by S. J. Madill
She turned toward Tal, who was just putting on his own helmet. He made a face. "Ew," he said. "Tank air. Yuck."
Ocean was still sitting on the floor. Without a helmet, he wouldn't be able to speak to them or hear them in the airless vacuum. She made eye contact with him and gave him a thumbs-up. He raised an eyebrow before returning the gesture.
She wondered if she was missing something. Something important. But if her brain wasn't going to co-operate and tell her what it was, there wasn't much use worrying about it. "Okay," she said. "Containment field on, then open the stern ramp. Kill the lights in here."
"Got it," said Bucky, reaching for the ramp controls. "Field. Lights. Ramp."
Across the back wall of the cargo bay, a shimmering wall of blue light flickered to life. It twitched a few times, then stayed on.
The cargo bay plunged into darkness, catching Yaella by surprise. Helmet-mounted lights came on by themselves, creating cones of brilliant illumination in the dark. Dr. Munshaw's helmet light winked out, and he smacked his hand against his helmet until it came on again.
As dark as she thought the cargo bay was, the lowering ramp revealed a darkness far deeper. The 'porch lights' that lit the area around the cargo ramp did little to help; the black plates of the Bezod deck reflected the light with a shifting purple sheen. Beyond the feeble cones of the porch lights, there was only a black void.
"Shoulda brought more lights," said Tal. "Kinda gloomy out there."
"Yeah," said Yaella. She took an awkward step forward. After a couple steps she established a rhythm, walking stiff-legged in the bulky suit, her breathing loud in her ears. She crossed through the tingling sensation of the containment field, and out onto the ramp.
All external sound vanished. There was no clomping of her boots on the ramp, no shuffling or creaking of her crewmates' suits, just the loud in-and-out of her breathing. When she got down to the bottom of the ramp, she stepped out onto the Bezod-metal decking, which glinted purple in the light from her helmet.
Behind her, she saw the stern of the Blue Guardian. Its porch lights glared in her eyes, and the blue rectangle of its containment field beckoned to her. Behind the containment field, she could see Kaiser watching them.
Yaella took a look around to get her bearings. A hundred metres away, beyond the Blue Guardian, the 'hangar' ended at a rectangular patch of star-filled space. Deeper into the hangar, their lights showed the regular pattern of black metal plates. Only the hint of reflected-purple sheen gave an indication of the ceiling above.
Tal's voice crackled in her helmet. "Roomy in here."
"Yeah," said Yaella. "And dark. So, if this is part of an old Bezod ship… anyone know where the exit would be?"
"Forward," said Lanari.
"Okay," said Yaella. She turned away from the Blue Guardian. "This way, then." She set off, resuming her exaggerated stomping gait.
There were no sounds in the airless dark. No vibration, apart from the stomping of her feet. Nothing to suggest life, movement, or any respite from the all-consuming dark. She started counting her steps as she went, occasionally checking to make sure she was headed in a straight line and not getting turned around.
"Hey Doc," she said, to break the silence. "What're we looking for?"
A couple of loud pops from the speakers in her helmet, then she heard the Doctor speaking mid-sentence. "…know it when I see it."
"D'you think this thing has a cockpit or a bridge or something?"
More clicks and pops. "…probably has a 'middle' somewhere, so yes. I'd be surprised if it didn't."
"So we're headed to the middle of this thing? This is kilometres long. It could take ages."
Another click. "…have somewhere else you needed to be today?"
Yaella sighed before keying her microphone. "Point taken."
The light from her helmet illuminated a vertical surface in front of her: a bulkhead, made of the same black Bezod metal. The bulkhead stretched across their path and up over their heads, reflecting their lights with a purple sheen. "Found the wall," she said, as she stomped closer.
The swaying lights from the team's helmets cast circles of light on the wall.
"Over here, Captain" said the Handmaiden. "To your right."
Five circles of light swung to the right, converging on a dark gap in the bulkhead. Yaella headed toward it.
Before she stepped through the opening, she turned and looked back. Beyond the crew, and the glare of their lights, she could see the distant shape of the Blue Guardian. Tal stepped in front of her, and gave a thumbs-up. In his mask, she could see his look of forced optimism. You too, huh? "C'mon," she said, as bravely as she could muster. "Let's go find the control room."
* * *
According to her suit's wrist display it had only been five minutes, but it felt like hours. After a dozen metres, the black metal of the Bezod corridor had abruptly ended. At a seam, the corridor continued in a different design: the walls and deck were bright green, made of small crystalline cubes. The crystals formed a perfect grid pattern, each cube offset from its neighbours. The irregular surface made walking difficult, and the countless green crystals played tricks with the light from their helmets. Reflected light bounced around the green corridor, creating sparkling flashes and jittering, blocky shadows. At first she thought it another trick of the light, but occasionally some of the cubes moved slightly, sliding further in or out from the wall or floor. One moved under her foot when she stepped on it, shifting upward and pushing against the bottom of her boot.
"Doc?" she said to distract herself. "What sort of ship is this from? Who makes this? Is this Hasanadali?"
The silence went on longer than she expected. When he spoke, the Doctor's voice was distant. "I have no idea," he said. "None at all."
Another seam cut across the end of the corridor; the green cubes gave way to a fiery red chamber. Yaella stepped inside.
It was like the inside of a temple, lit with a lurid red glow. The walls leaned inward, merging at a peak far above. Crimson metal spikes ran up the walls like spears; their tips glowed bright red as if heated in a forge. The floor underfoot pulsated with red light, and she felt a vibration through her feet.
"Wow," said Tal. "So this is where the sacrifices happen, right?"
Bucky sounded tense. "I dunno, Tal. What if we're the sacrifices?"
"If we are," said Tal, "their elder god will be very disappointed…"
Yaella sighed. "Okay, you two."
Crossing the floor made Yaella uneasy: strange stains crusted the glowing metal of the floor, like something had spilled or been splashed. The spear-like spikes on the walls pulsated, their fiery light rippling from one end of the hall to the other. Fifty metres ahead, the hall ended in a riveted steel wall that cut across the hall on an angle, like a giant knife had sliced through the room.
"Doc?" she asked.
"No idea."
Yeah. Of course not. She checked the display on her wrist. The leak in her suit was a little worse, but there was still over an hour of air left. More than enough to get back to the Blue Guardian.
On her display, another indicator caught her eye. "Hey," she said. "It says there's a bit of atmosphere here. Anyone else seeing it?"
Helmets swung down to look at wrist displays. "Yup," said Bucky. "Two percent atmosphere, it says."
"Nitrogen-oxygen," said Dr. Munshaw. "Promising."
"Great," said Yaella. She keyed off her microphone, and started moving again. Still feel like a sacrifice, though.
Walking the length of the glowing red hall was like proceeding up the aisle of some dark temple, all the way to the steel wall that sliced through the far end. The steel was pitted and scorched, but parts of it still shone, reflecting the red glow. As she approached, she could see faded markings painted on the riveted steel: black-and-yellow safety stripes, and the remains of stencilled lettering. Only traces remained of a logo, or the bottom half of one, up where the steel hull disappeared into the ceiling. The word 'Mi
ning' was visible, though not the word after it.
The Doctor's voice came into her ears. "Earth-built."
"Uh huh." She didn't try to hide the sarcasm in her voice. "Sharp catch, Doc."
"You know," said Tal. "Somewhere, there are people wondering what happened to their loves ones on this ship."
"Yeah," said Yaella. From the red room into the steel Earth ship, the corridor continued through a precisely-cut gap in the hull. "That's probably true about all these bits of ships. Divines only know where they're from. Could be people all over the galaxy wondering what happened to their friends." Putting a hand on the steel hull, she stepped inside.
It was like someone had used a laser cutter to slice through. The next five metres of corridor went right through the Earth ship on an angle, a seamless sheet of metal decking stretching through it. Above and below them, the compartments of the Earth ship were on an angle. First the double outer hull, then the crew quarters: bunks and personal lockers, all intact save for where they'd been sliced by whatever carved this corridor through the ship. The bunks still had blankets on the mattresses; bedding and lockers and clothes, even a paper book, were all sliced through.
The Earth-ship's compartment ended as abruptly as it started: at a vertical wall of metal, slick with a film of oil. The corridor continued forward: instead of stretching through the middle of open compartments, it was bored through a solid mass of the oily metal.
Yaella checked her wrist console again. "Atmosphere's getting thicker," she said. Her suit leak was getting worse; she hoped Tal brought the tape with him.
"I think we're almost there," said the Doctor.
"Oh?" said Yaella. "Based on what?"
"A hunch."
She didn't look at him; she just knew he'd have that punchable smile again. 'Difficult to work with', she'd been told. She'd assumed it meant argumentative, but maybe it just meant 'endlessly irritating'.
The Doctor's hunch was right, though; after only thirty metres of corridor bored through the oily metal, the passage opened into a cavernous room.
Stepping into the room, a vast round tunnel yawned in front of her. Ten metres tall and made from metre-thick segments, the tunnel stretched far into the distance.
She heard a click, and turned to look.
Dr. Munshaw had taken off his helmet, and he wrinkled his nose as he took deep, regular breaths.
"Doc?," she said. "Really?"
He smiled at her, and gave her the thumbs-up.
She shook her head. Nsal 'neth. She unlatched her helmet and twisted it off.
The air was shockingly cold; it smelled clean, almost antiseptic. "Divines, Doc. Maybe you should've told us—"
He waved her off. "Don't sweat it, Captain. It's all good." He looked up at the massive tunnel. "I think we're here."
"Where's 'here'?" she asked. The others were removing their helmets as well, taking tentative breaths of the air.
"I bet," said the Doctor, "this is the bridge, or cockpit, or whatever."
"Okay," Yaella said slowly. "If you're sure. I mean, we're a couple hundred metres inside a giant alien ship. What do we do with it? What's your plan?"
"We wake it up."
A shiver ran down her spine. "Wait, hold on…" She saw Tal and Bucky take a step back. "Are you sure we want to do that? Won't it think we're intruders or something?"
"Nah," said the Doctor, shaking his head. He looked around, like he was searching for something in particular. There was only the series of massive rings that disappeared into the darkness. No other part of the room stood out.
"I dunno," said Bucky. "I, uh, think maybe we're pushing our luck here."
"It's fine," said the Doctor.
"Look," said Yaella. Why don't you just get your scans or pictures or whatever, and—"
The Doctor turned to face into the tunnel. "Hey!" he shouted. The sound reverberated, returning in a fading series of distorted echoes.
"Really? Damn it, Doc! Stop that! We can't just—"
At the far end of the tunnel, a new light came on.
Her mind went blank. "Uh…"
Far away, at the distant end of the tunnel, one of the rings lit up with sky-blue light. The next ring lit up, then the next. A wave of lights rushed up the tunnel toward them, as hundreds of rings lit up in order.
Oh, shit.
Yaella shielded her eyes. In a few seconds, the wave of light made it all the way to their end: a brilliant blue glare like a summer's day. Then, after a long moment, the tunnel's rings began to move. Alternating rings turned in opposite directions; barely perceptible at first, but quickly gathering speed.
"Nsal 'neth," breathed Yaella. "Maybe you shouldn't have done that."
The rings turned faster and faster, and the lights in the tunnel shimmered in dizzying patterns.
Squinting in the brilliant blue glow, the Doctor turned to her. His smirk was gone, replaced by a sincere-looking smile. "We're good. Trust me."
"Doc," she warned. "I don't…"
A voice filled the tunnel: it was loud, and female, and strangely familiar: the default voice of an ordinary datapad. A voice she'd heard her entire life, from datapads everywhere. The voice started as a slow drawl, speeding up as it formed two words. "Hello, Dillon."
As Yaella stared, Dr. Munshaw's smile widened. "Hello, Niner. It's been a while."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The bridge of a Palani dreadnought offered a breathtaking view. Impolite humans called it the 'snow globe': a transparent composite globe, fifty metres across, sunk into the upper hull of the ship.
From the admiral's level, she could see down to the command bridge, and to the crew stations below that. A hundred crew once worked there, operating the massive ship's many complex systems. But a combination of technological advancement and a dwindling population had shrunk the bridge crew down to fifteen specialists.
The view looking down was nothing compared to the view looking out. Beyond the dome, the massive white hull of the Kaha Ranila stretched into the distance. Off to the right was the ship's sister, the Kaha Terra and, beyond that, the crippled Kaha Devada. The dreadnoughts were silent and serene, like gleaming white sword blades suspended in the dark.
Three-ship formations of frigates moved slowly around the dreadnoughts, like pilot fish around whales. A hundred frigates were already at the rendezvous point, and more were on their way. Added to their number were the support vessels and shuttles. A fleet 'at anchor' was far from tranquil; it was an endless buzz of activity, a frenetic hive of choreographed movement.
Zura stood in silence, watching the fleet. Her fleet, handed to her by default. Assembled in haste, but not to repel some invader or to punish some upstart race. For the first time in her life, she was going to lead a fleet to kill Palani.
How many centuries had they looked down on the human tribes and their vulgar squabbling? A squabble would be preferable to what was to come.
She watched as a trio of frigates flew overhead. Under her uniform coat, the kinetic bandage rattled, adjusting to her movement. One of the medical armbands chimed as it administered something; she imagined she could feel the medication being forced into her veins. The fatigue she'd been feeling faded away again.
When she tried to take a deep breath, she couldn't; the clicking bandage fought against her. Protecting her, she'd been told.
How did it come to this? Trapped in a failing body, preparing to kill her own people. Surely she had lived too long, to see such a day. Two decades ago, the last battlefleet had stood down. They said there'd been no further need for an officer of Mahasa rank. She'd been offered comfortable retirement, like the other Mahasas before her. They said she could live out her remaining years in comfort, with the honour and prestige she'd earned through a lifetime of service. They said she'd be celebrated by the people. They'd said many things.
What they never mentioned was what happened after the celebrations ended. The average life span of a Mahasa after retirement was three years. She knew some of
them well enough to know what had happened: they'd retired to nothing. Some died of disease, or misadventure brought about by boredom, but most didn't. Mahasa Urda — one of her peers, and a good man — had retired to a quaint country cottage and taken up learning to play the laisa, of all things. After two years of diligent study, he'd entered the local village's laisa festival and won first place. The next day, he'd climbed into his shuttle and flown into the sun.
The week after Urda's memorial, she'd been offered the position of sector governor in the far-off Outer Frontier Territories. It wasn't much, but it was a posting nonetheless. It let her continue the lifelong routines of military life, and let her feel useful. Most importantly, it kept her safe from retirement for a while longer. Then, a few years later, the Pentarchs had established a new human colony on New Fraser. Moving there had brought change to her life: first Pari, then Yaella. It had taken her a long time to understand the gift those two gave her: a reason to keep going, when she needed it the most. Without them, would she have ended like Urda? A tune on the laisa, then straight into the next sunrise?
Zura heard footsteps approaching from behind her. Taking a breath — fighting against the bandage to do so — she stood up straight. Chin up, shoulders back. Ignoring the clattering noise of the bandage and the dull pain that burned in her midsection. Already, the fatigue was slowly returning.
She knew Colonel Mwangi by his gait. He came to a halt behind her. "Mahasa."
Setting her jaw against the pain, Zura slowly turned around. Black-armoured Irasa was close beside her; the giant never more than an arm's length from her side since she'd woken up.
Zura met Mwangi's eyes. "Colonel?"
A smart bow. "Mahasa, the conference is ready."
"Very well, Colonel. Lead the way."
Her uneven footsteps — her left leg was determined to drag — joined with those of Mwangi in front and Irasa beside her, as she headed toward the back of the bridge. Outside the dome, the dance of frigates and support vessels continued. She could see it: slowly, almost imperceptibly, the energy was changing. The fleet knew what was coming. And with her in command, they knew it wouldn't be long before it started.