by M. R. Forbes
They didn't cross paths with any of the other crew on the way, though they did pass one hatch that was open a couple of inches at the bottom. Mitchell thought he saw the shadow of a face kneeling against the crack, watching them go by. Either the ship was running a skeleton crew, or none of the other workers wanted to get involved with this business.
They reached the end of the corridor. A hatch opened to a lift, and they stepped in. Anderson continued to keep the gun leveled at Mitchell, and he stared at him as if daring him to try something. Mitchell had come across his type before. Guys like that were usually only tough until the trouble started and things got intense.
Mitchell thought about trying to make small talk during the ride up but decided against it. He had a feeling it would only result in another threat from Anderson, or maybe the man would stick his pistol up his nose. There was no point in starting trouble.
The lift stopped and the hatch opened, leading directly out onto the bridge. It was a cluttered, dirty affair, the screens marred with dust and grease, and food trays stacked on one of the consoles. A pile of dirty clothes lay in the corner, and Mitchell noticed with surprise that the clear carbonate that protected them from the vacuum of space had a noticeable crack in it.
There was a captain's chair in the center of the bridge, a ratty thing with wires hanging off the back and tears in the surface that allowed the gel innards to ooze out. A narrow, female hand with long fingers tapped a rhythmic cadence on one of the arms.
Millie waited until Anderson was standing right behind the chair before getting to her feet.
She was younger than Mitchell expected. She was also prettier than he expected. Not gorgeous, not a Tamara King type, but possessing a simple, natural beauty that was teased out even more by the contrast of her appearance against that of the ship.
She was wearing an Alliance Navy uniform, freshly cleaned and pressed, crisp and tucked in all the proper places. Her face was cool and neutral, her blue eyes curious, her auburn hair wrapped in a bun and tucked under a perfectly shaped cap. Her nails were manicured, painted, and flawless, as was her posture.
"Lieutenant Anderson," she said. The Lieutenant stood at attention, having lowered the weapon in the Captain's presence. "I see you brought me a gift."
Cormac started to giggle, until Millie's eyes found him.
"Captain Mitchell Williams, ma'am," Mitchell said. "Thank you for hauling me in."
She gave the slightest nod. She either hadn't noticed his smell or was doing a great job of ignoring it. "Captain Mildred Narayan. No offense, Captain, but we thought we were hauling in a derelict S-17 that had been floating through space for entirely too long. That is, after we thought we would be mining ore from the rock below us. Your rescue is a fortunate coincidence for you."
"Very fortunate."
"Tell me, Captain. How did you wind up out in the middle of nowhere in an S-17? If I remember correctly, that particular fighter has a twenty-hour air supply on board."
"Twenty-eight if you breathe slowly enough," Mitchell said. "I was in hyperspace. Headed for the Rim."
He heard Ilanka gasp behind him.
"An experimental fighter?" Millie asked.
"I don't know."
She started tapping her fingers on the back of the chair. "Captain, I don't want to sound crass, but your situation at the moment is very tentative. You see, that S-17 of yours is valuable to us. More so if it's experimental, or if it's been modified in any way. The problem is, we can't claim it as salvage as long as someone was found inside it, still breathing." She glanced at Anderson. "Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," Mitchell said. "You can have the ship if you promise to take me to the Rim." Or at least he would let her think she could have the ship, and buy himself some time.
"Why do you want to get to the Rim so badly?" she asked.
"I'm trying to get away."
"From what? You're the most famous soldier in the galaxy."
He was surprised. He hadn't thought she knew who he was. "Exactly." He paused, trying to decide what to say next. "And you're not a soldier at all anymore, are you? Not to be out here, mining ore from planetoids. I mean, you're dressing the part but-"
Cormac coughed behind him. Millie's face was turning red, her jaw tight with anger. Her fingers stopped tapping, her hand clenching the back of the chair instead. Mitchell noticed that her fingers sank right through it, past the cushioning to the metal frame.
"That's none of your concern. Let's be clear, Mitchell. I have the power. I have the control. You tell me what I want to know, and maybe I won't throw you out of the airlock."
He had touched a nerve, telling her they weren't military. There was something strange about this Captain and her ship. He glanced back at Ilanka and Cormac. He might get those two to talk to him if he survived long enough.
"I didn't take the Shot Heard 'Round the Universe," he said. "The brass propped me up to help rally the Alliance and boost recruitment efforts. They wanted to create a celebrity of their own, a superstar that would make war look glamorous. The media found out about the lie, and now they're pinning the whole thing on me. They have orders to kill me on sight."
"What?" Cormac said.
"You didn't take the Shot?" Ilanka added.
Mitchell stared at Millie. "No. I'm not a hero. It was my wingmate, Ella, who sacrificed herself to destroy the Federation dreadnought. The Alliance made me take credit for it."
The color had drained from her face, leaving it a porcelain white. She kept staring at him, leaving a thick silence hanging in the air. He waited for her to speak. To order him to the airlock, or to ask Anderson to shoot him and be done with it. He wondered if he should have been so honest. She would have heard eventually, and if he lied and they kept him around... then what?
"I need to get to the Rim, Captain," he said. "I need to get away from the Alliance. To disappear. I'll do whatever it takes to get there. You want the ship, it's yours. It's fair payment. Nobody needs to know you ever saw me."
She still didn't speak. He could almost see her mind working behind her eyes, calculating her next move.
"You're in it for the salvage, right? That fighter is more than what it looks like. The ordinance it's packing could blow this bucket apart with one shot."
She didn't react to his comments. Finally, her hand came away from the chair. The frame was bent beneath it, mangled by the force of her discontent. A bionic. "Anderson, take him to the head and let him clean up, and then bring him to the storeroom on E-Deck. Cormac, go and get basics from Lopez, and bring them down."
Mitchell hadn't realized he was holding his breath. He let it go, relieved that she wasn't going to kill him just yet.
"Yes, ma'am," Cormac said. He backed away from them and vanished in the lift.
"I could take your ship, Captain," she said. "I don't need your permission, and nobody would ever know you had been here if I did. That isn't why I'm sparing you." She reached out, putting her bionic hand against his cheek. He could feel the slight vibration of the synthetic fibers beneath the layer of real skin and poly-alloy. "You want to go to the Rim? I think I might have another way you can pay for passage there."
24
Anderson led Mitchell off the bridge, down the lift to B-Deck. These were the ship's berthing quarters, small rooms sectioned off from a long, straight, narrow corridor, many with two-tiered bunks embedded into their walls, and even more of them obviously not in use. Judging by the lived-in look of the quarters, Mitchell guessed there were fifty to sixty people on the salvage ship at most.
"It must be tough, running a mining op with so few hands," Mitchell said.
"That's none of your business," Anderson said. He was walking behind him, keeping the gun pressed against his back. Mitchell had no fear that the man would use it, not after Millie had decided to keep him alive. It seemed the old Marine just felt better holding it.
"I did a two-month tour guarding a military uranium mining operation. The rock they were working
was bigger, but they must have had three hundred souls on the job and half that again in bots."
"I said it's none of your business."
There was a hatch near the middle of the berths. It slid open at their approach, revealing a larger room of toilets and secondary half-wall with a shower behind it. A woman was already in it, washing off her hair amid a spray of water and steam.
"Water?" Mitchell asked. Other than posh retro-hotels, he didn't think anyone still used it to clean themselves.
"It's more effective at removing small particles. It also uses less overall system power and is easier to recycle. We don't have unlimited access to heavy fuel. If you're going to be spending a lot of time in the Rim, you'll want to get used to it. Strip and clean yourself up. Towels are over there. You can wear one down to E-Deck."
Mitchell shrugged himself out of the flight suit, thankful to be rid of it. He slid off his underwear and circled around the half-wall.
The woman turned to face him as she ran her hands through long, dark hair. She had dark skin and almond eyes, a lean figure with large breasts and wide hips.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He'd been in the service for too long to be bothered by communal anything. There was no consideration of gender in the military. You weren't a man or a woman there. You didn't have a sex at all. You were a warrior, a fighter, a tool.
"My name is Mitchell. I was picked up an hour or so ago." He approached one of the spouts. It went on as soon as he stepped under it, blasting him with water that was hot enough to scald. He gritted through it.
"You're the damn fool they found floating out in the middle of nowhere?" She walked over to him and put out her hand. "Ensign Wanda Briggs, Navigations."
Mitchell took her hand. "Good to meet you."
She laughed. "Have you met the Captain yet?" She glanced over to where Anderson was standing, his arms folded, his posture rigid. "I guess you have. You must be important."
"Why do you say that?"
"She didn't kill you." She reached over to a cutout in the wall and handed him a bar of soap.
"Does she kill a lot of people?" Mitchell asked.
"Nah. I'm just messing with you." She laughed again. "I mean, she's done some dirty business, but that's the name of the game, right?" She moved closer to him, positioning herself under his spray. "Don't get the wrong idea. Just getting some hot water."
"Dirty business. I assume you aren't talking about mining."
"Yeah, sure I am, sweetie." She winked at him. "I think you're lucky we stopped by here when we did, and if the Captain thinks you can be useful, and I'm guessing that she does since you're standing here and not floating on your merry way out there, then you're even luckier. She can be hard, but she's fair. All the ones who didn't make it..." Her face turned so quickly Mitchell felt a chill despite the hot water. "They didn't deserve to, may they rot in hell."
"Williams, stop screwing with Ensign Briggs and get a move on," Anderson shouted.
"Better do as the man says, sweetie," Wanda said, backing up to her original head. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around."
Mitchell nodded and started lathering himself up while he tried to decipher the meaning behind her words. It was obvious from the moment he stepped out into the hanger and saw the mech that there was more to this ship than mining. Between the small population and Wanda's comments, he was beginning to wonder if excavation was on their true agenda at all.
They were all former military, and at least some of them were still acting the part. Mercenaries? Pirates? They had no loyalty to the Alliance, he was sure of that much. Unless Millie was holding him in order to turn him in. Maybe she was hoping the Alliance would offer a bounty for him? Not likely, since they probably thought he was dead. He wondered who they thought they had chased out into space. An accomplice?
He finished soaping himself down. Ensign Briggs abandoned her shower and waved to him on the way out, grabbing a towel and passing Anderson without comment. Mitchell quickly washed himself off and stepped out of the shower, taking a towel of his own and drying himself.
"There are a lot of berths up here," he said, wrapping the towel around his waist. "How come we're going down to E?"
"That's where the doors with the locks are," Anderson said. "You aren't a guest just yet, pretty boy. Right now, you're a prisoner." He motioned with the gun, and Mitchell stepped in front of him, taking point out of the head and away from the berthing. The tip of the pistol was cold against his back, and he briefly considered trying to take the weapon from the soldier, if only to show him that he could.
E-Deck was almost completely designated for storage, a fact Mitchell found amusing because there was next to nothing being stored on it. There were plenty of rooms with manual seals on them, but most of the doors were hanging open, suggesting that maybe they had held something of value once, but that had been a long time ago.
The room Anderson led him to was in the back corner, as far from the lift as they could get. It was blank and nearly empty, save for a portable bodily excretion device - more often called a "pisspot," a stack of clothes, and a tray holding two large metal cylinders of water and a dozen cans of field rations. The water was good enough for a few days if he was careful. No doubt they expected the pisspot to keep him somewhat hydrated.
"Not planning to visit?" Mitchell said, dropping the towel and slipping into the clothes. They were standard grays: cheap cloth pants, a t-shirt, and shoes that were typically distributed to new recruits in boot camp, or to prisoners who had elected to service in exchange for a shorter sentence.
"Don't know. Don't care," Anderson said. "Ration your water and food, and I'm sure someone will be by before you starve."
He smiled for the first time as he closed and locked the heavy door.
25
He wasn't alone that long.
The door opened a couple of hours later. A heavyset man peeked in around the corner, his face red, his forehead sweaty, his nose running.
"Captain Williams?" the man said.
"Do you have anyone else being held down here?" Mitchell asked.
The man smiled and pulled himself the rest of the way in. He was bigger than his face had suggested, his stomach a round ball beneath his oversized pecs. He had dark hair and three chins, each sporting a few days' growth. He wore coveralls and a heavy apron - protection against intense heat. A tool belt was wrapped around his massive waist.
"My name is Watson," he said.
"Engineering?" Mitchell asked.
He nodded. "One of them. Singh is the other. She's busy with the reactor right now."
"The shuddering?"
"No. That's normal. Well, not ideal. We can't do much about it though, not unless we can get some new bearings. Even if we got new bearings, we'd need a new mount. Or at least a rebuilt mount. Hell, we could use a new reactor. Or a new ship. That would be great. Have you been to the bridge?" He spoke fast, his voice nervous. He had an accent that Mitchell couldn't place.
"I've been to the bridge. Are you New Terran?" Mitchell asked. He hadn't talked to more than a handful of New Terrans in his life. They were mostly a reclusive bunch, though every so often a ship would show up orbiting an Alliance planet and request asylum. The New Terrans were pretty strong on religion, in a way that didn't sit well with all of their populace.
"I was born on New Terra One. My parents defected when I was four. Well, my mother did. My father was killed helping us escape. You've been to the bridge. Did you see the crack in the carbonate? I've been taking measurements. It's been growing point zero-zero-zero-three-tenths of a centimeter per week."
"That sounds bad."
"It is. By my calculations, at the current rate of spread we're looking at complete structural failure between fifty-three and ninety-seven years from now. The service life of a standard Salvage class starship is rated at three hundred years. Verdict: this thing is a death trap." He closed his eyes, as if he were re-running the calculations in his head. He opened them a few s
econds later. "Oh. The Captain sent me down to adjust your ARR."
"What do you mean, adjust?"
Watson pulled a small device from his tool belt. It bore a vague resemblance to the device M had used to disable the implant.
"You have a standard issue Marine jockey ARR, yes?"
"I did. My implant is disabled."
"I'm going to shut it down and upload a patch that will- wait, did you say disabled?"
Mitchell turned his head and showed him the wound. "Completely offline."
He took another tool from his belt and put it to Mitchell's head. "It is. How did you... who... what?"
"It's a long story."
Watson tapped his fingers on his lips. "I'm not sure what do with this."
"What are you trying to do?"
He didn't answer right away, distracted by his thinking. "Oh. The patch. It's a black market hack that removes all of the military control signals, and switches the encryption bands over so they can't listen in on your communications. It also opens up the ability to upload fresh ID scenarios. I've also added a few subroutines to the data feedback flow that increases target accuracy a little bit. It's all pretty useful stuff." He shook his head. "It's also useless if your implant is broken."
"I didn't say it was broken, I said it was disabled."
"Someone turned it off?" He said it with a level of excitement that didn't match the news.
"Yeah. Is that a big deal?"
He started giggling. "A big deal? Well, only if you consider the big bang to be a big deal. Otherwise, no." He kept laughing at his joke, then stopped suddenly. "You can't 'turn off' a military implant. At least, nobody I've ever heard of knows how. Who did it?"
Mitchell shrugged. "What does it matter? It's off."
