“This isn’t exactly the Samum,” Mitchell groaned, sitting on Keyes’ bed grasping a wounded thigh. “But it ain’t bad.”
Felina pushed past the two Remoras to greet the three men, whose ID tags gave them away.
“Happy you fellas made it this far,” Connell said. “How awful is that wound, Mitchell?”
“I’ll live. With a limp, thanks to Keyes, the fuckin’ prick.” Mitchell shook his head. Bomani stood off to the side, nearest the door but with his back to a vanity. Ballard sat on the bed, too, hugging the headboard by the far wall. The quarters room itself was surprisingly smaller than the one Felina had been issued, along with the others; maybe half the size, the ceiling especially, which gave it a claustrophobic feel. The opulence, however, was tip-top and spared no expense to compensate for the compactness.
“Keyes is dead,” Felina said bluntly.
“Ah. Well, after what he did to that woman…Birch, apparently, was her name…I can’t really be too upset about that.”
“And Ricardo Lewis,” Bomani said, his voice as grim as his visage, which was a change for him. “A bridge crewman. Just trying to defend the right choice.”
“We’ve got control of the bridge, now,” Connell said. “Ensign Cassel is in there as we speak with most of my men and most of the documenters, too. We’ve also got a practitioner assistant and scientist with our group.”
“What’s the plan?” Mitchell asked, groaning and wincing as he stood. Ballard offered a hand but Mitchell declined it.
“Cancel the Manticore’s Dingir trajectory, and definitely take Earth out of the equation. As far as what comes after…we’re a bit short on that end.”
“Then you’re in luck,” Mitchell said.
“How’s that?”
“You see Terry Ballard here?” Mitchell indicated his pale and lankly copilot. “Sure, he don’t look like a whole lot…but he’s got as much brain up there as I have balls. So I’d advise you all hear his plan.”
“Before we get to that, and trust me, we’re grateful to hear it,” Connell said. “Would you mind telling us how exactly you three made it here…defenseless and yet, gunshot aside, unscathed?”
“Well,” Mitchell sighed, limping forward, “turns out that during the later stages of Operation Fuck-This, the Manticore’s primary corridors became coagulated with those freakshows. Apparently, to our pleasant surprise, those portside were less occupied. We had to stay quiet and sneak past a couple of infested EDZ’s, keeping our distance. Before long we accessed these sub-corridors thanks to Ballard’s keenness of the map and blueprints, then Bomani here proved once again why he’s one of the best and most underrated techs in the US-R-fucking-D.”
“Mitchell is, uh, a bit of an exaggerator.” Bomani stepped forward to apologize on the pilot’s behalf.
“I’d rather he be right,” Connell said, looking straight at Bomani. “So, how’d you do it?”
“Just some rewiring,” Bomani said simply, shrugging. “Piece of cake, really, the auto-doors down here have the simplest routing.” He then turned to nod at Palmer with a half-smirk. “How the hell do you think I got this one open so fast after you announced yourself?”
Palmer nodded smugly and looked over at Connell.
“Man, I can’t wait to hear their plan,” he said.
“Right, well, that said,” Connell smirked. “Why didn’t you all crack this one open and sneak out?”
“What, back the way we came?” Ballard said, his voice shaking. “Are you insane?”
“Just a little,” Palmer muttered.
Connell sighed. “I gotcha. But why not the bridge?”
“The Captain’s holding everyone gunpoint and has rallied a follower,” Felina said matter-of-factly; “sure, they’re outnumbered, even without these guys adding to the group, but a gun is a gun for a good reason. Afterall, look at Mitchell…he got shot low, who’s to say the next one wouldn’t be up high?”
Everyone exchanged dumbfounded yet impressed looks before nodding uniformly and accepting this as immovable fact.
“Why’d Keyes shoot you in the first place?” Connell asked, indicating Mitchell’s bandaged wound. It had gauze wrapped around it, but Medi-Foam had clearly been applied beneath, probably thanks to the Captain’s first-aid kit in the quarters.
“Said that since I was pilot of Samum I’d be the first to mutiny.” Mitchell’s voice was haggard and filled with skepticism. He then laughed maniacally, his voice hoarser than ever but filled with dismal amusement. “I mean, what kind of pilot uses his fucking leg to fly a ship?”
Everyone shared a very brief chuckle, however uneasy it felt to utter.
“And then what?” Connell asked.
“That other guy with the gun…Beck…he escorted us back here. After what we’d see him do to Lewis, I’m wounded and they’re unarmed…we weren’t gonna take the chance. So he locked us in here; Keyes had previously ordered him to get his personal Deci from his quarters, so we were pretty bummed to find no weapon in here.”
“Alright, well, we’ve got plenty now.” Connell gestured them to follow back to the bridge. “And we’re all dying to hear your plan.”
10
Karl Brennan remained at his navigator’s terminal facing the Atrium that arced high above the bridge room. He had wiped off some of the blood from his nape, although it didn’t remove without smearing and leaving behind gobbets of gelatinous residue that might have actually been brain. Regardless, his face was clean and he appeared perhaps the most sober individual present, in spite of the close call he had being held gunpoint by a man who was killed within arm’s reach of himself. His hands shook slightly but at the terminal he claimed there would be no inaccuracies. Cassel was confident in the man’s navigational competence, as if it was his birthright.
All the more comforting, which was a scarce aspect of life for everyone that had survived this far.
Cassel informed Felina and the others absent from the bridge earlier that Brennan gladly complied when she ordered him to cancel the Manticore’s itinerary. From there, he halted its progression entirely, within forty minutes’ travel from the Kuiper belt, which surrounded Earth’s Solar System. The nearest planet on the other side of the belt was Neptune, Felina knew, and between them was Dingir.
Floating in space without direction was one thing, but doing so with Xeno carnem knocking on the door was a whole other. Fortunately, they had yet heard such an event actually taking place—the creatures didn’t roam the bridge’s antechamber corridor, although clearly it had during the attack less than an hour ago.
After the mentioning of this to Felina and the others’ relief, introductions were swiftly tossed around. They began with the Samum crew and ended with the four bridge personnel, who were similarly shaken up about Lewis and Birch’s deaths, but otherwise held together.
“Um, Conrad. Wainwright, I mean. Conrad Wainwright,” said an orange-haired man, lean with soft features. He appeared to be the most stirred of the bridge personnel.
“Asa Nakamura,” said a Japanese woman with high cheekbones and an almost triangular chin. She spoke softly yet without vacillation.
“I’m Leigh, Angela.” This woman’s deep brown eyes were a shade darker than her complexion, constantly dancing around the room. Her paranoia was keener than the others, which Felina thought might not be such a bad thing for once. As long as she wasn’t the panicky type.
Although under present circumstances, it’d be logical.
The last of the surviving bridge personnel to introduce themselves was a curly-dark-haired man about Calloway’s age as Wainwright appeared to be, and just as lean. He had a bout of confidence in his voice but was not untouched by fear.
“Joshua. Boyd, that is.”
Given, they all wore ID tags, but nobody was in the mood right now to squint and read. What they were in the mood for was “getting off this forsaken chunk of steel and bloodshed,” as Schuman eloquently put it.
Upon Connell informing Cassel and the othe
rs that Ballard had conjured an evacuation plan, everyone was all-ears.
“Well, uh,” Ballard cleared his throat, essentially taking the stage, the microphone, the spotlight, and the pedestal all at once. “The Manticore has extensive auto-pilot capabilities, I assume?”
“Of course,” Brennan nodded, curious already.
“Then we set its course for the Kuiper belt—not to bypass it, nor navigate it. Just to arrive, and remain there. Call it…an exploration mission. Deactivate all collision warning presets and emergency evasive maneuvers. Rely all responsibilities to the Manticore’s auto-pilot function.”
Ballard’s words were taken wholeheartedly and turned over in full within each of their heads.
As far as Felina was concerned, it sounded like an effective suicide mission. The Manticore, as massive as it was, would survive no chance in such a field of perpetual debris.
“That is, actually,” Boyd said, seeming impressed, “a sound plan.”
“Supposing, of course,” Leigh added, her voice shaky, “you don’t intend on staying aboard to experience the outcome.”
“Well, yeah,” Ballard said with a tremulous laugh. “I mean, the second stage of this plan is the Samum.”
“Your Class 2 shuttle,” Brennan said, half statement and half question.
“That’s right,” Mitchell said matter-of-factly.
“Um, I hate to be a thundercloud on your parade, but isn’t it only capable of seating fourteen?”
“Twelve, actually,” Bomani said with a shrug. “But what matter does it make?”
Brennan exaggeratedly counted everyone present, which made Bomani and Ballard roll their eyes. Mitchell just sighed gutturally, standing there and taking the reins of the invalid debate.
“There’s no question about it,” he said, voice still hoarse as ever, “the Samum can’t seat us all. But—I assure you we’ll all fit in it regardless. Although anyone not locked down in a seat is bound to feel like shit.”
Palmer laughs. “What’s fuckin’ new, huh?”
“Alright, alright,” Cassel said, nodding. “So it’s a decent enough plan. Our only substantial option right now…and it’s got stasis pods, so our wounded can recuperate there. That’ll free some seats. Just means you, Mitchell—and Brennan, whom I assume can pilot a Class 2 as well—will be our priority POI’s.”
“Can’t say the thought of being escorted to my own ship while pursued by alien monsters isn’t appealing,” Mitchell said. He smirked, barely discernible amid the thicket of bushy beard and grim atmosphere. “But it is. In a twisted kind o’ way.”
“Um, can we backtrack a few steps, please?” Palmer said with a raised hand. “For sake of those…less educated…souls in the room; would y’all care to explain this Kuiper thing? And how you can be so sure the Manticore will meet its end there?”
“Palmer,” Wincott said, stepping forward before anyone else could speak. “You know the asteroid belt, yeah?”
“Hey, just ‘cause I’ve never been to Andromeda doesn’t mean—”
“Alright, alright,” Wincott sighed. “So. Palmer. Think of the Kuiper belt as the asteroid one’s significantly larger big bro. With an attitude. It circles the entire solar system; on the other side of it is Neptune and, as we all know, Dingir.”
“So…we’d be cutting it close,” Palmer said, still skeptical. He shrugged, as if to disregard others’ blank stares, their incredulity not with the plan but on him.
“Palmer,” Cassel snapped. “There is…no way…that this vessel could make it through the Kuiper belt with all precautions disabled and the coordinates locked.” She then turned to the documenters, and shrugged. “Can one of you prove the worth of your field, please?”
“I think we have higher priorities right now,” Calloway voiced, speaking fast but acutely. “Such as how we’re supposed to reach the Samum from here—with all those creatures between us. But…you want some reassurance? How’s this? The smallest object in the Kuiper belt is 3,400 feet across; the Manticore is 13,000 feet long and 2,400 high. Rest assured, it will be helpless wreckage in a matter of seconds…not even the debris of this thing will survive. I’m willing to bet my life on it.”
Palmer speechlessly admitted his newfound comfort in the plan. He began nodding to himself and lip-syncing words that found no voice. After a few moments he started rechecking his weapons.
“What about the lives of Dingir?” Nakamura asked, eyebrow raised. “Or Columbus and Rüppell for that matter?”
“Or Earth,” Felina chimed.
“I can only speak for myself,” Calloway said, swallowing a lump of fear. Despite this, there was grave authenticity in his voice. “But as far as all that goes…I am willing to bet my life on it, yes. Am I willing to bet my hope on it? Absolutely.”
There was little else to be said on the matter, reassurance only ran so deep and Calloway had helped root it in everyone’s minds. However, as he mentioned a couple of minutes earlier, there were greater issues at hand.
One in particular, which Cassel now addressed.
“So, about us getting from Point A to Point B—intact,” she said with a sigh. “I think there’s no denying the obvious—we need a distraction. Something to keep the Xeno’s at bay, or at least thin the herd while we charge the corridors to reach Samum.”
“What’d you have in mind?” Brennan asked.
“Well, think about it,” Cassel said simply, spreading her arms out. “Look where we are—the Manticore’s brain, aorta, and heart, so to speak. We have control here; we even have our fingers in its eyes. Boyd, bring up the security feeds, please.”
Boyd hopped into his terminal’s seat and swiped away until a few taps of his hover-keyboard delivered various security camera feeds onto the hologram monitor. There were four screens visible at once, which he cycled through after offering everyone five seconds per glance. Given, although everyone crowded around his terminal, only Cassel and a few others could really see the screens. Felina was sure to press through the crowd to be among those.
The creatures appeared to populate the Manticore’s corridors at nearly every corner. They patrolled territorially, defying the logic that they might not be as sentient as one originally thought.
“Alright,” Cassel said, kneading his brow as she thought. “So we need to get all that are starboard, portside of the Manticore. A shift in location; distract and lure. But how?”
“I can activate the alarm systems that side of the vessel,” Nakamura stepped forward. “And also…all of the sprinkler systems. That oughtta help.”
Considering the immense size and volume of the Manticore, such a solution sounded sort of silly. With further contemplation, Felina realized—indubitably along with the others—that their plan wouldn’t get any better.
Cassel stood back, hands on hips with Spitfire long since holstered, chest out and chin up. She took a deep breath before nodding copiously and looking over at Connell. He simply nodded once to her, his gaze appearing the most content it had been for the past two hours.
“Okay, everybody, listen up,” Cassel announced. “Check your gear and weapons, double-check and triple-check it, we’re about to do this. I’m gonna want a tight group, fast feet—Madhavari, stay in that chair, we will not abandon you—and all of your senses on point. A little more than half of us are armed; pistols among the documenters, I imagine your rounds are running low. Aim high, for the face or head; don’t bother with anything else. Let’s try to keep the screaming to a minimum, since focus will be our best friend out there. I want my Remoras up front, you’re the sharks today; Brennan and Mitchell are our POI’s; if they bite the dust—sorry, gentlemen, for lack of a better phrase—then we’re all SOL. Ballard and Bomani, up front too—behind our POI’s, who will be with me and the Remoras. Ochoa and Djevojka, hold our rear. Um…Landham, you mind?”
“Not at all,” he said firmly, joining the two sentinels.
“Good. So that’ll be our six. Keep everyone within your sight at all times, an
d keep together. If all works well, we shouldn’t have much to worry about; but with this many people shuffling at once down those corridors, that’s ample vibration for the Xeno’s to pick up on. We’re bound to have company sooner or later. Best we make the utmost of our time.”
Nobody objected, nor complained. It seemed there would be plenty of time for that when they were aboard the Samum, or so their glimmering-with-hope eyes expressed.
Worst case scenario—they could complain when they were dead. The time was not now.
It appeared that everyone respected Cassel’s leadership far more than Keyes—before or after his tyranny, no matter—and with the valiant assistance of MB personnel, success felt tangible. Given, Felina knew full well—as did many of the other documenters, surely—that the members of what once was proudly called SC6 were not intrepid. Fear and incredulity permeated them probably half as much as it did the others. Their biggest advantages were their combat training and readiness, their arsenals at hand and their enthusiasm to utilize it for their survival.
“Nakamura,” Cassel signaled, and she needn’t say more.
The woman didn’t bother sitting in front of her terminal as Boyd had; standing, she swiftly accessed the hover-keyboard in conjunction with several hologram swipes.
“And,” she said, “we’re a go.”
With a tap of her forefinger, Nakamura activated every alarm system and sprinkler device portside of the Manticore.
Via the security feeds in front of Boyd, they proceeded to watch the Xeno’s—original specimens and carriers impossible to distinguish now, especially from here—react. The feeds were without audio, but that didn’t keep the sounds of nearly fifty creatures from screeching so loud that they could hear it within the bridge. Gaping jaws and heads thrown back, they seemed to react uniformly, until at last they began moving; many bounded through corridors faster than others, salivating as they loped. Some even bounced off of each other, gnashing at hindquarters and shoulders but never actually wrangling. Those that lagged behind, and there were certainly a great handful of them, appeared most reluctant to leave their spots.
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