Prison Ship

by Michael Bowers

  “May we be armed with anything more than stun guns?” Richards asked.

  “Not at this time.”

  The security chief frowned as he and his assistants returned to their seats.

  The two remaining men at the table showed no enthusiasm as they announced themselves.

  “Julio Sanchez, pilot.”

  “Mack Palmer, pilot.”

  “Rick Mason, the best pilot,” came a shout from the opposite end of the table.

  The two stared at Mason, who smiled triumphantly.

  Since all the men at the table had introduced themselves, Steiner turned toward Tramer. It remained silent.

  “Tramer is our temporary weapons officer,” Steiner said. “It will be leaving us at Tycus.”

  The cyborg didn’t react in the slightest.

  “I understand my predecessor had many rules,” Steiner said, casually walking around the table to escape the blue glare from the cyborg. “I have only one—stay alive. To do that, we must function as a team. Anyone not willing to do so will end up in the ship’s brig.” He purposely glanced over at Tramer. It was a meaningless threat. A detention cell probably couldn’t hold it.

  While he outlined their upcoming raids, he found himself constantly reminded of Tramer’s presence. The sensor orb glistened in the pots hanging above the adjoining kitchen. When he looked at the floor, he saw a pale blue glow bordering his shadow on the floor.

  He passed out lists, which divided the forty-eight-member crew into three groups of sixteen and designated them by a color code, RED, BLUE, and GREEN. According to his schedule, each crewman would spend eight hours a day in ship operations, followed by another eight of weapons training.

  The stench of the cyborg grew more prominent in the room as each moment passed. Steiner began to taste it in his mouth.

  “From now on, the bar will be restricted,” Steiner said. Bricket’s mouth dropped open. “For each successfully completed work shift, everyone will be awarded time to use it. This will give the crew an extra incentive to perform.”

  “You’ll put me out of business with rules like that,” Bricket said.

  “Your money would be worthless if we don’t survive the first mission. Any other questions?”

  No one spoke.

  “All stations, report ready at 0930. RED shift leads out. You’re dismissed.”

  Steiner watched the men leave. Tramer stared at him for a long, uneasy moment, then marched out through the door.

  “Ironhand—I mean, Captain,” Mason said. “If I were you, I would try to make friends with Gruesome, not anger the thing.”

  The mutilated bodies of the cyborg’s two former victims flashed into Steiner’s mind, but he quickly discarded them. “There’s a half hour left before the launch,” Steiner said, changing the subject. “Would you check on Sam before you head to the command center?”

  “Sure,” Mason replied, heading toward the door.

  Steiner sat alone in the spacious sanctum, enjoying a moment of silence. He reached into his jacket and pulled out Mary’s holocard. When he activated it, her face flickered to life before him. Green eyes sparkled under waves of dark hair.

  “I may be joining you soon,” he whispered to her.

  STEINER waited in his custom-made chair as each of the RED shift reported to the command center for duty. While he watched them prepare their posts, he wondered which of them might be planning his demise. Heavy footsteps warned him of Tramer’s entering and moving to the weapons console. Steiner didn’t look back at it. The sight of it disgusted him.

  “Captain, all stations have reported in, except for the engine room,” Tramer announced.

  The mechanical hardness of the voice grated on Steiner’s nerves. He refused to acknowledge the cyborg’s report.

  Down at the helm, Simmons, the navigator, was showing Mason what course had been plotted. Ever since Mason had entered the center, he had been so busy that he hadn’t found time to talk. Steiner wanted to ask where Sam was but refrained.

  To get his mind off the boy, Steiner stepped up onto the raised platform behind him. He passed by Tramer at the weapons console and stopped at the security station against the back wall. The monitors displayed several scenes of the crew hurrying with last-minute preparations. One view depicted three engineers searching along the cylindrical reactors that stretched the length of a massive chamber.

  “Daniels hasn’t finished with his inspection,” Tramer said.

  The deck vibrated several times. Miniature motors whined closer. Steiner looked up at the lifeless face looming over him. He fought back the urge to shrink away.

  “He estimates a fifteen-minute delay,” Tramer added.

  “Thank you,” Steiner replied with a forced smile. “I’ll wait in my conference room.”

  When he retreated down the stairwell into his private sanctuary, the nameplate on the door reminded him of his predecessor’s fate and perhaps his own. Footsteps followed behind him. He whirled about, half-expecting to see Tramer. Instead, it was Mason.

  “Have you seen the instruments I have to work with? I’ve had better on most of the freighters I used to operate. Isn’t this supposed to be a warship? A senior citizen’s mobility unit is better equipped.”

  Steiner smiled. Mason’s colorful exaggerations always cheered him up, even when they weren’t intended to. “This, coming from the man who bragged he could master anything that flew.”

  “I can fly it,” Mason replied. “But it’s going to be a real long trip. Most ships are equipped with third-generation phase drives. This bucket has the original model. It’ll take weeks to get to the border.”

  “Two weeks,” Steiner corrected.

  “Whatever.” Mason glanced up the stairwell, then pressed the keypad to close the door. “I don’t like being up there that long with Gruesome. He makes me nervous—like he’s always watching me. And, his body smells like it’s decomposing.”

  “We’ve got to work with it for now. Did you find Sam?”

  “He’s in the bar, chatting with some of the off-duty men. He’s a smart kid. He’ll be fine.”

  Steiner had already suspected that, but it set his mind at ease to hear confirmation.

  The ship shuddered, then mellowed into a slight drone.

  “The engines are active,” Mason said.

  “Captain,” Tramer’s voice erupted from the intercom, “Daniels reports that all the vital systems are clear of tampering.”

  Steiner touched a keypad on the desk. “I’m on my way.” After closing the channel, he found Mason grinning at him.

  “I see I’m not the only one that shakes whenever that thing speaks,” the pilot said. “It’s almost like death calling your name, isn’t it?”

  Without a reply, Steiner made his way to the door. After climbing up to the center, he slid into his command chair, while Mason took his place at the helm.

  “Earthstation, this is Captain Steiner, requesting departure instructions.”

  “P.A.V.,” the controller responded, “you are cleared for launch on path seven.

  “Take us out, Mr. Mason,” Steiner said.

  “My pleasure,” Mason replied as he manipulated their vessel forward.

  The low grinding of metal vibrated from the hull. An alarm rang out.

  “Collision alert,” the controller shouted. “P.A.V., adjust your course immediately.”

  Mason flushed as he worked frantically to correct his error. After the ship backed away from the side of the dock, one of the mooring clamps could be seen bent up against the superstructure.

  Steiner’s faith in the smuggler’s skill wavered for a moment, then strengthened when the P.A.V. glided gracefully away from the station. Their ship never deviated from its flight path again—not even by a meter.

  Sunlight pierced through one of the side viewports, maneuvering the shadows around the room as the P.A.V. banked on its course. Other vessels passed by, arriving on neighboring paths. A few minutes later, they had cleared all other traf
fic. The starry expanse stretched out forever, waiting to accept them.

  “Increasing to top velocity,” Mason said.

  The Earth shrank away in the rear viewport until it was a speck lost in the vast field of space.

  “Phase,” Steiner commanded.

  His stomach sank as the universe around them faded into the darkness of interdimensional travel.

  CHAPTER 7

  WITH his AT-7 holstered at his side, ready to be drawn at the slightest provocation, Steiner walked through the P.A.V., inspecting the performance of his crew. His muscles ached from the constant tension he exerted on them to keep himself ready to defend against an attack. At any moment, someone might jump out at him from one of the open doorways or shadowy corners.

  During the six hours since the launch, he’d noticed that the other convicts were always silent in his presence; some even stared until he left. He sensed they were afraid of him. He liked that. It might keep him alive longer.

  He fastened another button on his jacket. Why was he so cold all the time? An hour earlier, he had checked the environmental controls just to make sure the temperature gauge was set for the mid seventies. Perhaps it was malfunctioning, too. He shivered. The lifeless gray surroundings strengthened the chill that gripped him. Even as he passed by workmen repairing the seared walls, it couldn’t melt his utter despair. He knew he was probably only there to die.

  When he ascended a stairway to the second level of the crew quarters, he caught a glimpse of someone following far behind him. Impulsively, his hand went to the handle of his pistol.

  No, he scolded himself, easing his fingers off the weapon. Paranoia might be stealing his judgment away. He would first test his suspicion.

  He entered one of the ladder wells and climbed down to the lower decks, where the landing bay and armory were located. Rarely did anyone go down there.

  After walking a short distance through a vacant passageway, he pretended to stop in order to use Suzanne’s computer pad. While he faked pressing its keypads, he ventured a quick glance behind him. The straggler wasn’t there. Just as relief began to flood through him, his peripheral vision caught a face peeking around a corner in the direction from which he had just come.

  There was no mistake about it this time.

  He continued on as if he hadn’t noticed the man, picking up his pace just enough to get out of visual range. When the corridor curved slightly, he slipped into a niche in the bulkhead. He pressed himself into it, feeling the icy touch of metal against the back of his head. His breathing quickened.

  Less than a minute passed before he heard the scuffle of footsteps. He lifted his AT-7 from its holster and sprang from his hiding place. His pistol muzzle was pointed at—

  Sam?

  Steiner lowered his gun, paralyzed by the fear that he might have shot the boy. Sam must have been the one trailing him all along. Steiner checked to make sure no one else was in sight, then thrust Sam into the concealment of the niche.

  “What do you think you’re doing by following me?” He whispered what he wanted to scream. “I could have killed you.”

  “I’m watching your back,” Sam answered.

  “I don’t need your protection.” Steiner realized his voice had risen too loud. A deep breath calmed him enough to continue. “I don’t care what happens to me, but I want to make sure you’re safe. If you’re seen with me, it could put you in jeopardy.”

  “You saved me from Al,” Sam replied. “I owe you.”

  “I didn’t bring you along so that you can repay me.”

  “That’s the only reason I came.”

  Steiner sighed. From past experience, he knew it was useless to try to change the boy’s convictions about anything. If Sam was determined to protect him, then nothing would keep him from doing so. However, there was a chance that his mission could be modified.

  “Sam, if you truly want to help me, then you must pretend you don’t know me.” When the boy tried to speak, Steiner covered his mouth. “Hear me out first.” He waited for a nod before he removed his hand.

  Sam’s eyes sparkled with the fire of determination, yet he remained still.

  “Blend in with the other convicts,” Steiner told him. “Act like them. Get them to trust you. Then, you can function as my eyes and ears for any approaching danger.”

  The boy’s gaze softened. “I’ll agree if you watch your back better.”

  “I spotted you, didn’t I?”

  “After being followed halfway across the ship. If I had a weapon, I could have—”

  Sam deflected Steiner’s hand as it came up to silence him again. The memories of their defense-training matches at Atwood came back to Steiner. He twisted the boy’s arms together. Sam fought vainly to release himself, but he had never been a match for Steiner physically. A grin cracked the boy’s strained face as his strength gave out.

  “I’ll beat you someday,” he said between gasps for breath.

  Steiner couldn’t prevent himself from chuckling softly. “But not today, amigo. Are we clear on your role?”

  “How can I warn you if I can’t be seen with you?”

  “Use Mason as a messenger.”

  When Sam nodded, Steiner freed his arms.

  “Be sure to keep one eye behind you,” the boy said.

  “I will. Now, get out of here.”

  Sam punched him in the arm lightly, smiled, then slipped out of the niche.

  Steiner hated to think how much he would miss the teenager’s company.

  THE next two days passed as the first, long and filled with anxiety. Steiner didn’t allow himself to sleep even for a few hours. Above all else, he had to maintain an unpredictable schedule, which would make it difficult for anyone trying to kill him.

  Nobody had tried yet.

  The effects from lack of sleep finally caught up with him as he patrolled through the firing range. Inside the darkened arena, his vision blurred worse than it had all day. When he closed his eyes to allow them to adjust, the haze building in his head seemed to ease. After a few seconds, he opened them, determined not to be tempted to sleep again.

  He toured behind the BLUE team as they stood in a line, armed with fake assault rifles, shooting light rays at targets on a far wall. The camera in the back corner of the room panned along with Steiner. He could feel Tramer’s stare boring into him. Since the beginning of the voyage, the cyborg had never left the command center. It kept watch over the entire ship through the security monitors.

  Steiner stopped behind one of the gunners, James Grant, impressed by the accuracy of his shots. The man might be the best marksman they had. As Steiner watched, the flashes on the target began to blur together into a fuzzy, twinkling star. All the surrounding sights and noises faded out. The sparkling orb grew in radiance until it was all he could see. His mind floated into its grasp.

  Mary looked up into his eyes, sharing a secret smile with him before placing the wedding band on his finger. Her eyes watered as the minister pronounced them husband and wife. They kissed.

  A shout pierced his ears.

  Steiner cried out as his attention snapped back to the range. James Grant froze in the midst of what seemed to be a celebration dance. His target blinked with the symbol for a perfect score.

  Grant and the men around him stared at Steiner, startled by his sudden outburst. An uneasy moment passed as Steiner tried to think of a way to rationalize his odd behavior. His mind was too clouded by weariness to be creative.

  “Continue with the next set.” Tramer’s voice echoed throughout the arena.

  At the command of their leader, Grant and the rest of the BLUE shift began firing at the targets once again.

  When Steiner looked up into the rear corner, he found the camera still aimed at him. He tried to swallow the shame welling up in his throat.

  Faint snickers sounded from the trainees as he left the range. Steiner was disappointed with himself. The incident would be all over the ship within a few hours. It might cause the crew t
o lose their fear of him.

  As he continued with his rounds, he found that his mind strayed more often. It became a struggle to focus his attention. Shadows played at the corners of his vision, causing him to flinch for no reason. Maybe he needed some food? He stopped by the cafeteria, got a meal, and took it to his cabin. He refused to eat in view of the convicts since it would be a sign of his own mortality. They needed to believe him to be an indestructible man, requiring no nourishment or rest. His mistake earlier might have tarnished that image. He couldn’t afford any more displays of weakness. Not ever.

  The synthesized entrées tasted bland, but at least they were nourishing. He closed his eyes momentarily and found it difficult to open them again. His muscles ached with fatigue. He had to have rest, even if it was just a brief nap. He couldn’t risk being asleep for long, since he still had to maintain his hourly rounds. He stretched out on the cot, his body welcoming the softness of the mattress.

  For reassurance, he dragged out the weapons that he had put under the cot during his tour with Suzanne. He positioned the satchel of grenades next to him on the mattress, then propped the blast shield up against the bed frame, directly in front of his body.

  Satisfied, he surrendered himself into the tender grasp of his pillow and let his thoughts go.

  It wasn’t long before sleep embraced him, a dreamy haze of images and colors, swirling around in giant whirlpools. Peace replaced all worries. He wanted to stay there forever.

  An irritating sound echoed throughout the rainbowlike landscapes. He recognized it as the call of pain and suffering. When he tried to flee from it, his legs wouldn’t move. The noise grew in intensity until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

  When he awoke, he found his portable comlink flashing, its message alarm beeping. He brought the device up to his face. “Steiner here,” he said.

  “Captain,” the synthesized voice of Tramer replied, “we have a U.S.S. ship requesting transmission of your password.”

  “How long have they been waiting?”

  “Nearly five minutes. They have forced us to dephase into normal space and armed their weapons.”