by P. J. Fox
“I want it prepped, on the double. Meet us down there.”
The ensign ran.
As far as anyone could figure out, Petty Officer Second Class Amal Nibodh had been on duty when the incident occurred. He’d been overseeing a routine inventory, this time of replacement engine parts. Nibodh was well known for his talkative disposition so when he realized that he hadn’t heard anything from the man for over ten minutes his assistant, Apprentice Seaman Bhoti climbed out from behind the wall of boxes where he’d been counting crankshafts and called out.
But Petty Officer Nibodh was gone.
He’d walked out of the cargo hold, down the central hall that bisected the ship and into the cargo-level shuttle bay where he’d overpowered the man in the observation booth and taken him hostage. Lusha couldn’t understand what Nibodh was about, but Kisten had been in this situation once before. Then, he’d been the lieutenant in charge of the missile division aboard the ill-fated Callisto. He knew, too, that they only had a few minutes to act and even now might be out of time.
They stepped out of the lift and into the bowels of the ship, arriving at the shuttle bay to find the observation room door propped open and Ensign Lalji unconscious on the floor. After murmuring instructions to a bewildered Lusha, Kisten stepped inside the booth and, stepping over the unfortunate ensign, inspected the control panel. It had been smashed to smithereens, which meant that the only remaining control panel was inside the airlock. Where a terrified, sweat-soaked man stared back at him through the glass.
Out in the hall, Lusha was addressing the master chief who’d just shown up, half-dressed and demanding to help. Lusha assured him that the commander was in control, and told him what the commander wanted done. And that, Kisten reflected, was the burden of command: your men didn’t think you had the answers, they knew. They didn’t want to know that you were just as clueless as they were and, indeed, you couldn’t tell them. The commander always knew what to do: to follow him into battle, to survive, they needed to believe.
“Hello, Amal,” he said, addressing the man in the airlock by his given name.
Amal moaned.
“You need to come out now.” Kisten kept his tone calm and unhurried, his words a suggestion rather than a command.
“I can’t!”
“Yes you can. You know how to unlock the gate. Press the green button, it’s the emergency override.”
“Lalji—”
“Is fine.” Although Kisten doubted that Lalji was fine. He’d live, though.
Amal’s eyes tracked inexorably toward the outer gate, as though pulled by some invisible force. His tongue darted out to moisten his dry, cracked lips. He moaned again. In the huge cavern of the airlock, he looked no more significant than an ant. He didn’t want to be where he was, Kisten knew, but he also didn’t know how to leave. Or probably how he’d gotten there in the first place. Petty Officer Nibodh was in a lot of trouble.
His eyes whipped back to Kisten’s. “I’m scared,” he mouthed.
“I know.”
Amal’s mouth began to work. “I have dreams,” he half-hissed, half-pleaded. “At night.” Something had crept into his eyes that Kisten didn’t like. He glanced toward the gate and when his eyes returned to Kisten’s, something had changed. Kisten was now negotiating with an entirely different creature. This Amal regarded his commander with low cunning. “Terrible, terrible dreams,” he whispered, only now he was smiling.
“I know,” said Kisten. “We all have the dreams.” Which was true.
Something of the old Amal reappeared, feverish eyes begging, and then was gone. It was like watching two men fight for control of the helm. “I can’t breathe,” he said in that same hissing whisper. “And I shake all over. I can’t keep my hands still! The world spins beneath me and then when I lie down, I see spots. Black spots.”
“Inu needs you to come home,” Kisten reminded him. He thought the man had a child, too, but he wasn’t certain.
“Spots,” Amal mouthed.
Chronic Relapsing Remitting Psycho-Biochemical Vacuum-Induced Psychosis or, as it was known in colloquial terms, space sickness, was the single greatest danger aboard any ship after fire.
Even fireproof materials ignited in space, and the sealed environment of the ship meant that there was nowhere for resultant gases and other waste products to go. The pressure built and built until, denied a release, it blew a hole in the hull and vented into space. During the Battle of Aries Moon, part of the mess that had been Charon II, he’d seen a Frigate-class starship ripped in two like a child’s toy.
He’d seen a man burned alive after, panicking, the man turned a fire extinguisher meant for M-class surface conditions on a bank of suits meant for use during repair work on the hull. In normal atmospheric conditions, fire was only able to burn in the direction of airflow—away from the spray of pressurized foam. The principle was simple physics: heat rises. As the hotter air rose, it drew cooler air into the vacuum created beneath it—cooler air that, in turn, cooled the fire. But in space, there was no buoyancy. Heat didn’t rise; it spread. The fire had burned in both directions, shooting back up the line of spray and engulfing the man. It was over before it had begun. Having taken double firsts in propulsion engineering and astrophysics at the academy, Kisten understood the mechanics of space. He’d known, even as he’d tried to save him, that the man had no chance. Even now, he could see the man’s face as clearly as if he’d been standing beside him in the observation booth.
But space sickness was worse.
The ungainly scientific name described a deadly progression of events that began as an attack of the nerves and escalated quickly into the kind of paranoia that made seeking treatment almost impossible. Men hid their symptoms—from each other, from themselves, convinced that unspeakable consequences would result from admitting that they were sick.
Oftentimes, apart from the hallucinations, they seemed fine. A certain degree of short temper was normal in space; men were cooped up for long periods of time, and they got on each other’s nerves. Kisten himself had suffered the effects of exhaustion, claustrophobia, irrational anger and the ever-present urge to go outside. He’d likened it once to drowning in feathers; each moment, each glance out the window was insignificant by itself but over time they built up into something that felt almost like a low-grade fever. And then….
“They’re calling to me.” Amal licked his lips again.
Kisten didn’t wait; he ran. He’d seen the truth in that last, frightened look. “Get me the suit,” he said. “Now. And call a medical team.”
He knew that, as the commander, he shouldn’t be doing this. But Atropos wasn’t a fighter, she was a diplomat. With the exception of a few officers and perhaps the older enlisted men, no one here had seen anything more exciting than a malfunctioning reactor core—if that. Practicing maneuvers and polishing brass did not a soldier make, and Amal had very little time.
He was almost into his suit when Amal hit the button. The other button. The gate began to open. It took ten seconds for each gate to complete one cycle: five to open and five to close. Although there was a manual override on the inner gate, in anticipation of just this kind of situation, the inner gate still could not be opened until the outer gate had cycled shut and the airlock had repressurized, which took an additional ten seconds. This was, of course, a safety precaution; one man’s life wasn’t worth that of the entire crew. Kisten had twenty seconds to be inside that airlock, and another five to prepare himself for a fool’s errand.
They kept harpoons aboard to use in retrieving lost equipment. Equipped with a powerful magnet instead of a spear, they were excellent at not harming delicate housings and useless at anything else. Except Amal wasn’t wearing a suit; he couldn’t be reeled in like a wrench, because nothing on him was magnetized. The master chief, who’d fought on Goliath V and who viewed his time on Atropos as an early paid retirement, knew what Kisten was about. Rushing to the nearest weapons locker, he jogged back holding a long, ev
il-looking blade.
Eighteen seconds. Kisten’s helmet sealed to his suit with a hiss. He was walking toward the gate already as he pulled the harpoon out of its socket and locked in the bayonet. Twenty seconds. He stepped out into the still-pressurized airlock, his boots held firm to the floor by their heavy magnetic treads. He slammed his free hand down on the button and braced himself as the outer gate cycled open. A gale rushed over him as the air was sucked out. For a second or two all he could do was brace himself and try not to be knocked over.
Then, as the void reasserted itself, he strode over to the cable tie. Pulling out the cable, he attached it to the base of the harpoon. Essentially a guide line that, once fired, allowed the harpoon to be towed back in—along with whatever was on the other end.
Kisten’s plan was exceedingly dangerous, and there was a good chance that Amal might die. Which was another reason he couldn’t entrust the rescue to a junior officer: he might dither. Most men were afraid to give orders that might—and sometimes would—kill their own men. And while whoever it was debated the moral implications, Amal would die. But a slim chance was better than no chance.
Exhaling slowly as he focused, Kisten brought the harpoon level with his head. It worked like a rifle. He sighted his target, and aimed. Amal was already several hundred yards away, by now unconscious. His limbs splayed, and his mouth hung open. If he’d exhaled when he exited the airlock, he might still be alive. Sometimes, it was a simple exclamation of surprise that saved people in a situation like this.
But if he’d inhaled, or tried to hold his breath, he was dead.
Forty seconds. Kisten fired, the recoil powerful against his shoulder.
The bayonet took Amal through the middle part of his thigh. Blood sprayed from the wound, coalescing into perfectly round balls that bounced aimlessly in the void before evaporating. Kisten pressed the emergency return and jumped clear as the cable snapped to life.
Forty-seven seconds. Amal came hurtling toward the open gate. If Kisten had hit the femoral artery, then Amal would also be dead. The unconscious man grew larger and larger until he slammed leg-first against the steel frame of the cable tie. His leg snapped, exposing bone, but Kisten wasn’t looking. He was back at the control panel, giving the commands that would close the outer gate and repressurize the chamber. Sixty seconds.
And then, stepping back, he waited.
Amal’s skin was stretched so tautly over his swollen body that it looked shiny in the unforgiving light, having turned an evil blue-purple. Recessed halogen lamps lit the airlock from overhead, giving the false sensation of warmth. Sixty-three seconds.
Kisten lifted him free of the cable tie and laid him out flat on the floor. He knew enough battlefield medicine not to remove the bayonet; the pressure it exerted against the surrounding tissues might be the only thing keeping Amal alive—if he was, in fact, still alive. Deep space exposure was fatal, as a rule, after between sixty and ninety seconds at the absolute most. It was often fatal after thirty.
The inner gate opened and medics rushed in. Kisten staggered back into the hall and, pulling his helmet off, leaned back against the wall. He could hear the master chief bawling something, but only as if from a great distance. His immediate world was one of vague shapes and half-heard fragments of conversation. He closed his eyes.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, thinking about everything and nothing, but when he opened his eyes it was Aros and not Lusha who stood before him, white-lipped and worried. Lieutenant Commander Aros Askara-Brahma had been Kisten’s friend now for almost five years, but the two men would never fully understand each other.
“He’ll pull through,” Aros told him, voice tight.
Kisten didn’t respond. When Amal woke, it would be to the realization that he’d most likely be cashiered for striking a senior officer. Both men were in uniform and on duty; the rules were the rules. Amal shouldn’t be in space, regardless; they trained for these sorts of things, but life in space took incredible stamina and a very high caliber of leadership.
He pushed himself away from the wall and stripped off his suit. “I’ll be in my office,” he said, “but please keep that information to yourself unless its an emergency. And please inform the admiral, should he request an audience, that I’m not available.”
“What should I tell him?”
“Tell him I’m dead.” Kisten ran a hand through his hair. “Tell him whatever you feel like telling him.”
“Well then.” Aros smiled, a little too knowingly.
EIGHTEEN
True to his original plan, Kisten spent the next ten hours face down on his couch. He’d had three hours of sleep in the past two days and less before that, and his exhaustion went bone deep. When he woke, it was to the realization that he needed a shower and a change of clothes—both of which were available only in his cabin. So far, he’d done a fair job of avoiding Aria—whatever his intentions might be, they certainly weren’t ready to cohabit—but he knew that eventual confrontation was unavoidable. What Aria didn’t know and undoubtedly didn’t wish to know was that there was simply nowhere else on the ship to put her.
Atropos was at capacity and tempers were already high. Their route to Tarsonis hadn’t been a direct one, and they’d been in space now for months. He couldn’t ask one of his officers, several of whom were traveling with their families, to vacate a cabin and he certainly couldn’t bunk Aria in with the enlisted men. The only reason there’d been someplace to put the girls was the family that had been sharing it was also the one with the murder. The victim’s consort and brother, who were evidently having an affair, were awaiting civil justice in the brig. The brother’s consort, meanwhile, had taken both sets of children and moved into a suite occupied by her parents.
He rang for a cup of coffee and drank it slowly.
Mild gastric disturbance with slight nausea, abdominal cramps, slight diarrhea, acidosis, and headaches—usually with rapid recovery and a seeming return to normal. Insomnia, dizziness, hematemesis, seeing spots…the dreams, all of it was to be expected in inexperienced personnel and not uncommon in experienced personnel. At what point did stress become dangerous? A man couldn’t go around constantly accusing his fellow men of losing it; that alone would be enough to make them lose it, in an environment like this one.
He walked back to his cabin, feeling put out.
If it pleased Aria to imagine that she was so desirable that he just had to lock her up in his cabin, fine. There were a great many women, although she didn’t seem to know this, who’d leap at the chance. He wasn’t so desperate that he had to force women into bed with him.
He stopped abruptly and, walking over to the window, stared out at the sprinkling of stars. That was his problem, he realized. No one had ever talked to him like she did. She called him names, she insulted him in public, she accused him of all kinds of misdeeds—even though, at the same time, she was obviously frightened of him and insecure about her situation. Which, he grudgingly admitted, showed courage. He’d been enchanted by her view of the world from the beginning, but it was her stubborn refusal to respond as—he realized now—he expected all women to that made him both incensed at her for being a goddamn difficult woman and simultaneously unable to stop thinking about her.
Women were, in his experience, rather bland creatures who disliked smells and noise and who thought the right man should shower them with presents and compliment their shoes. Men did their part, fawning over sweet young things who exemplified the current standards of beauty. Who knew what a woman really thought, about anything? Even if she had opinions, she’d almost always be afraid to share them for fear of being rejected as unfeminine.
Of course, the women in his family did not suffer from this problem but they seemed to be unusual. As Aria was; so far, she’d exhibited no reservations about telling him exactly what she thought. Which he, to his fury, found captivating.
He entered his cabin to find it empty, a state of affairs that, in his current mood, suited him
just fine. He went into the bathroom, still fuming, peeled off his now-disgusting uniform and turned on the shower. His arrival aboard Atropos had marked the first time he’d regularly taken a hot shower since he’d left for boarding school at eleven years old. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Checking the water with his hand, he stepped in. It had been strange to smell his soap on Aria last night when he’d kissed her, the experience giving him a not unpleasant sensation of ownership.
Turning his attention to more important matters, he considered what to do about the escalating sabotage at certain of the larger state-run mines north of the capital. Yet another problem that awaited him on Tarsonis, the planet that according to Admiral Zamindari had no problems. The previous governor had done nothing, preferring to trust in the good word of his native contacts—and God, of course—that all was well and that any rumors of trouble were greatly exaggerated.
Kisten could only hope that the district commissioners and other men responsible for helping him run this planet were neither as naïve as Governor Jhansi nor as determinedly myopic as Admiral Zamindari.
A more forcibly idiotic man he’d never met, except possibly the man who’d sent him here. Karan, his so-called uncle, was actually his first cousin once removed. He was the only legitimate son of the Emperor while Kisten’s father, Rajesh, was the Emperor’s brother’s son. Karan and Rajesh had grown up together, and Karan had tormented him. Kisten owed his unusually fair skin to the fact that he was, in fact, a half-caste; his father’s mother was a native of Charon II, where such coloring was normal. His father, as a child, had been sufficiently popular as to render his heritage irrelevant—if anyone would have cared at all, which, given the Bronte fascination with anything new and different, was doubtful. But Karan, a man who dreamed of bringing back the dark ages, seized on this “deficiency” and made it the butt of innumerable cruelties.
It was men like Karan who, if left to roam unchecked, would destroy the empire and all it stood for.