Ryan, waiting for the AI to continue, heard strange sounds of heavy breathing. Apparently, he was still connected to Orloff’s helmet comms. “Wait … what is that?”
“You need to understand the freight van’s sensors are crap … just the basic motion detection and infrared. So when I stated Orloff was the only one onboard, I meant no other warm-blooded beings were detectable. He has initialized two mechanical dog-sized bots. I recognize them as Tromian technology … used for security purposes. I assume Orloff has modified them to make them his personal hunting canines. They would work well in that capacity.”
Through the open comms channel, Ryan heard the clattering of metal hitting metal. They were descending the aft stairway.
“Ryan, you need to get out of there …”
CHAPTER 21
Ryan, approaching the end of the passageway, kept his eyes on the still-secured hatchway. He knew that each time it opened precious, breathable air voided out to space. He only hoped Orloff was aware of that trade-off too whenever he opened it. After all, how important was revenge when your very life hung in the balance?
As he passed by it, the hatch opened up several inches. Inside, there was a blur of frenetic activity—something wanted out. Ryan ran faster, making it to the air lock before coming to an abrupt stop.
There were two of them. Somehow, one managed to race up ahead and now stood four feet from him, while the second one stood behind him, four feet back. What his eyes were seeing was beyond chilling. Ryan’s mind instantly pictured an old-fashioned bear trap. Each design aspect of these knee-high bot-creatures supported their snapping, jagged, twelve-inch-wide jaws. He had little doubt that a single bite could take off an arm—perhaps even a leg.
Almost forgetting that he was armed, he fired the Tavor—distributing rounds between the two vicious-looking attackers. Momentarily stunned, they skittered backward. Within seconds, the Tavor’s magazine was spent.
Apparently not damaged seriously, the bot-dog behind lunged, and Ryan reflexively moved his legs away, placing him closer to the forward bot. It too lunged. By some miracle when its jaws clamped shut, it merely clenched a mouthful of environ suit, not flesh and bone. Though Ryan used the weapon’s stock to hammer the bot it didn’t let go.
“You need to get out of there, Ryan.”
The bot-dog’s jaws remained mercilessly clamped on Ryan’s environ suit, as the second bot circled him, angling for its own line of attack, cautiously leery of the Tavor’s hammering blows. Adrenalin pumping, Ryan screamed, “Get off me!” as he swung his leg around, the bot-dog still attached, and smashed it hard into the bot circling him. His leg was suddenly free, though his environ suit showed puncture holes in multiple places. Warning alarms rang in his helmet as strobe messages flashed onto his HUD:
ENVIRON SUIT COMPROMISED!
OXYGEN LEVELS DEPLETING!
Ryan caught a break, noting that both dog-bots’ jaws were enmeshed—as if one was attacking the other. In that moment as they viciously tried to free themselves, Ryan unhesitatingly dove into the airlock. Still in mid-air, he slapped the touchpad inside the bulkhead. Crashing onto the deck, he spun around, keeping his eyes locked on the two bots outside. As the airlock hatch slowly descended, Ryan noticed Orloff emerge from the stairway hatch. Behind his visor, Orloff’s expressionless face stared back at him as he slowly raised the Glock gripped in his right hand. Instinctively, Ryan spun around. Bringing his legs in tight, his body formed into a ball.
Though the sounds were not heard in the vacuum of space, Ryan felt the fired rounds—like blows from a sledgehammer—strike his back, one after another. Hit five times before the hatch fully descended and provided a protective barrier, he slumped onto his side, waiting to die. Waiting for blood to drain from his body and all oxygen seep from his punctured environ suit.
“Are you going to just lie there?”
“I’m waiting for the end to come. The pain … how can anything hurt so much?’
“There’s duct tape and Starlite in that box.”
“Box?” Ryan repeated dully.
“The box, along with that sheet of composite material, which just saved your sorry ass. You know … in your backpack.”
Ryan had forgotten all about the pack, still slung over his shoulder. The AI was right; the sheet of composite material tucked inside it most assuredly had saved his life. Yet, holy mother of God, he still felt like he was dying.
He lowered his shoulder, letting the strap droop low enough to pull his arm through. Every movement seemed to bring more agony than the one preceding it. Tugging the pack forward, he opened the top flap and peered within. The sheet of composite material was dimpled in multiple places and he knew his life had been spared thanks to that simple quarter-inch sheet. Reaching his hand inside, he opened the flap to the box and found the roll of duct tape and the canister of Starlite.
Ryan spent the next three minutes liberally coating the suit’s punctured holes before wrapping his leg with duct tape. Another thirty seconds passed before the blaring alarm in his helmet ceased, and the HUD’s flashing message disappeared.
He repacked the backpack then crawled toward the rear of the airlock and the open gap below the tangled end of the van’s gangway. Ryan knew he needed to push the pack through separately, that it wouldn’t fit kept on his back. He attached the safety line that still hung from his waist onto the pack’s shoulder strap and pushed the pack through the gap. Then, head first, he angled his body through it. Outside, and halfway across, he had to stop—the pain in his back was too intense. He asked, “Two-ton, what is he doing? What’s going on in the Paotow Tanker?”
“You need to keep moving. He’s heading off, but I suspect he’ll be back.”
Ryan knew the AI’s assumption was correct. He then remembered he’d left the Tavor behind. Screw it … it was out of ammunition, anyway. He reached outward with both arms until he found something solid to grasp on to.
* * *
Not until safely back in his own craft, with the airlock re-pressurizing, did Ryan realize something. When he was in the tanker, Orloff easily could have opened the hatchway from inside the main compartment. And he also probably had ten or more bullets available in the Glock’s magazine. So why hadn’t he? Did Orloff purposely let him escape? That didn’t seem likely. Ryan had seen the look in his eyes—so cold and calculating. No, this scenario was far from over. Seeing again in his mind’s eye the mounted upper bodies and heads, hanging high up on the bulkhead, Ryan knew Orloff Picket lived for one thing—the hunt.
Taking care not to further damage his semi-functioning environ suit, he carefully folded it then placed it, along with his helmet, inside a storage locker. Standing there, he got a good whiff of his body. Ugh. His clothes reeked—dried vomit, sweat, smeared grease and grime covered the entirety of his Consignment Freight jumpsuit. But there wasn’t time to deal with that.
Moving like a 90-year-old man, Ryan dragged the backpack over to the same area he’d worked at before on the extended gangway. His plan was to finish separating the internal hydraulic mechanism from the extended ramp, which lay outside the craft. After he removed the last four bolts, the ramp outside the van should come away. He considered retrieving his patched environ suit and helmet for what was to come next but knew they’d likely become damaged when he was beneath the tight confines of the deck—among its sharp mechanisms. With that thought in mind, he first needed to vent the cabin’s oxygen into the van’s storage tanks.
A small oxygen-breather unit, stored in the medical supply cabinet, would suffice for the few minutes he needed to complete the job. But environ suits did more than sustain oxygen levels; they maintained constant temperature readings against the frigid outer space environment. It should only take a few minutes. Bundling up … he was sure he would manage okay.
* * *
With an oxygen mask secured over his nose and mouth, an elastic band around his head, the small—twelve-inch-long by two-and-a-half-inch-diameter—air tank hung down hi
s face like some kind of alien proboscis. Earlier, while digging through his limited supply of clothes, Ryan found a Navy skullcap, sweater, windbreaker, blue jeans, and a pair of thin gloves. Pulling the jeans up over his jumpsuit pants, he added five pairs of socks atop the ones he wore. Next came the sweater and jacket. He then covered the thin gloves with six pairs of latex gloves he’d pulled from a dispenser inside the medical supply cabinet. He felt like the old Michelin Man.
“Two-ton … would it be possible to leave a tiny bit of air in here … enough to maintain some heat?”
“What you are planning to do is ridiculous. −454 degrees. That’s how cold it is outside. You think the extra latex gloves will help? Really?”
Ryan said, “That’s why you’ll need to leave some atmosphere in the cabin. As long as the cabin is depressurizing the cold will stay outside … right?”
Not waiting for an answer, Ryan eased into the space below the cabin deck and, finding his movements far more restricted with the added clothing on, wiggled his arms. His tools lay within easy reach, along with the patching kit of supplies pilfered from the tanker, and he felt as ready as he’d ever be.
“Two-ton … start storing the cabin atmosphere in the reserve tanks. And crank up the heat as hot as you can make it.”
“You need adequate atmosphere. Heating a near-vacuum space won’t do much,” the AI replied.
“And the upper levels are sealed?”
“Yes, Ryan … for the fifth time.”
Ryan waited until he heard then felt the cabin pressure change. He picked up his powered socket wrench and began loosening the first of four bolts. Seconds later it spun free as the nut securing it to the other side of the bulkhead floated away outside. The bolt held firm due to the difference of inside/outside pressure. He next went to work on the second bolt, choosing to loosen the one placed diagonally across from the first bolt. Again, it soon spun freely.
“Two down, two to go,” Ryan said. Upon seeing his breath—it quickly had become very cold—he turned the valve, which produced a steady flow of oxygen into his mask. Ah, that’s better, he thought.
Ryan, unaccustomed to the AI being quiet, went to work on the third bolt. As it loosened, the gangway mechanism shifted. What atmosphere still remained in the cabin was being sucked out through the edges of the mechanism plate. The socket wrench spun freely, indicating the third nut had fallen off too and was, like the others, drifting out in space.
The cold was way beyond what Ryan expected. He stared at the final bolt—the socket wrench poised above it. Things were about to get a whole lot colder. Placing the wrench over the bolt head, he triggered the power button. As it whirled, sounds emitted by its small motor could scarcely be heard. The bolt spun free.
Ryan wasn’t looking forward to the next step. He needed to physically manhandle the hydraulic ramp mechanism toward the bow of the van. There was enough clearance so it should shift back several inches. By then he realized he could no longer feel his fingers. His cheeks too were numb. Even the moisture in his eyes was freezing. Quickly, without wasting another moment, he yanked back hard on the mechanism. Nothing. He adjusted his body, getting a better hold, and yanked again. This time it moved. The cold was beyond cold. He felt nothing at all—everything numb.
Now there was an open space that the ramp mechanism once filled. What had been a sandwiched layer of insulating material clung to the edges. Beyond, he could see the gangway, still attached to the tanker, slowly drift away from the van. Grabbing out with fingers that seemed to belong to someone else, he managed to lift the composite sheet up and position it over the opening. Earlier, he’d cut several lengths of duct tape that he now awkwardly spread over the panel’s top edges, sides, and bottom—enough to keep the patch panel in place. Immediately, it was sucked in tighter—apparently there was sufficient internal atmosphere in the van to create a suction.
“Pressurize the cabin!” Ryan’s words came out slurred and barely audible. Sound waves needed atmosphere—which, at present, there was little of.
The AI said something but Ryan couldn’t make out the words. Some sense of feeling had returned to his fingers, face, and body. The cabin was warming. Along with it, came the perception he was on fire—as if every nerve ending was exposed. He screamed, and screamed, until his voice was a mere rasp.
The AI was still speaking. Though he now understood the words, he didn’t want to listen.
Finally Ryan asked, “What do you mean it wasn’t all that cold?”
“I did remember that you’d completed installation of the Aldo Pack fusion module. Thanks to me, it was already powered on. I adjusted the internal reactor settings. It was generating heat the entire time you worked. The temperature within your confined space never went below −150 degrees Fahrenheit. Chilly, yes, but survivable for a limited period of time.”
“Whatever. I still need to screw this plate down tight then seal it with Starlite. Why don’t you check on Orloff Picket for me—” but the AI cut him off mid-sentence: “Ryan … the Paotow Tanker is gone.”
“Good riddance to the psycho. In which direction is he headed?”
“Nowhere at the moment. He’s held up about two hundred miles away. Perhaps making repairs.” Ryan felt his body deflate. As sophisticated as Two-ton had made the AI, some aspects of it seemed naïve. “Two-ton … he’s waiting for me to make a run for it. This is only the beginning.”
“Beginning?”
“Of the hunt.”
CHAPTER 22
Together, they left Mystery Mine, riding the train back to the town’s main street. They took the same seats from before. Mamma Picket was animated—obviously excited to commence their new business venture. She spoke nearly non-stop to them about her family’s history—mostly about her daddy’s early mining empire in the Smoky Mountains. An empire she wanted to emulate, even surpass, in outer space.
“You’ll travel with my boys. Y’all go together,” Mamma Picket announced.
“Actually, as you’ve witnessed, we have our own vessel,” Nan said. “Perhaps we can follow—”
Mamma’s irritation flared, “No! I don’t know you. Not well enough, anyway.” Turning her gaze toward Brent, she asked, “You got that thing working yet?”
“The heavy?” Brent asked.
“Of course the heavy! What else do you think I’m talking about? Are you dim-witted? I want you to take these fine folks to space to meet Orloff. Introduce them to him proper-like. You know how he can be with strangers, so make sure he don’t get all riled up.”
“I can do that,” Brent said.
“We’re not leaving our shuttle down here. So I hope you don’t mind if we stow it aboard your ship?” Jason asked. “If I remember right, those Craing cruisers have plenty of space within their flight bays.”
“You familiar with them, are you?” Brent asked, his interest piqued.
“Very. We all are.” Jason didn’t elaborate, sensing he probably said too much already. He was supposed to be a mining broker, not a U.S. Fleet Officer.
Bristol asked, “What’s wrong with it? I’ve worked on Craing drives a few times.”
Brent, after exchanging a look with his brothers, scowled, “How the fuck should I know; do I look like a mechanic? You can ask Jeebrie when we get on board.”
“Who’s Jeebrie?” Bristol asked.
“He’s one of the Craing bastards still on board. We don’t let him off the ship, or even out of Engineering. Without him on board, we’d be up the creek without a paddle.”
* * *
The cruiser lifted off—barely—heading into space. Nan didn’t like being on the Craing vessel. More than once, she’d been imprisoned by the Craing, held in one of the hundreds of jail-like confinement cages that were situated adjacent to the vessel’s Grand Sacellum. Once used by the Craing as a shrine or sanctuary, similar in structure to a large church back on Earth, it was the Craing’s main feeding area where they first roasted, then consumed, their prisoners. The Craing required fresh me
at—preferably flesh off those most recently conquered.
An hour had passed since Sergeant Major Stone piloted the Goliath into the flight bay of the old Craing cruiser. Stone was again instructed to remain with the shuttle, but this time Rizzo cheerfully stayed on board with her. Beyond any doubt, they’d find something to do to pass the time.
Nan and Colonel Pope walked ahead, as Jason, Billy and Bristol followed. On Mamma Picket’s side, the three brothers, Brent, Larry and Payne stayed close by.
From what Nan now understood, only a small portion of the huge ship was utilized. She figured nothing came cheap when operating a heavy battle cruiser, whose size and dimensions equaled several football fields. As a whole group, they walked through a maze of corridors and narrow passageways on one of the upper decks. An acrid tinge bit the air—reminiscent of old burnt flesh. Nan glanced at the shortened hatchways and dreary bulkheads as they passed by them—each was coated in a greasy film.
Brent said, “Up ahead are the officers’ quarters. The best accommodations this old ship has to offer. It could take us a day or two more to reach the spatial coordinates. All depends on Jeebrie.” He slowed down his pace then gestured toward a line of twenty or so hatchways. Each was equipped with a mechanical, lever-opening mechanism. “These three are ours … the others are available.”
“This ship really is old,” Bristol said, his expression looking like he’d just walked through a stale fart.
“Take an hour or two and get situated,” Brent said.
“Sounds fine,” Jason said, heading toward the nearest hatch. “Where do you want us to meet up?”
“You know where the church is?”
“The Grand Sacellum?” Nan asked.
The three brothers eyed her suspiciously. Brent said, “Yeah … that’s the place; meet in two hours. We’ll conjure up some grub. Our Craing chef is one hell of a cook, specially anything Bar-B-Qued.” All three Pickets chuckled at that as, one by one, they disappeared into their respective compartments.
Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5) Page 11