By Dawn's Early Light

by Jason Fuesting

  Pascal nodded. “Fine, go put it somewhere in the airlock then. You bring back anything else?”

  “Uh, yeah. This.” Eric dug the tablet he’d taken from the captain’s quarters out of another belt pouch.

  “Heh. Might be able to pass it off as an antique, some old electronics looted forever ago. We do use a lot of outdated gear. Wait, give me your knife.” Eric tugged his knife from its scabbard and handed it over. With a slow, determined motion Pascal scraped a small label off the back of the tablet and handed the knife back. “There, that looked like a manufacturer’s label. Serial number, that kind of thing. Still it looks just like any other tablet anyone else has. If they open it, it’ll be real hard to mistake electronics that old. Did you check to see if it worked?”

  “No, I found it right as you radioed me.”

  “Well, if it doesn’t work, play it off like it got damaged, okay? Radiation, sun spots, or some crap like that. Unless the guy talking to you is an electronics guy, he’s probably not going to know the difference. Anything else?”

  “Nope, that’s it.”

  “Okay. When I make this transmission, there’s no going back. Anything else you want to say or ask? We still have a few minutes.”

  After a few seconds of thinking, Eric shook his head. “Not off the top of my head. Sounds like this is our best chance, even if it is a shitty one.”

  “When I’m done on the radio, I’ll want you to repeat everything back to me to make sure you’ve got it straight. You’ll probably have a few minutes to stash that weapon. You can turn on your radio, don’t transmit.” Eric nodded and took the gun from Pascal. Pascal floated back a few feet and muttered to himself, eyes closed before making the sign of the cross. Eric’s radio crackled as he made his way back through the ice chimney.

  “PMV Shrike, PMV Shrike, come in.” Silence. “PMV Shrike, do you copy, over?”

  Eric cranked open the outer hatch as Pascal made another attempt. That had better be distance lag, not them ignoring us. Eric glanced about the airlock and spotted a recess occupied by emergency equipment. He slipped the handgun behind the air mask and slipped outside to close the hatch.

  “Unknown radio source, identify yourself,” came a reply after the fourth contact attempt.

  “PMV Shrike, this is able crewman Terrance McNiel, survivor, along with able crewman Eric Friedrich. No injuries, oxygen enough for another hour or so.”

  “Confirmed, Crewman McNiel. We have triangulated your signal. Someone will be picking you up shortly.”

  Eric noted the time lag on his chronometer as he emerged from the chimney. Pascal motioned him over. Uncertainty gripped his guts as Pascal’s helmet made contact with his.

  “This is the story we’re going to stick to, Eric. When I’m done, I want you to repeat it back to me.”

  Eric listened with mild amusement. Stupid? I can play stupid. Hell, I’m pretty sure I am stupid. I feel dumber already.

  “Good,” Pascal said when Eric had finished repeating the plan. “Stick to that and we might live long enough to be free men again. Eric?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Whatever happens, die with honor.”

  Intake

  Eric glanced at Pascal again as the approaching mote in the monochrome green light amplification grew into a small, boxy shuttle. Pascal’s eyes were closed and his lips moved slowly. Praying. Cocooned in the EVA suit, the man appeared calm, but the beads of sweat clinging to his face despite the climate controlled environment spoke otherwise. Pascal’s eyes twitched as he prayed. Why am I not as worked up about this as he is?

  Eric’s stomach clenched as a spotlight on the shuttle snapped on. His helmet blended the white light into the monochrome. Wish our tech worked that well.

  “Crewman McNiel, this is Intake Three. We are approaching from your ten o’clock. A hatch will open on our starboard side. You and your comrade are to discard any weapons and enter. Understood?”

  Pascal’s eyes snapped open. “Roger that, Intake Three. We are standing by for your arrival.” Pascal’s head swiveled in his helmet toward the approaching shuttle before he glanced at Eric. Using one of several hand signals taught to every crewman of the Fortune, Pascal asked how Eric was doing.

  Eric managed a weak smile and replied with another hand signal, okay.

  Pascal nodded as the shuttle slowed to a halt relative to their position. A hatch opened before them, spilling red light into the void.

  “Crewman McNiel, Intake Three. Starboard hatch is open.”

  “Confirmed, Intake Three. Friedrich, let’s get moving.”

  Eric pushed off of the Gadsden’s icy grave, following Pascal. His heart beat faster as they approached. Glancing about as Pascal entered, Eric noted five other identical entry points. The hatch cycled shut the moment they crossed the threshold.

  Good thing I’m not entirely claustrophobic.

  Little wider than a passageway, Eric suspected the compartment ended just short of the shuttle’s centerline. Small protrusions lined the armored walls to the front and back of the shuttle. Eric tried not to think of why the far corner’s plating was noticeably darker than the rest, nor how several small circles of bubbled metal had gotten there.

  Space for twelve here. Five other compartments. Assuming they’re the same, then they can move seventy-two prisoners per shuttle.

  Their radios crackled.

  “Welcome aboard,” a wan, accentless male voice announced. “We will be accelerating in thirty seconds and returning to the Shrike. You will find universal oxygen umbilicals placed every half meter along the fore and aft walls. Next to each umbilical you will find a stanchion to secure yourself for the duration of our transit.”

  Eric spotted small reflective bulbs in compartment ceiling’s four corners as he moved to the nearest oxygen port. Cameras.

  “Once secured, take no actions or movements unless ordered to. Failure to comply will be met with escalating force until compliance is gained.”

  Eric blinked and glanced at the camera before pulling the oxygen tube from its receptacle. He felt more than heard the connector’s click as it locked into place in his suit’s external feed. Engaging his maglocks, Eric suppressed a shudder and waited. Acceleration shoved him against the back wall.

  “Shit!”

  Within seconds, he found himself confused and blinking. His fingers suddenly felt cold, and his lips tingled on the edge of numbness. Oxygen? Light-headedness began to seep in as he checked his suit’s environmental readout. O2 normal. Brow furrowed, Eric glanced over at Pascal to see the man shaking his head slowly, disoriented. His heartbeat slowed. Dimly he realized thinking took effort. Fatigue crept in. Eric shook his head. He stared at the oxygen line. A thought bubbled to the surface. We’ve been drugged. Thought fled as he fought to stay awake.

  “You know what I think, Petra?” a male voice asked, panting.

  Eric opened his eyes to a swirling cascade of blurred light.

  “What’s that?”

  Woman.

  His entire body stung with pins and needles, but he was awake. What the hell happened? Still in his suit, he was being carried between two people, his arms over their shoulders. His vision began to clear.

  “I say after we get these two apes down to in-processing, we pay the boys in flight maintenance a visit. This fucker’s heavy.”

  The vanishing blur revealed the swirling cascade’s source. With his head down, a clear viscous liquid sloshed in a pool at the lowest point in his helmet, the front of his visor. Great, I puked in my helmet.

  The woman snorted. “I’m okay with that. His friend isn’t any lighter. Hey, zip it, I think the antidote the medics gave them is kicking in.”

  “They couldn’t wake up earlier? Figures.”

  Eric blinked away the grogginess. His oxygen monitor proclaimed two minutes left in his tank with blinking red numbers. A door cycled open nearby as someone tapped on his helmet.

  “Hey asshole, rise and shine.”

  Eric felt a s
hove from behind and fell forward. Disoriented, the floor rose faster than he could react. Blinded by flying fluid, Eric wrestled with his helmet seals and tore it off. He retched before collapsing on the metal grating. As he tried to clean his face with gloved hands, a speaker popped and crackled.

  “Prisoner Eighty-Seven, stand to.”

  Eric blinked at the sudden female voice and looked about the circular chamber. A meter long segment of the metal wall before him slid aside. A box emerged from the darkness beyond. “Prisoner Eighty-Seven, deposit all clothing and equipment into the receptacle provided. You have thirty seconds to comply. Be aware, personal conduct will reflect on in-processing and subsequent case handling. Civility will be answered in kind.”

  Eric stumbled forward to the box. As he stripped off the suit, he glanced about. Where are the cameras? Grudgingly, he tossed the last of the outer suit into the box and began to turn about.

  “Prisoner Eighty-Seven. All clothing is to be deposited into the receptacle.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “You have ten seconds to comply.”

  “How about you have ten seconds to kiss my ass? It’s fucking cold in here.”

  “Compliance is mandatory.”

  “Fuck your compli--” Eric shrieked as every inch of exposed skin felt dipped in fire and a high-pitched, grating whine filled the room. Shocked by sudden agony, he pitched to the floor gasping. The whine and the burning sensation vanished.

  “Compliance is mandatory. Deposit all clothing into the receptacle. Summary execution is authorized.”

  “Motherfucker,” Eric gasped from the floor. “Fine, you want the rest?” Using the box, Eric pulled himself to his feet and unzipped the inner suit. He stepped out of the single piece garment and flung it into the box along with the waste disposal shorts he had been wearing. “There, you’ve got it all? What now, boss?” Eric asked as the box slid back into the darkness beyond the wall.

  “Prisoner Eighty-Seven, retrieve the safety equipment provided in the receptacle and proceed to the yellow foot prints at the center of the compartment.” A smaller box emerged from the hole.

  Safety equipment? Eric eyed the slim blacked-out goggles and the small black set of nose plugs before grabbing them. The box retracted and the wall began to close as he turned for the center of the room. Eric stepped across the narrow gap between the grille and the slightly elevated center. He shrugged as he aligned himself with the widely spaced foot prints.

  “Prisoner Eighty-Seven, don the safety equipment provided. Refusal to do so will not delay the decontamination process and will be seen as consent to begin without proper protection.”

  Eric frowned. “So, uh, can I ask why this is necessary or are you just a pre-recorded message?” he asked. Darkness descended as he pulled the goggles on and adjusted their fit.

  “The decontamination process uses agents that may cause dramatic damage to certain types of soft tissue, specifically those found in the lungs and eyes. It is recommended that you refrain from breathing or moving during the process to minimize the potential for injury and/or death.”

  Eric snorted at the comment and pushed the plugs into his nostrils. Chilled, he rubbed his arms. “Thanks for the warning?”

  “The Protectorate appreciates your compliance. Prisoner Eighty-Seven, phase one will proceed in ten seconds.” No stranger to what might turn into a limited oxygen situation, Eric purposefully hyperventilated as the sounds of servos springing into motion filled the chamber. “Prisoner Eighty-Seven, hold your arms and hands out level. Good, now do not move. Proceeding with chemical decontamination.”

  Streams of cold liquid pelted him from several directions and then cut off. Eric blinked under his goggles. That’s not that bad. The cold began to sting. Shit. Stinging became burning and burning became agony. Eric involuntarily ground his teeth. Can’t move, he repeated to himself. Jets of cold liquid extinguished his agony.

  “Chemical decontamination complete. Standby for photo decontamination.”

  What? Several points around him burst into brilliance. The goggles weren’t blacked out. They were filtered like a welder’s hood. The lights clicked off when the burning sensation approached unbearable. Servos whined about him. The pain began to fade, replaced by a searing chill.

  “Decontamination complete. Prisoner Eighty-Seven, you may remove your safety equipment. Discard them in the box behind the open door.”

  Eric pulled the nose plugs out but stopped as he pulled the headband off. His hair was gone, all of it, even his eyebrows. “What the fuck is this?”

  “Destruction of the pilus and outer dermal layers is a byproduct of the decontamination process. Prisoner Eighty-Seven, proceed to the open door.”

  Scowling, Eric stalked across the grille to the doorway. The pair of helmeted and armed troopers in bulky body armor drew him up short on the far side. Although he could not see faces behind the reflective visors, Eric felt their glare as they flexed their hands on the grips of their weapons.

  “Prisoner Eighty-Seven, over here,” Eric heard the familiar female voice say, this time in person instead of through a speaker. Hyper-focused on the guards, he had completely missed the medical station to his right and the brunette next to it motioning to him. As he padded across the frigid metal floor, he became acutely aware of her curves and just how naked he was. She rolled her eyes and cleared her throat, “Not on your best day, profligate.”

  Somewhat deflated, Eric waited where she pointed. She rummaged through several drawers and placed various items onto a tray. Not too different from Ship’s Medical. She’s a doctor? One of the guards set a stool down next to him and motioned for him to sit.

  “Prisoner Eighty-Seven, as part of in-processing you are to be given a thorough medical examination. This will include a blood draw and several immunizations. Are you allergic to anything?”

  “No, Ma’am. My name is--” She cut him off shaking her head and motioned as if tapping something in the air before her.

  “You are Prisoner Eighty-Seven. Prisoners do not have names. Now, have you recently been exposed to radiation sources outside of this ship?”

  Just an ice ball. The Gadsden does not exist. “No, Ma’am.” Another tap.

  “Any non-visible implants?” Eric shook his head and she tapped the air again. “Have you otherwise taken any medications or other substances that may interact or interfere with medical procedures that may save your life should you require treatment? Dishonest answers may lead to undue suffering on your part.”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “The last time you drank?” she asked.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Alcohol.”

  “Oh, last month. My eighteenth birthday party.” He bit the inside of his lower lip. Do not volunteer information! Pascal had been very clear.

  “Last time you partook in any narcotic or mind-altering substances?”

  “Never.”

  “Are you currently or have you ever been a habitual user of alcohol or other addictive substances?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Are you aware of any sickness, congenital defect, or other factor that may or may not affect treatment during your stay aboard the Shrike?”

  “I cleared my last medical exam without a snag,” Eric answered after some consideration.

  “Do you have any sexually transmitted diseases?” the doctor asked.

  Eric blushed.

  “Answer the question, Prisoner Eighty-Seven,” she ordered.

  “I’m a virgin, Ma’am.” Eric caught the first break in the dry, reactionless clinical routine, the beginning of a smirk. The twitch of her lip roiled anger and embarrassment in his gut. His blush deepened.

  The doctor nodded and pulled a black glove from a coat pocket. Eric noted silver circles on the finger tips and the palm as she pulled it snug. As she walked over a small blue light began blinking on the back of the glove.

  She stood over him motionless for several seconds before he notic
ed her lips moving and it clicked. Not just implants, but expensive ones he’d only heard rumors about. She leaned forward and tilted his chin up with her ungloved hand. The doctor stared into each of his eyes for several seconds before shining a light mounted in the black glove’s palm in them. Unnaturally straight, miniscule lines he glimpsed around woman’s right pupil confirmed his suspicion. The doctor swiped a finger that trailed flaming pain across his forehead as she circled to his side. She did not seem to notice his grimace. Still mouthing words, she tilted his head away from her while squeezing his wrist with the gloved hand. She repeated the exam from the other side. Every touch seared his burnt skin. When she placed her gloved hand on his back, agony seized his breath in his throat.

  “Cough.” Eric blinked at the stars flying through his vision and complied. She moved her hand elsewhere and repeated the request. After several coughs, she moved in front of him.

  “Open your mouth.” Eric found a new appreciate for pain when she rested the gloved hand on his chest as she stared into his mouth. He’d begun to sweat from the pain and every dripping rivulet felt like a soldering iron. Her hand wandered about, pressing here and there, but he managed to keep quiet.

  “When was your last meal?” she asked as she wrapped a fabric cuff around his left arm.

  Eric grimaced as she cinched the cuff tight and then grit his teeth when the cuff’s fabric dug into his skin as it inflated. Caught inside the expanding cuff, his arm throbbed with each heartbeat before the cuff began to deflate.

  “Twelve hours? Sixteen? Something like that,” he managed to reply as the pain faded.

  “How much did you eat?” she asked, removing the cuff.

  “Not much. Some tea, a few crackers.”

  “Last bowel movement? Urination?”

  “When you’re in the suit, that’s what the shorts are for. Sorry, didn’t look at the clock.” Her eyes narrowed and she retrieved what appeared to be a plastic framed pistol with a narrow tip. The doctor fit a clear vial into a recess at the back of the device before pressing it against his upper forearm. He felt the tip of the object flex.