long, do you think, before they reject you as their leader?’
‘I am not their leader,’ Idris snapped. ‘I am their protector.’
‘Then protect them, captain, and forget about the damned convicts.’
A voice cut across them from nearby.
‘Captain, you need to see this.’
‘What is it?’ Idris asked.
‘The maximum–security wing,’ came Jerren’s response, ‘one of the prisoners survived.’
***
VII
Alpha slowed as a door ahead shuddered and the locking mechanisms were released.
The corridor in which she stood was painted white, the aged paint crumbling and flaking to reveal patches of dull grey metal, but the panel lighting was working normally overhead and the air was warm. Her hair still felt thick and cold on the skin on the back of her neck, drenched in per–fluorocarbon that had stained the shoulders of her uniform, and her stomach was rumbling with hunger.
She brought her rifle up, aimed it at the door as it swung open and an enormous man stepped into the corridor, stooping to fit through the hatchway. Gold and blue hair fell in dense braids to his shoulders, his skin the colour of burned wood and flecked with shimmering tattoos, his borrowed uniform stretched to its limits to contain his bulky frame.
The man locked eyes with her and slowly held his hands out to his sides, showing her that he was unarmed. He was so large that he could not fully extend his arms without touching the opposing walls of the corridor.
‘Easy now,’ he said, his voice rolling like boulders toward her down the corridor. ‘I just wanna talk.’
She watched him, kept the rifle pointed at him as he shut the security door behind him and stood in the corridor. His eyes seemed bright white against his dark skin, clear and steady as he watched her.
‘I know that you can’t talk,’ he said as he took a pace toward her, ‘so this is going to be a one way thing.’
She tensed, pulled the rifle into her shoulder and gently squeezed the trigger. The pulse–chamber hummed as it activated and the big man froze.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘it’s still a two way thing.’
She gestured with the rifle barrel, jerking it down twice. The big man slowly got down onto his knees, his hands still held out to his sides. She moved closer, focusing on the man’s face, then stopped moving and waited.
‘My name’s Qayin,’ he said finally. ‘You’re Alpha Zero Seven, out of the maximum–security containment facility.’
She jerked her head over her shoulder, and Qayin nodded.
‘The stern section of the prison hull,’ he said, ‘reserved for the most dangerous convicts. Looks like somebody decided one of you was a bit too dangerous, put a bomb in the hatches between your wing and ours. It went off a couple of hours ago, severed the wing from the rest of the ship and sent it into the atmosphere of that planet we’re orbiting.’
She kept the rifle pulled tight into her shoulder, looked over Qayin’s head to the security door.
‘Got fifty of my guys in there,’ Qayin said, ‘fifty more up front in case the hatches to the Atlantia open. Our cells were closest to the blast, aft of the cell block. The damage ruptured some of our cell gates and we got out before the fire really got goin’. Fought our way into the control tower and got out just before the governor ordered the entire block evacuated, an’ I don’t mean of prisoners.’
She looked at Qayin, seeking any hint of deception, but the big man’s gaze was steady.
‘They flushed the cell block,’ Qayin went on, ‘bled out all the air. Most o’ the guys died where they were, fighting or bleedin’ out. We made our way up here, got as far as the command centre before the Atlantia cut us off. The prison hull fusion core’s been compromised, no power comin’ from it. Cell block’s connected to the Atlantia by a single passage, and all our power and life support is comin’ from them too through the tethers. One wrong move and we’re all history.’
She remained still as Qayin spoke, the big man gesturing with a nod of his big head to his right.
‘Nice lookin’ planet down there, somewhere to start over, some are sayin’. We’ve got the captain by the balls, took hostages in the fight. Whole ship’s losing orbital velocity and droppin’ toward the atmosphere. They don’t give us what we want, we’ll drag ‘em down to hell with us.’
She raised her head slightly, a questioning gesture.
‘Freedom,’ Qayin said. ‘They let us aboard the Atlantia, we’ll bring the hostages with us and they can cut the prison hull loose. Everybody wins.’
She watched him for a moment longer, thinking hard.
Qayin was a convict, for sure, and from somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind a phrase sprang to mind, something that she remembered. The big man’s glowing tattoos signified his gang or crew: the Mark of Qayin.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ Qayin said.
She took a paced closer and let the rifle drop slightly. She shook her head once.
‘You want in?’ Qayin asked her.
She looked at him for a moment and then turned her masked head slightly and looked up at the black eye of a camera high up on the wall of the corridor.
‘Yeah, we saw everything you did to the pirate crew,’ Qayin said. ‘They got what they deserved.’
She turned slowly back to Qayin, and he appeared to sense rather than see the rage concealed behind her featureless mask.
‘They’s fools,’ he said, ‘shoulda known better. Right now this ship is doomed so we all gotta watch each other’s backs, right? Or there ain’t none of us getting out alive.’
She watched him for a long time. He could see the shape of her breasts rising and falling beneath the fabric of her uniform and he was clearly forcing himself to maintain eye contact with her, to fix his gaze on the thin slits in the metal mask. She knew that nobody on the block had seen a woman in years. It was probably just their damned luck that the one who did show up was the most lethal person on the whole vessel.
‘You in?’ Qayin asked again.
She slowly lowered the rifle and pulled it in to port–arms. Qayin lowered his hands and got to his feet.
She was tiny compared to him, the top of her head not even reaching as high as his armpit. It appeared hard for Qayin to believe what she was capable of, what she had done, so hard was he scrutin
ising her. Qayin gestured with a thumb over his shoulder.
‘Fifty men in there an’ none of ‘em seen a woman in years. You ready?’
She turned her head to look at the security door behind Qayin, and then she shouldered the rifle. He saw something bright and sharp flicker in her right hand, a blade or shank of some kind that had been concealed inside her sleeve.
Qayin turned and banged on the security door.
‘Open up, we’re good!’
The door clunked and then swung open again and Qayin stooped inside, hiding his discomfort at having Alpha Zero Seven immediately behind him with a concealed weapon in her grasp. He strode toward the governor’s command platform and turned as she made her way inside.
The silence in the control centre deepened as the men around Qayin got their first close–up look at her. A live current seemed to flicker across them, volatile emotions of desire and uncertainty about the newcomer and her featureless mask.
The security door was pushed closed behind her by one of the convicts, who sealed it and then turned to look at her from behind. Qayin saw his eyes drift down to her ass and legs, and then the convict stepped forward and one hand settled on her ass.
She moved with remarkable speed, spinning around as the back of one forearm swiped up and under the convict’s jaw and spun him sideways and over onto his front against a control panel. She grabbed the convict’s wrist with one hand as the other, the shank flickering in its grasp, flashed through the air and drove the weapon straight through the convict’s palm and deep into the plastic control panel.
The convict let out a scream of pain and two of his closest companions moved toward Alpha Zero Seven. As Qayin watched they backed away again as she smoothly unslung her rifle and charged the pulse–chamber, the faint hum filling the control centre.
‘Are we done assaulting our guest?’ Qayin asked.
The convict pinned to the control panel groaned in agony as he tried to pull the shank from his hand. Cutler walked across to him, reached down and yanked the weapon out to a fresh yelp of pain. The convict slumped to the floor, cradling his bloodied palm as Cutler turned and handed the shank out to Alpha Zero Seven. She reached out and snatched the weapon back, flipped it over and it vanished up her sleeve as quickly as it had emerged.
Atlantia Series 1: Survivor Page 5