Stranded (Shadows of the Void Space Opera Serial Book 2)

by J. J. Green

  “Now hold on a minute. That was my idea. I didn’t say I was going to share her stuff. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it now.”

  “Fair’s fair, Karrev, what’s in her cabin isn’t any more yours than mine. Look, I promise I won’t tell another soul, and we’ll split it all fifty—fifty.”

  Karrev’s eyebrows rose.

  “Sixty—forty then.”

  Karrev’s eyebrows rose higher.

  “All right, all right. Seventy—thirty.”

  Shaking his head, Karrev said, “I’ve always been too soft. Come on.” As Micah left the room, Karrev took a last look, his gaze resting momentarily on the bump beneath the sheets. What wouldn’t he give to retrieve that box right now. After all the effort he’d put into finding it, the myth was his and his alone. But he couldn’t risk Micah knowing about it. He would have to be patient.

  When he could slip away unnoticed, he would come back and get it, and then...The possibilities rose before him like angels ascending to heaven. What or who was there aboard that he couldn’t buy for a drop of myth? Who was there that he couldn’t compel to do his bidding?

  All his life Karrev had been last in line, bottom of the pile, looked down upon, forgotten, taken for granted, taken advantage of. Now, through his smarts and hard work, he’d finally turned the tables. Now, it was going to be his turn.

  Chapter Five

  As Jas shut down the interface screen and stood up, she concluded that going over the supply list had been even more tedious than she’d imagined it would be. The numbers didn’t mean anything to her by themselves anyway. She needed to know what they meant. Jas set off to the storeroom to speak to the second steward. The chief steward had been infected and had died during the crash-landing, but his subordinate seemed organized and dependable.

  She found the man snapping open the locks on the lid of a box. He looked up as she entered.

  “I thought you might be over,” he said. “You got the report I sent?”

  “I’ve just finished reading it. Things don’t seem too bad, providing the crew love freeze-dried sweet potato powder.”

  The second steward smiled. “I believe it was one of the master’s favorites. We seem to have a lot of it.”

  “I’ve come to ask you, what does it all mean in terms of day-to-day supplies? How long do we have before we run out of food?”

  “I’ve been working it out. I calculate that, at the current rate of consumption, we have about two months. But the ship’s cooling. I’ve already had to put on extra clothes to stay warm. When the temperature has equalized with what it is outdoors, people will need to eat more. So if we don’t get the heating going, you can take a week or two off that estimate. That’s without cutting down on calories, though. If we put the crew on starvation rations today—”

  Jas raised a hand. She didn’t even want to think about that. Two months. It didn’t seem a very long time, but it was long enough to find out if they could fix the engines; it was long enough for a rescue ship, if one was coming.

  “If we could get the waste treatment system working again,” continued the steward, “we could last longer—much longer. No one likes eating the nutrient bricks, but they do supply the necessary calories. And we could convert many inedible items to nutrients. Anything that was once organic. If we could power up the waste treatment...?” He looked hopefully at Jas.

  She sighed. Power. It always came down to the same thing. Power for heat, water, lighting, food, repairs, comm, everything. Up until then, they’d been running on emergency power. She didn’t know if they could reinstate the power supply from the engines. That was another job for MacAdam. If they couldn’t, it looked like they had two months before things got bad.

  Then again, if the engines couldn’t supply power, it would mean they were beyond repair, and it would just be a matter of surviving as long as they could.

  She realized the second steward was watching her. “Sorry. Thanks for figuring all that out.”

  The man shrugged. “It’s my job, whether the ship’s flying or not.”

  “How are you getting the food out to the crew?”

  “I’ve allotted a daily ration to each person. They’ve formed themselves into groups, and usually one person comes and collects that day’s ration for their group.”

  “And do you think they’re sharing out the food fairly?”

  “I think so. No one seems worried about food supplies yet. I haven’t heard any complaints. People understand it’s an emergency situation. I don’t know how long that’ll last, though.

  “I use the chief steward’s office to dispense the food. I didn’t think it would be wise for them to see the amount of supplies we have, especially if stocks begin to run low.”

  “I agree,” said Jas, “but I don’t like this idea of one person receiving the food for their group. It’s too open to exploitation. What if someone decides someone else doesn’t deserve their food, or demands favors before they hand it out? No. Let’s make it so that each person collects their own food. I know it’ll take longer to give it out, but—”

  “No, you’re right. I’ll say it’s up to everyone to get their own. I’ll make them show their ID and check them off when they collect their rations.” The second steward paused and surveyed the storeroom. “I sleep in here, you know. Just in case. I can’t lock the door anymore, you see. If the crew starts worrying about the food supply...I’m not sure what I could do if a gang came to help themselves, or to take over the stores and kick me out.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to secure the door?” asked Jas.

  “I’ve tried all kinds of things, but without power...”

  They were back to power again.

  “I could barricade it, I suppose,” continued the second steward. “But then I’d have to take the barricade down every morning and put it up every night. And anyone who was determined enough could break it down.”

  Jas sighed. “How about if you had a defense unit outside the door round the clock?” She had a limited supply of units and defense concerns of her own. She had them stationed at the ship’s exit hatches, where they should be—protecting the crew from outsiders. The second steward’s worries weren’t a surprise to her, but devoting a unit to protect food supplies seemed a waste. The crew shouldn’t need protecting from themselves. But the man had a point. If someone got control of the supplies, they would have control of the entire ship.

  “A defense unit outside the room would certainly keep people away,” said the steward, “but it might also increase fears about the supplies running out. I’ll take up your offer, but I’ll keep the unit in here, somewhere out of sight, in case of an emergency.”

  “Whatever you think best. I’ll send one over.”

  Leaving the second steward to his inventory, she went to find MacAdam. The woman was supposed to have brought her a report on the state of the engines, but she hadn’t shown up. It was strange. She had to have finished by now, but she hadn’t come to the flight deck as ordered. Jas would have to go and find her. She needed to know if there was any hope of them leaving the planet by themselves.

  MacAdam wasn’t in the canteen, nor any of the communal areas. Jas asked around, and eventually other crew members directed her to the engineer’s cabin, though they had odd expressions on their faces that Jas couldn’t understand. When she pushed open the door to the room, the reason for their expressions was soon apparent. The place stank of alcohol. Ship-distilled gut rot.

  It was a narrow, mean room, containing little more than four bunks and accompanying interfaces and cupboards. MacAdam was the cabin’s only occupant. The woman was on one of the top bunks, flat on her back and snoring, an arm and leg hanging lazily down.

  A slow rage began to build in Jas. Here she was with the responsibility of nearly two hundred lives on her shoulders, two hundred people who she might have to watch die because she couldn’t help them, and this woman, this woman who was supposed to be such a brilliant mechanic, who had just one job... She str
ode over to MacAdam, grabbed the front of the engineer’s uniform and, with some effort, shook her awake.

  MacAdam’s eyes opened halfway, then went wider as she caught sight of Jas’ angry face. Her mouth worked as if she were about to speak, but instead of words coming out, she coughed and retched. Jas wasn’t able to get out of the way before sour-smelling vomit poured from the engineer’s mouth and down the front of Jas’ uniform.

  Uttering an exclamation of disgust, the security officer stepped back hastily as MacAdam hung over her bunk and threw up again, the thin liquid splashing to the floor. Jas raised the back of her wrist to her mouth and wrinkled her nose. “For krat’s sake,” she spat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, woman?”

  MacAdam clung to the side of her bunk, as if worried she would fall. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I fell asleep, and—”

  “BF. You didn’t fall asleep. You passed out. How much have you drunk, and where did you get it from?”

  “I know, I know...sorry...I was just, looking at my, my...and it makes me sad...y’know. Not their fault. S’mine...and—”

  “What are you talking about? Did you check the engines? Did you write your report before you decided to get off your legs?”

  “I didn’t...no point...we’ve had it. I’ll ne’er see them again. Ne’er see them.” She flopped back and began weeping.

  Jas’ anger boiled over. “You’re right,” she yelled. “No one’s going to see anyone again unless we get those engines working. We’re relying on you, MacAdam. You’re the last engineer on the ship. We need you. We need you sober and working, or we’re all dead. Do you understand me? Do you get it?”

  Jas continued with her tirade, but the woman’s eyes were closing.

  The sound of the cabin door opening drew Jas’ attention. It was Lingiari.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “I asked around and got sent in this direction. Then I just followed the sound of your voice.”

  “Look at her,” exclaimed Jas. “Our last kratting hope. Off her legs.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think she can hear you anymore, even if the rest of the ship can, so maybe you should rein it in?”

  Jas took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She opened them again and said, “What did you want to see me about?”

  “You know how we were wondering if Lee had managed to send a packet to Earth? Sparks says we can ask her ourselves.”

  Chapter Six

  Karrev tried to time his return to Loba’s cabin to the quiet shift, but the shift system was breaking down, and random patterns of work, sleep, and eating had developed. He picked the time when fewest people seemed to be up and around, and set off, weighing up his chances of being observed against those of someone else discovering Loba’s secret stash of bliss before he could collect his find.

  As he pushed open the cabin door, he thought something looked different about the room, but he couldn’t figure out what. It was just as messy as when he’d left it, so it was difficult to tell if anything had been moved or disturbed. But it didn’t matter, even if Micah or someone else had been searching. Karrev had spotted the edge of Loba’s strange black box sticking out from under the pile of sheets.

  He stooped and picked it up. He’d memorized exactly where to press the box to make it open. His heart thudded as the lid lifted. The bottle of mythranil lay, deep crimson, in the center. He basked in the glory of his treasure for a moment before the closet door flew open and a figure sprang out and crashed into him, propelling the box from his hands. Karrev let out a scream of rage that was cut off as he hit the floor. His assailant—Micah—dove on top of him. The black box landed upside down, and Karrev’s fingers scrabbled for it, fighting the weight on his chest.

  “I knew it,” came Micah’s voice in his ear. “I knew there was something in here you were hiding. So what is it?”

  Karrev was freed as the other man dashed for the box. Micah gasped as he picked it up and saw what lay on the floor beneath it: scattered silver needles and the bottle of myth, miraculously unharmed.

  Micah’s voice was reverent. “Is that—”

  Karrev rose in a rage and flew at Micah as he reached for the myth. He knocked the man violently against the wall. The box fell from his grasp. Pressing him against the wall, Karrev fastened his hands around Micah’s throat, but he had a bull’s neck, and he tensed his muscles, fighting Karrev’s chokehold as he pulled on his arms. The two men struggled, Karrev trying to choke Micah, Micah fighting to free himself from Karrev’s grasp. Micah’s eyes were wide and staring, and the veins stood out on his forehead. The men struggled silently.

  Micah drove his knee between Karrev’s legs, and pain exploded from the man’s groin to his stomach. Karrev collapsed, gripping his genitals, immobilized with agony.

  Rubbing his throat, Micah coughed harshly. He scanned the floor until he spied the bottle of mythranil. He picked it up with a gentleness that contrasted his large frame. Seemingly mesmerized, he held the bottle up to the meager light and gazed at the contents.

  “Never seen it before,” he said, as if to himself. “Heard plenty, but never seen it. I wonder if it’s as good as they say.”

  Water pouring from his eyes and nose, Karrev was regaining some control. He pulled his knees beneath himself so that he was kneeling, one hand resting on the floor, the other gently nursing his groin. He squinted up at Micah. “I’ll go fifty—fifty with you,” he growled.

  “Ha, you’re not in much of a position to be bargaining.”

  “I found it. I pulled this place apart. I figured out where it was. I got the box open. It should be mine, by rights.”

  “Not from where I’m standing.” Micah pulled open the front of his uniform as if looking for somewhere safe to stow the bottle.

  “Sixty—forty, then,” said Karrev, his breathing easing as the waves of pain from his stomach subsided a little.

  Micah looked down his nose at the crouching man. “Why should I give you anything?”

  “Thirty—seventy.”

  Micah snorted a laugh and took a step toward the door. Karrev stood up. The heavy black box was in his fist. Micah paused. He took another step to the door.

  “Give it to me,” said Karrev, holding the box like a weapon. He held out his other hand, palm upward.

  Eyelids hooded, Micah edged farther away.

  “Give it me,” said Karrev, “or so help me, I’ll—”

  Micah held the bottle out at arm’s length. “If you hit me, I’ll drop it. From this height, it’ll smash. Is that what you want?”

  “If I can’t have it,” roared Karrev, “neither of us can.” He flew at Micah. The man raised his arm but couldn’t move fast enough to ward off the blow. The box struck his head with a hollow thunk, and the bottle of mythranil fell. Karrev dove and caught it before it hit the floor. Micah staggered, blood leaking from his wound.

  Karrev carefully placed the bottle at the edge of the room, out of danger, before returning to the stricken Micah. He hit him again with the box, sending him to the floor. Karrev hit him again and again, spattering the man’s blood over himself. Micah’s skull shattered. It wasn’t until Karrev glimpsed the man’s brain that he paused, panting, his arm aching.

  He drew himself upright and wiped a sleeve across his face, smearing the blood and mixing it with his sweat. He listened for sounds from outside for a moment, but none came. Apparently, no one had heard the fight. The ache from his genitals began to register once more. He limped over to the bottle of myth, picked it up, and put it in his pocket. Then he gathered Loba’s sheet and used it to wipe off Micah’s blood from his skin and clothes as best he could.

  As he tossed the sheet down, he took another brief survey of the room. He scooped up the scattered needles, tore off a piece of cloth and wrapped them with it before putting them in another pocket.

  Micah’s body gave a convulsive twitch, and he released a long breath. Then he was utterly still. Karrev scowled at the man’s ruined face. “Thirty—seven
ty, pah.” He spat on Micah’s upturned eyes.

  Chapter Seven

  Lee looked almost alive in the coffin-like stasis container. The injury that had as good as killed her was a trauma to the back of her skull. Her brain had swollen, and her heart and breathing had stopped, Sparks explained to Jas. The internal pressure from the swelling and the lack of oxygen had severely damaged Lee’s brain. Stasis kept her bodily functions going artificially, albeit at an extremely slow rate, so that what remained of the brain tissue wouldn’t deteriorate further. Her skin retained its plumpness, though it was pale, and if Jas ignored the fact that she wasn’t breathing, Lee looked like she was in a very deep sleep.

  It was as though Jas could reach out a hand and wake her up.

  The doctor was fitting electrodes to Lee’s skull, pushing aside her cropped blonde hair, and fixing tiny circles of thin plastic to her scalp.

  “It looks so twenty-first century,” said Lingiari. “You sure it’ll work?”

  “If there’s anything left of her mind, we should get some kind of response,” replied Sparks, “though what exactly, I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. It was only a small part of my training, because there’s little use for this on Earth, of course. There, we would immediately read and store whatever was left of the patient’s mind, to be ready for uploading to a clone, if the family could pay. But here, with no cloning facilities, we have to retain as much of Lee as we can for as long as we can. I don’t know exactly what’s there. My scanner isn’t sensitive enough to read low-level brain activity, hence the electrodes.”

  He placed the final one, “There,” he said and stepped back. He turned to a control panel. “Now, let’s see—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Jas, placing a hand on the man’s arm as he reached to press the screen. “What are we actually doing here? I mean, are we just listening in?” If they couldn’t talk to Lee, it might take hours to hear the answers to their questions. Meanwhile, they would hear what was going on in her brain, things she might prefer that they didn’t know.