by T. Y. Carew
Matt clenched her fists behind her back, the only outward sign his words had got to her, and gladly, one he couldn't see. It was obvious she needed to ignore the question.
“Do you have some time to talk?”
“You actually want to talk now?”
She nodded, again fighting to rise to the bait.
“Very well.” He pushed open the doors to the study, evidently expecting her to follow him into the ornately furnished room. Books lined each wall; most of them she knew hadn't been pulled out and read since the initial owner had purchased them. It was sad in some ways, but very like Simon.
He walked over to a large antique leather sofa and sat down, spreading his arms out so it was clear he expected her to remain standing in front of her.
“So, what is it you wish to say?”
“I know you're deliberately pulling funding for things I care about and am involved in. What will make you stop?” She watched his face for a reaction, but there was none. A telltale sign in and of itself. He'd expected her to say this and he wasn't shocked by the accusation in her words. It was a confirmation without directly being one.
“Are you really suggesting I would be so petty and waste so much of my time sorting out my finances if I didn't think it necessary? I have a business to run, and as always I'm running it to the best of my ability.”
“So you're struggling financially, not punishing me?” she asked, failing to keep the bite of anger from her voice and knowing at the same time he would like neither option, but he merely gave her a fake smile, somehow staying calm and cool.
“Of course I'm not struggling, but I won't deny, having you gone from my side has reduced—how should we put this delicately—people's willingness to invest in the ventures I'm involved in. I would never wish to force your cooperation,” he said as he got up and stepped closer to her, “but I won't deny, having you in my bed and on my arm when I wish it would benefit both of us.”
Matt bit down on her lip, trying to keep her anger at bay as her brain frantically tried to think of a response. Taking her silence as submission, he came even closer and ran a finger down her cheek, his eyes lingering on her torso just a moment too long. The knot in her stomach tightened as her body shook with all the different emotions running through her.
“I always made sure you were looked after before. Give me what I want and I'll take care of your problems,” he whispered in her ear, his breath hot on her cheek as his arm snaked around her waist to pull her body close to his.
Finally the dam burst and her hands raised to push him away. For a moment he gripped her, keeping her near him, until their arms met.
“Go to hell,” she said, using just enough force to make it clear she was done. With a growl she stormed from the house, flinging her body back into the transport pod and punching the buttons to get it to take her home.
If she had to, she'd find another way, one that didn't involve a playboy who thought everyone was there for his amusement and pleasure. If Matt was going to allow herself to be used to save the human race, it definitely wasn't going to be his way.
As the transport pod ground to a halt in front of her house, she noticed Xander stood by the front door, leaning there like he had all day and didn't mind waiting for her.
“We'll find another way,” he said as soon as he saw her. She felt most of the tension drop out of her shoulders instantly. He understood, and she didn't have to say a word.
“Drink?” she offered. In reply, he reached for the bag at his feet and pulled out a bottle of scotch. She laughed, feeling the rest of the tension slip from her body. It seemed her commanding officer knew her well, and she'd never felt more grateful.
Episode 14 – Darkness by Stephen P. Scott
Chapter 1
00 hours, 06 minutes, 27 seconds.
Drew’s eyes blinked open. At least it felt like they blinked open. A heavy pain weighed on his head. He felt woozy. His eyelids moved, but darkness remained. Trying to lift his hand to his face, he found that his arms were blocked. Maybe he was still sleeping, but he did not feel like he was asleep. Would he even know?
The darkness was absolute. Maybe I’m dead, he thought. No, his throbbing head attested to the fact that he was still alive. Have I gone blind? That didn’t make much sense. Why would he be blind? Have I lost my eyes?
Drew tried to sit up and could not move. He always slept on his left side and he wanted to turn over. Attempts to roll over ended in frustration. Maybe he was already on his side. It was hard to tell. There was no gravity to aid his orientation perception. He tried to focus, to concentrate. First of all, he could feel his muscles tense, but they seemed blocked from moving. If he could feel them, it seemed reasonable to assume he wasn’t paralyzed. Didn’t it?
The techie took a deep breath. He felt very light pressure on his chest, but his breathing was not restricted. Why couldn’t he move? Why was it so dark?
He could not remember anything.
Push past the fog. Push past the pain in your head. Think!
What did he remember? He was in the Lady. He was at his post. There was a distress call. The Carrier Carson!
***
The carrier needed help and the Contessa responded. Xander had pulled Our Lady out of orbit, away from her assigned mission. The brass would not like it, but under maritime law, Lady Contessa had an obligation to respond. Drew knew it was more compassion than obligation that had spurred Xander to set course for the coordinates in the message. Besides, they were the nearest ship and could beat anyone else there by at least half a day.
They went into jump and in an hour, ship-time, they came out of hyperspace within a few thousand miles of the Carson. As they closed in, they had to drop speed. The area was a vast debris cloud, the remains of Beltine fighters.
The Carson was dead in the water. They had lost all of their fighter craft in the skirmish, but somehow managed to take out the enemy ship. Their engines were fully functional, but their navigation system was down. If they’d tried to fly without their nav they would end up powering straight into a large solid object, like a planet.
The Carson’s tech crew had struggled to make repairs. They’d lacked parts, and they had lost some key personnel. That’s when Drew volunteered to help. The battered ship had linked a gangway to Contessa and Drew had crossed over, dragging a nutting truck loaded with gear and supplies.
When he saw what was left of the nav system, he’d shaken his head. It was not going to be an easy fix. Fortunately, he had some improvisational skills they just didn’t teach at the Academy anymore. He’d dug in and gone to work. It had been refreshing to have other techs to assist him. He enjoyed the team interaction—and the feeling of being in charge.
There were plenty of fried components. The smell of burnt electronics coming from the wiring had filled his senses. Lying on his back beneath the console, he’d studied the circuitry and compared it to the diagrams on his handheld display. It might have been possible to pare down the system, giving them partial navigation and patching in some of the targeting array to supplement their long-distance sensor system. He might have been able to get the Carson moving again.
There was an attack. Another Beltine ship had shown up and begun to fire on the damaged carrier. The Carson took a hard hit. The lights blinked, and the ship lurched.
***
That was the last Drew remembered before waking up.
Now what? Think. You can reason this out, Drew told himself.
A thought began forming, but Drew tried to push it away, tried not to think it. It was too awful to imagine. There were few things a spaceman dreaded more than death. One was a loss of air supply—the slow buildup of carbon dioxide, the struggle to find oxygen where there was none. It seemed a horrible way to die.
The next was to be adrift in space with little chance of rescue, waiting and hoping, knowing he might drift forever.
The last was to be buried alive.
Drew was in an old-style military escape pod and
couldn’t remember how he’d got there. The military called them “lifeboats,” but they were little more than flying coffins. They were also the last hope of survival—and a slim hope at that.
In a lifeboat all those fears were combined. The lifeboats carried a two-day supply of oxygen provided by a small tank of O2 and a re-breather system; they were mere projectiles with no propulsion or guidance, continuing to drift in whatever direction they were launched, and they had only enough room to squeeze a human body into a sandwich between layers of impact foam. The tiny pods had rescue beacons, with a limited range and short battery life—if the batteries had been properly maintained over time, which Drew pessimistically doubted.
So this is it, Drew thought. I’m adrift in space, my oxygen supply is short, and I’m buried alive in a flying coffin. Buried alive in a tiny oblong box in the infinite vastness of space.
How long has it been? he wondered. No. Can’t think about that. Just let it go. He felt himself starting to panic. His breathing was rapid. He realized he was starting to hyperventilate. Don’t do it. You’ll use up your oxygen too fast. Claustrophobia was setting in.
Drew laughed at himself. He had spent years of his life in tight quarters on a small ship with low ceilings and narrow corridors. How could a spaceman be claustrophobic? After all, he lived in a ship, and this was just another kind of ship. Did it matter that he had no control over the craft? He never did. He was no pilot; he was just a tech. As a tech, he could take readings, crunch numbers and make repairs. There was nothing for him to do in the pod but wait.
Drew took a deep breath and let it out slowly. For some reason closing his eyes helped reduce the anxiety, although dark is dark, either way. He felt less confined, and little by little he managed to relax.
***
The Contessa broke off from the Carson when the Beltine ship appeared. The crew had been preoccupied with the carrier and been caught unaware. When the klaxon sounded, they didn’t even have time to disconnect the gangway. It tore loose from the Carson’s hatch. Tyra was at the helm and she started evasive maneuvers even before Xander barked his order to do just that. The lurching ship tossed Matt and Trey from deck to bulkhead but they managed to struggle to their battle stations with only minor bumps and bruises.
Tyra had the ship arcing around for an attack when the Carson blew. The Beltine had managed simultaneous direct hits to the carrier’s rear magazine and propulsion system causing a catastrophic explosion. The blast left little of the ship. Before the massive explosion, the Beltine had been maneuvering into a boarding orientation. The shockwave tossed their ship, but their engines fired and they retreated at top non-FTL speed.
Xander stood in stunned silence, his mind refusing to grasp what his eyes had seen. At last, he managed to croak out, “Drew.”
“I’m taking evasive action to avoid flying debris, Xander,” Tyra said, her eyes fixed on the ship’s dials and indicators.
Xander could only nod his head in reply.
Trey was busy at the communications console. “Colonel. Status files indicate the Carson launched one hundred and ninety six escape pods before the blast.”
“They had a crew contingent of two hundred,” Tyra said. “The pods can be launched manually, but they only auto-launch if they’re occupied.”
Xander struggled to make his way to Trey’s position. His whole body felt tight and his arms and legs tingled. This wasn’t his first rodeo, but seeing the Carson blown all to hell had caught him off guard. There should have been more time. There should have been a fight before the devastation. And Drew. Xander tried to be the detached officer he was supposed to be, but he had grown close to his crew. Drew was like a little brother.
“Is there any chance—?” Xander broke off. He knew Drew too well. You couldn’t drag him away from a component in need of repair. He would have been too engrossed in his work and he would never have taken a lifeboat. He would have tried to make it back to the Contessa rather than climb into a pod.
“I’m checking,” Trey said. “Let me try this.” Trey did the Lentarin equivalent of wrinkling his brow. “Colonel, the communications archive shows Drew’s comm signature was well beyond the Carson before the explosion.”
“He got clear? He is in one of the pods?” Xander struggled to get his words out. The range of feelings he was experiencing made it hard to think rationally. He hated that he might be appearing weak and emotional in front of his crew.
“It appears so,” Trey said, a wide smile breaking on his face.
“And the Beltine?”
“Hive looks like it’s dead in the water. At least for now.”
***
Matt sat back in her chair, closed her eyes and let out a long, slow sigh of relief. She couldn’t help but be proud of how well she had kept it together in the crisis. She’d been bickering with Drew about something completely trivial right before he boarded the Carson. It was all she could do now to keep from falling apart when she thought he was lost beyond all hope. At least now she had hope.
“Can you get a fix on his beacon?” Xander asked.
“Unfortunately the Carson was yawing wildly when the pods launched. They’re scattered in all directions and their distress beacons are identical.”
“Should we begin recovery efforts?” Tyra asked. “We could accommodate a dozen pods in the cargo bay and over a dozen survivors in our sickbay.”
“You mean ‘rescue efforts,’” Matt interjected, her voice angry.
“Yes,” Tyra corrected. “Rescue.”
“Do what you can,” Xander said. “Put through a call to General Kelton. I’ll be in my quarters.”
***
Xander steadied himself on the corridor wall and tried not to stumble. He felt that he should have remained on the bridge and stayed in command, but he was having trouble with his watery eyes. He didn’t want the crew mistaking damp eyes for tears.
Xander had been excited by the chance to see the Carson close up. It was a Marauder Class ship, carrying sixteen recon-capable fighters and a crew of two hundred. It had a brace of heavy guns, thirty large-caliber Gatling guns capable of continuous fire, and five hundred ballistic torpedoes that could batter most old-style shields completely off-line.
When he was a kid, Xander had built a plastic model of the Phillips, the first of the Marauder Class carriers.
A vast shipyard orbiting the sun near the asteroid belt had produced a large number of ships, including the Marauders. Proximity to the asteroid foundries determined where the military installed its shipbuilding facility, and it proved highly productive. That was back when the Earth was still alive and the powers-that-be still naively believed they could defeat the Beltine with pure ship-to-ship warfare.
Since then, they had learned that close-quarters combat was the most effective way to fight the menace, even against such superior numbers. The only way most human vessels could survive an encounter with a Beltine ship was to outrun them. Carriers were big, heavy ships, not capable of speed. Without the ability to flee, the Carson had to depend on its shields and its fighters, and hope to get some lucky shots to penetrate the Beltine shields.
The Navy commissioned fifty of the Marauders, but only three remained. Make that two, Xander corrected himself. In a fight with a Beltine hive ship, the Marauders had a slim chance of survival.
At one time, Xander wished he could serve aboard the Phillips, but it was the first carrier to fall when the Beltine decided the Earth was in its way.
Chapter 2
00 hours, 18 minutes, 11 seconds
Drew tried to relax. It was not the worst situation to be in. At least there was a hope of rescue. It seemed like it had already been a couple of hours. Somebody should be along soon. He wondered about the Lady Contessa, but decided the ship and crew—his team—had to be all right. They always made it through somehow. They were the best of the best as far as he was concerned. The best of the best.
Again he wondered how he ended up in the pod. That part of his memory wa
s blank.
For a moment, Drew tried to count the seconds. He caught himself and stopped. That was a path to madness. There was an old legend about a ship’s crew in lifeboats and the things that caused their deaths. Mostly, they lost their minds. In a lifeboat, there were so many avenues to craziness, it seemed rare to make it through without succumbing to insanity. At least there was no chance of him drinking salt water, the number one cause of death among men in lifeboats. Check that off the list. A list. Making lists was a sure sign he was starting to slip. Men in lifeboats made lists. Mustn’t make lists.
Drew tried singing to himself, but discovered he didn’t know more than a few of the words to any songs. Then, after trying and giving up, he had a chorus stuck in his head that kept going round and round.
Sleep seemed like a merciful way to kill time, but Drew was fairly sure he had some kind of head wound. He could feel the ache and a stickiness behind his head. He couldn’t reach up to touch it with his fingers to find out how bad it was. Is there blood? Will I have a scar? Is it true women are attracted to men with scars?
Maybe he had a concussion. What if he did? They tell you not to sleep for at least twelve hours after a concussion. He was not sure why, but he seemed to remember that it was important. He needed to keep himself awake.
Drew searched his mind for diversions. What could he do to occupy himself? The Periodic Table. Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium— Eventually he came to oxygen and stopped. Given how little oxygen he had, it was not a good thing to think about. Maybe something else. The color code for wiring in a ship’s navigation console. That only lasted a minute. He made a mental list of every kind of meter, scanner, tester, diagnostic panel and detector he had ever worked with and then remembered he was trying not to make lists.
Shouldn’t be too much longer. Rescue ships are probably swarming into the area by now. Drew was sure an escape pod was a high priority for the brass. Think of the publicity. ‘Lost Crewman Rescued’.
