by Piers Platt
That oughta hold until we get the fuel line shut off.
Her suit’s alarm was still buzzing, so Jiyake let go of the hose and fired her thrusters, zooming back out through the hole in the hull.
“Fire’s out in nine, Chief,” she radioed. “Meet me on the bridge when you’re done with eleven.”
“Be there in five, ma’am,” Risley replied.
… and then I think it’s time we had a chat with a certain crane operator.
*
On the bridge of the Starfarer, Cadellium and Auresh focused their attention on the vidscreen at the front of the room.
“Zoom in,” Auresh barked. “More.”
On the screen, an image of the CGS Extremis enlarged. Cadellium could see a crane hanging over the ship’s hull, the end of its boom a twisted mass of steel. A piece of the Extremis’ hull was still jammed in the boom, and Cadellium saw other debris from the Colonial Guard ship spinning lazily away from the space station.
“Multiple compartments depressurized,” one of the Starfarer’s crewmembers said.
“Looks like there was a fire, too?” Auresh grunted. “That’s even better than I had hoped.”
He turned to Cadellium and smiled. “See?” he said. “Your money has been put to good use.”
“How long until they can have it repaired?” Cadellium asked.
“They could patch the hull up in a couple hours, but it wouldn’t be safe for faster-than-light travel,” Auresh said. “To fully repair it, they probably need five or six weeks in dry dock. They’re out of commission, Mr. Cadellium. We don’t have to worry about Commander Jiyake or her ship anymore.”
“Good,” Cadellium said. “In that case, let’s proceed.”
“Course is plotted, Captain,” Auresh’s navigator called. “We’re ready to leap.”
“Where’s the Liberty Belle?” Auresh asked. The close-up view of the CGS Extremis disappeared from the vidscreen, and was replaced by the star field of space.
“Still on station,” another crewmember report. “I’m monitoring encrypted radio traffic between the Belle and the Extremis. The Belle hasn’t made the leap yet.”
“Prepare to leap,” Auresh ordered. “Let’s get out ahead of them.”
Chapter 13
Falken paused with one hand on the airlock’s outer door frame, peering up at the sky with distrust. He waited for close to a minute, and then, finally, stepped down to the rocky soil. The noise cancellation staff bumped reassuringly against his chest – unconsciously, his fingers felt the staff’s control knob, ensuring it was powered on. The sound of his footsteps was well muffled by the staff, but the hiss of the mask’s air supply seemed deafening.
He hurried forward, away from the ship, up a small mound that turned out to be a partially-eroded rock column. As he climbed, he spotted the top of Mount Olympus in the distance – he paused and studied it for a moment, getting his bearings.
Okay. Looks like we’re on the far side of the mountain from the research center and our base camp. Maybe a mile from the foot of the mountain … which is well within hunting range. Shit.
Falken hurried upward. At the apex of the column, he turned, looking back to survey the ship.
Motherfucker. It’s a wonder we’re all still alive.
The Ecolympus lay draped unevenly across several stone formations, like a beached whale stranded on a rocky shore. Scattered along the ship’s hull he spotted blackened impact craters, and neat lines of holes.
The drones tagged us pretty good – looks like missile strikes and some cannon shells, too.
The ship’s central spine was cracked and bent in several places, and smoke poured out of one of the engines, which was still on fire. Near the stern, just forward of the engine bank, he spied a jagged hole.
Falken frowned. That hole’s not from the drones, though – that must be the explosion that knocked us out of orbit. He peered closer, then glanced into the sky again.
We’ve been on the ground long enough now that a dragon could be here already.
He swore silently and decided to risk a jog, running back down the slope to the airlock, but instead of going inside, he continued along the ground to the stern of the wrecked ship. Falken stopped when he reached the twisted metal of the blast site. He peered in through the outer hull – the hole was narrow and roughly circular, and led a fair way back into the bowels of the ship. He could feel a gentle breeze as air leaked from the hole.
Well, that answers the hull integrity question. Fuck.
Falken put his hand on the hull without thinking, and hissed at the sudden searing pain.
What the hell blew up? he wondered, shaking his burned hand and wincing. It wasn’t an engine, the engines are intact. It looks like the blast came from … the aft cargo locker, and then went through the engines. And anyway, shouldn’t an explosion blow everything outward, in all directions? This “explosion” looks more like somebody drilled a hole through the ship.
A shadow passed over the sun. Falken checked the sky again, his heart racing, but it was merely a wisp of cloud.
You’ve pushed your luck far enough for one day. Get inside.
Falken turned and hurried back to the airlock.
*
With each hop, Greban moaned softly in pain.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Raynard asked, holding Greban around the waist for support.
“No, but I’m not going to pee in my pants,” Greban said, smiling weakly. “Or on the floor in the hallway. I can make it into the cabin. It’s not that far.”
“Okay,” Raynard said, shrugging.
Greban breathed deeply, wincing. Then they clambered awkwardly through an upside-down hatch, whose sill was far higher than it normally would be. Greban groaned again, but managed to pull his sprained ankle over the sill. On the far side, they headed toward the suite’s bathroom, and then Greban stopped. He laughed for a moment, shaking his head.
“What?” Raynard asked.
“I just realized that the toilet’s going to be on the damn ceiling,” Greban said.
“Oh, shit … yeah,” Raynard agreed, smiling. “I guess you might as well just pee in the corner.”
“Might as well,” Greban said, with a sigh. “Still better than peeing out in the hallway.”
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Raynard said, heading back out into the hall. At the far end of the corridor, Falken stepped through a side door, pulling off his oxygen mask. He spotted Raynard and hurried over.
“Hey,” Raynard said. “How’s it look?”
“Bad,” Falken said. “Where’s Greban?”
“Inside,” Raynard said, taking a deep breath. “Peeing.” He breathed again slowly, frowning. From inside the cabin, they heard Greban wheeze and then cough.
The two men locked eyes, and understanding dawned.
“I’ve been feeling real tired, like my chest is getting heavier and heavier,” Raynard said.
“Go get a mask on,” Falken said.
“Yeah,” Raynard agreed. “I’ll go find the others and warn them, too.”
Falken pulled his own mask back on, then selected a spare mask off the floor and hurried into the cabin, where he found Greban hunched over, coughing.
“Air’s going bad,” Greban said, gasping.
“No shit,” Falken said, handing him a mask. “We’ve got a hole in the hull big enough to crawl through.”
“Ah, fuck,” Greban said, taking the mask and fitting it over his face. He fiddled with the straps for a minute, and then took a deep breath.
Falken glanced back toward the hatch, then took Greban’s arm and leaned close. “We’ve got a problem,” he said, quietly.
“What, other than being stranded in a ship leaking air on a planet full of flying carnivores?” Greban asked, his voice muffled under the mask.
“Yeah,” Falken said. “Other than that. I don’t think this crash was an accident.”
Greban turned serious. “What do you mean?”
“I
don’t know much about explosions, but something about the damage just felt off. It’s not like one of the engines malfunctioned and blasted parts everywhere. There’s just a neat, clean hole running right through the engines and out of the hull. It’s so precise it’s surgical.”
“Could it have been a loose part from one of the engines that got propelled by the blast, almost like a bullet or something?” Greban asked.
“I mean, maybe? But the hole went all the way through to the aft storage locker. That’s where it came from.”
“What? There’s just dry goods back there – toilet paper, spare linens, merchandise. Nothing explosive.” Greban’s eyes went wide. “But we just took a delivery from the Liberty Belle before this tour.”
Falken nodded. “I put a pallet of stuff back there during the last resupply, but I didn’t get a chance to inventory it yet.”
“Son of a bitch,” Greban swore.
“Sorry,” Falken said. “I should have checked it sooner.”
“I’m not mad at you,” Greban said. “I should have checked it myself. But … that means that someone sabotaged us? Why? Who?”
“I don’t know. It makes no sense. Who would even want to?”
“Hylie and Quiss?” Greban suggested. “Take out the competition, expand their operation? Get a little revenge on you for quitting and coming to work for me?”
Falken shook his head slowly. “Hylie’s certainly ambitious, and you know how competitive she gets. But … I don’t think she’d do something like this. This is way, way too far for a friendly rivalry.”
“If she did, we need to consider the possibility that they never placed a mayday call for us,” Greban said. “If we all die down here, there are no witnesses.”
“I still don’t think she did it,” Falken said.
“Then who?” Greban asked.
“I don’t know,” Falken said. “My first thought was … Ed. But I have no idea why he’d want to crash us and risk dying in the process.”
“Unless he’s another one of those suicide-by-dragon nutjobs,” Greban said.
“… maybe,” Falken said. “He’s just got a bad vibe.” He glanced back toward the hatch. “We better gather everyone up and figure out what the hell we’re going to do now.”
“And keep an eye on Ed,” Greban said.
*
In the light of half a dozen flashlights, the survivors of the Ecolympus gathered in the ship’s main corridor, sitting in an awkward circle, oxygen masks over their faces. Falken was the last to join them, walking back from the cockpit. He slid his mask up, lifted a jug of water to his lips, drank for a moment, then squatted down next to Greban, pulling his mask back down over his face.
“Did you get through?” Greban asked.
“No,” Falken said, quietly. “All the ship’s systems are dead now – we’re officially out of power.”
He rubbed his hands together and eyed the rest of the group, each in turn.
“Go over it again,” Greban said.
Falken sighed. “We’ve been over it twice. We don’t have any other choice.”
“Humor me,” Greban said. “There’s gotta be another way.”
Falken shook his head. “We’ve got ten oxygen masks, each of which is rated for one hundred minutes of use, according to the manual Vina found. That’s a thousand minutes of oxygen, divided by seven of us, which is …”
“A little over two hours each,” Vina said. “But we’ve had these on for almost an hour already.”
“So call it an hour of oxygen remaining each,” Falken said. “Last word we had from Hylie was that the Liberty Belle was refueling, but hadn’t left yet. That was over an hour ago, but they’re looking at a three hour flight time … so, best case scenario, they’re still two hours out. One hour of air left, but two hours until they get here. It’s simple math, Greban. We can’t stay here and wait.”
“We could try the life rafts,” Greban said.
“The starboard-side rafts are gone – they got crushed when we landed,” Falken said. “We can deploy the port-side life rafts, which have enough oxygen to last us a couple days, but they’ll be sitting outside, totally exposed. The dragons will hear us inside them, and they’ll rip them open in seconds.”
“You’re sure we can’t take out those oxygen tanks and bring them in here?” Raynard asked.
“No, I checked the schematics,” Falken said. “The tanks are welded inside the rafts’ frames, and those things are too big to fit through the airlock, assuming we could even lift them. We’d have to take the frames apart somehow … but that’d be way too noisy, the dragons would be on us before we’d finished taking out the first few screws.”
“You guys couldn’t find any other oxygen sources on board?” Greban asked. He looked over at Shep and Kuda, who had a heavy-duty binder on the floor between them.
“No,” Shep said. “I mean, you checked the master manual, too. We went over it twice, and couldn’t find anything.”
“We can’t stay here,” Falken repeated. “Our only hope is to try for the research center.”
“It’s at the base of the mountain, right?” Vina asked.
“Yeah,” Falken said. “Look, it’s shitty, I know. But it’s better than staying here and watching our oxygen tanks run dry.”
“Falken’s right. I say we head for the research center,” Kuda said.
“Same,” Shep agreed.
“Research center,” Raynard echoed.
Reluctantly, Ed nodded.
“Vina?” Greban asked.
“I’m going wherever Falken’s going,” she said.
Greban sighed. “So be it.” He reached down and switched his oxygen supply off.
“What the hell are you doing?” Falken asked.
“Saving your oxygen.” Greban gestured at his twisted ankle. “I can’t walk on my own, and I’m not going to endanger the rest of you by making you carry me. Take my mask and get going.”
“Who said anything about walking?” Falken asked, reaching across to turn his oxygen back on. “We’re going to take the truck.”
“What? Where’s the truck?” Greban asked.
“Where we left it,” Falken said. “On the far side of the mountain. I’m going to go get it, and you’re all staying right here until I get back.”
Chapter 14
Falken switched out his oxygen mask for one of the unused ones, taking a moment to pull the straps over his head comfortably snug.
“Full tank of gas,” Raynard told him, tapping on the oxygen bottle’s indicator gauge.
“Great,” Falken said. “Let’s hope I don’t need that much time.”
“One less thing to worry about, right?” Raynard asked.
“Right,” Falken agreed.
Raynard slipped the oxygen tank into Falken’s backpack, then zipped the pack closed, leaving a small hole for the air hose connected to Falken’s mask.
“Don’t forget this,” Shep said, holding out Falken’s noise cancellation staff.
“Thanks,” Falken said. He slipped the staff over his head, settling it across his chest. Then he cinched the pack’s straps tight, and jumped up and down several times experimentally. A tiny clink-clink¬-clink sounded with each jump.
“You hear that?” Falken asked.
Raynard nodded. “Yeah. The zipper pulls are tapping together.”
“Wrap ‘em,” Falken said.
Ed handed Raynard a roll of tape from the medical kit on the floor. The photojournalist tore off a strip, wrapping it around the metal ends of the zippers. Falken jumped again, and this time, heard only the rustling of his clothing rubbing against the bag’s straps.
“That’ll have to do,” he said.
Vina and Kuda appeared from inside the sensory displacement room, supporting Greban between them. Greban shook his head with chagrin.
“I can’t get any of the pods to start,” he said. “It would have been so perfect – displace back into your proxy sitting in the truck, just start up, a
nd drive over here.”
“It was a good idea,” Falken agreed.
“Maybe we can find some working batteries, and jury-rig a power source,” Greban said.
“If you want something to do while I’m gone, go ahead and try,” Falken said. “But I don’t think we can afford to wait around and hope that works.”
“No,” Greban agreed, after a moment. He held out his hand, and Falken took it. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Falken said. “If I’m not back in an hour, you guys need to head out to the mountain on your own.”
“Be safe,” Vina said. “Come back for us.”
Shep patted him on the shoulder, and Falken smiled. He took a deep breath. “See you guys soon.”
He stepped inside the airlock and sealed the inner door shut, then opened the outer door. Outside, a light wind ruffled a patch of mushrooms near the wrecked hull. A set of heavy, dark clouds had begun to set in around Mount Olympus, obscuring the mountain’s peak.
Ready to set a new personal best? Falken thought. His eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a grim line. He flicked the noise cancellation staff on, and the gentle noise of his air tank faded. Falken stepped down onto the rocky ground and set off.
*
“Hylie!” Quiss’ voice was tense with uncharacteristic urgency.
“Coming,” the captain of the Adrenaline Junkies called, dropping her computer on the bunk in her cabin and hurrying into the ship’s cockpit. She wore a set of tiger-striped camouflage fatigues with the company’s logo embroidered on them, and her long black hair was braided on one side of her head.
Quiss stood over a flat display table that showed a high-resolution picture of Olympus, overlaid with several graphical symbols. In the dark of the cockpit, the light from the display lit his face from beneath, giving him a sinister air. He pointed at a flashing red icon marked Ecolympus. “I’ve got a heat signature outside the wreck again.”