by Marque
It was still shocking, how red the blood looked, how much blood hung in the passage in patches of red mist, blobs, strings. His suit leaked foam sealant from a hundred holes, too many . . . arms and legs motionless, imprisoned by the suit’s attempt to save his life. The face inside the helmet looked gray now, the eyes wide. But still alive. He blinked. Beyond him was the black maw of the open air lock hatch. The way he was moving, he would rebound from the bulkhead before he floated away. Ky bumped gently into some surface and pushed off in pursuit.
She caught him as he hit the bulkhead; she had a leg locked on either side of the inner air lock hatch. When she pulled the head close, his eyes stared into hers. Osman. Rage greater than before rose in her like a tide of light. His eyes shifted, back to where the mine was positioned. Then he grinned at her, and stuck out his tongue.
“You killed my parents,” Ky said conversationally. He could not hear, but he could no doubt figure out what she might be saying. “You killed my brothers, and my uncle, and far too many people I cared about, including the ones I didn’t know.” She had him braced against the bulkhead now, immobile. “Gerry’s little girl,” she went on, as her utility knife widened holes the frangible rounds had made. “Gerry’s little spoiled bitch, I believe you said. You were going to have fun with me, you thought.” And now the knife had opened the front of his suit, along the seam, and she ran it up under the helmet seal, up through his chin, through his tongue, through the roof of his mouth.
And his eyes went blank. And she was covered with a disgusting mess, and the mine was still there. The surge of exultation, this time mixed with righteous rage, did not diminish so much as she pushed it aside. Later. Later to savor that kill, but now—now for her ship.
She eased slowly back toward the mine, brushing the vacuum-frozen flakes of Osman’s mortality off her suit, and examined the device. A standard, sturdy, inexpensive shaped-charge limpet, one of the several varieties they’d studied. Her EMP had fried its electronics, no doubt—the status telltales that should have indicated attachment and arming status were blank. If it hadn’t been attached, then she could move it—slowly and carefully. If it had, trying to pull it off would trigger the pressure-sensitive override. One standard method of determining attachment involved a short blast of compressed gas, but she had none. Except—she did: the emergency buddy-breather built into all pressure suits to allow partners to share air if necessary.
In this model the auxiliary supply tube had a safety interlock, which took her long seconds to disable, but at last she could direct a stream of air at the base of the mine. It quivered . . . then slowly slid across the deck. Ky let out her breath. Not yet attached. Not yet attached usually meant not yet armed—to the military anyway. Who knew what Osman had done? She used the tip of a finger and the slight current of air to tip it up, letting her see the critical undersurface. There, the nonelectronic mechanical switch showed orange. Prearmed, not fully armed. Unless Osman had changed the settings . . . but she didn’t think so. She could disarm it . . . but just in case, that would be better done somewhere else, with the charge aimed somewhere other than her ship.
Slowly, she nudged it down the escape passage, its deadly undersurface pointed away, past Osman’s corpse, now bumping on the overhead. She was about to give it a final push when she realized that would take it toward Fair Kaleen, now lit up but still tumbling.
It would kill her or it wouldn’t. Ky reached around and flicked the switch to disarm. Nothing happened. The mine was—or should be—inert now. She used the remnant of elastic cord at her waist to secure it to the exterior hatch, facing out, just in case, then pulled the hatch shut, dogged it, put Osman’s body in the air lock, closed and dogged the inner hatch, and at last had a moment’s leisure to consider what she might have done to her crew—her family—and her ship.
Somewhere along the passage—there—was a dataport connection. She attached a suit connector, keyed the implant, and asked for analysis.
AUTOMATIC SYSTEM RESET 92 SECONDS. OVERRIDE?Had the fight taken that long? She choseOVERRIDE . Weight landed on her shoulders and hips, then wavered, then returned. Pink snow fell to the deck.ARTIFICIAL GRAVITY FUNCTIONAL. Lights and life support should come back first. Gravity was nice, but the others were more important. She felt a vibration in her boot soles.LIFE SUPPORT FUNCTIONAL. THIS COMPARTMENT ZERO PRESSURE. REPRESSURIZE? “Pressurization reserves?” DATA UNAVAILABLE. That wasn’t good. If life support was back up, she should have access to the life-support recharge capacity, including air reserves.
She made her way to the forward end of the emergency passage. That compartment division had a window into the passage beyond, with a partial view of the rec space. She doused her light and looked in. Red emergency lights only—and aiming her suit light through the multiple layers of transparent material only gave confusing reflections. A flicker of light, then another flicker.ONBOARD POWER 65%. DEFINE LIGHT PATTERNS. Ky looked at the ship’s plan her display threw up. Bridge: light displays, one overhead light, controls.REMAINING POWER RESERVE 14.3 HOURS. So . . . the drive was down as well . . . that was a problem. Rec space: she needed to see something. One overhead light came on, showing two tables, someone slumped over a fallen chair . . . not good, not good. If they were all hurt . . . disabled—she would not think dead, though she already had—she needed to get where she could do some good.
“Air up emergency passage,” Ky said. The passage filled with vapor; her faceplate fogged, then cleared as its automatic functions dispersed any surface contaminant. “Temperature?”
SHIP AMBIENT TEMPERATURE 299 DEGREES STANDARD.Her implant thoughtfully provided a scale with normal shipboard range marked across the scale. Within reasonable limits.
Her suit eased its grip as the pressure rose, as the vapor slowly cleared . . . the pink snow now looked like what it was, smears of blood, rehydrated from the inflowing moister air. Finally—it seemed to take forever but was only minutes—PRESSURE EQUALIZED. COMPARTMENT LOCKDOWN?” Reverse,” said Ky. In front of her, the thick compartment seal slid back into its recess; she could now hear the hiss and squeal and imagine as well the power being used.
She left her helmet fastened, her suit light on. The figure in the rec area was Rafe—helmet fastened, eyes closed, but she could see the movement of his breathing. Alive. She would worry about the rest later. Up the passage to the bridge . . . and as she passed her cabin, she heard the sharp imperative yips of the puppy. She opened the hatch there. Toby, on her bunk, with Stella’s arms wrapped around him—both unconscious. The pup, tail wagging vigorously, yapped and scratched at them, trying to wake them up. He growled at Ky, making dashes for her boots, sniffing, backing away, his back hair raised in a miniature ruff.
She probably did smell like death, and not even warmed over. “It’s just me,” she said to the pup, who continued to wrinkle his lips at her. She backed out, closing the hatch behind her.
On the bridge, Lee was slumped in the pilot’s seat, but stirring, groaning slightly. Ky looked at the boards. Drives: red, no response. Defensive suite: standby. Communications: red, no response. Environmental: yellow, emergency power level only. Personnel: red. Nothing picked up from sensors or implants. But she knew they weren’t all dead . . .
Drives had to be the first priority—they needed internal power. She tried automatic restart first, without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when nothing happened. Manual restart was a long tedious sequence that led to nothing but the discovery that there was no longer any electrical connection from the bridge engine controls to the drive.
“Power consumption analysis?”
40% ARTIFICIAL GRAVITY GENERATOR.
Of course. How had she forgotten that? “Cut to twenty-five percent, refigure reserve.”
28.6 HOURS.
That was something. Not enough, but something.
“Uhhhh . . . ow!” That was Lee.
“Lee . . . talk to me; it’s the captain.”
“Don’ wanna talk . . . my head . . .”
“Lee!” She went around in front of him and unsealed her own helmet. The stench from her suit almost made her gag. “Lee, what is it? What hit you?”
His eyes opened, the left one bloodshot, his gaze unfocused. “Captain . . . when ya ge’ back? Where . . . we . . . are?”
She couldn’t see any sign of head trauma but that bloodshot eye. “We’re where we were, Lee. Did something hit you?”
“In . . . side. Spike in my head.” His gaze wandered past her, then focused again. “Thought you were outside—”
“I was. I’m in, intruders are dead. Ship’s got some problems.”
“Others?”
“Unconscious, the ones I’ve seen. Haven’t been everywhere yet. The drive’s down; I can’t get it started. But we have air and some gravity—don’t try to get up, I had to cut it to conserve power.”
He looked pale and slightly green now, and gulped visibly. His eyes sagged shut. “Feel . . . lousy. What’s that stench?”
“Just stay there,” Ky said. “I’ll be back.”
“Said that last time . . . ,” he said; then his head lolled and he was out again.
But he was alive. She opened the door to her cabin again, and again Rascal rushed her ankles, bravely but uselessly. Toby was stirring uneasily; Stella didn’t move.
“Toby,” Ky said. “Toby, wake up.”
His eyes opened slowly. “Ky—Captain?”
“Yes. Are you all right?”
“I’m—I’m—alive.”
“Which is good. Hurt anywhere?”
“My head . . .”
Stella groaned and started to roll off the bunk; Ky steadied her. Her eyes opened. “This is the worst headache I have ever had . . . Ky. Is it over?”
“Not entirely,” Ky said. “The ship has a few problems. Just stay where you are, for now.”
Toby blinked several times. “I’m . . . I could get up.” Then his gaze locked on to the front of her suit. “Captain—you’re hurt—”
“Not my blood,” Ky said. She had left smears on Stella’s suit, she now realized, and a smudge on the edge of her bunk.
“I really could,” Toby went on. “Help, I mean. I have a headache, but it’s going away now.”
“Let’m go,” Stella said in a slurred voice. “I nee’ slee . . .” and she, like Lee, went limp again.
“All right,” Ky said to Toby. “But leave your helmet on and locked. Ship systems are coming online very slowly, and our power supply’s limited.”
“But yours—” He stopped himself. “Can I bring Rascal?”
“Sure,” Ky said. “Just don’t let him bite me. He doesn’t like my smell.”
But with Toby awake, the dog was more interested in licking her boots than biting her ankles . . . gruesome, Ky thought, suggesting that somewhere in the dog’s ancestry was not a boy’s best friend, but somebody’s worst nightmare. Toby fairly bounced down the passage in low g with the resilience of youth.
“I could fix something to eat,” he said, as they came into the rec area. Rafe was still sprawled over the fallen chair.
“We’re conserving power,” Ky reminded him. “Help me move Rafe.” That was easy enough in the fractional gravity; they stretched him on the padded ledge along the far side of the compartment, on his side. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
They made their way then to Environmental. In the dim light, suit lights flashed. Mitt, Ted, and Mehar . . . Mitt and Mehar both with pistol bows aimed at Ky, until they recognized her face in their headlamps.
“What happened, Captain?”
“I made some mistakes, but we still have a whole hull and clearly you people have life support working.”
“For now,” Mitt said. “Did they set off an EMP mine? Is that why we lost power?”
“It was an EMP mine, but I set it off—one of the intruders was setting up a limpet inside the ship. Only way I could think of to disable its programming before he could set it off.”
“Well . . . we also lost a few circuits in life support. I gather the drive’s down? And how are the others?”
“Some unconscious, Toby here’s fine, I haven’t checked everyone yet.”
“Must’ve been quite a fight,” Mehar said, nodding at Ky’s suit.
“It was . . . strenuous,” Ky said. Her back was beginning to tell her how many times she’d tried to tie it in a pretzel. She ignored it.
“How many of them were there?”
“I think three,” Ky said. “But let me check everyone else first; we can tell the stories later, when the ship’s back up.”
“Want help?”
“Yes,” Ky said. “Number two cargo and Engineering will be the worst, they were closest to it.”
Mehar came with her; they found Engineering dark and silent. She looked around. On the far side of the compartment, a heap of bodies. As she watched, one of them rolled over, shook its head and looked up. Jim.
“What happened, Jim?”
He shook his head, pointed to his ears. Blast damage? Ky came closer, and spoke directly to his face. “Can you hear me at all?”
“A . . . little. Scared the—I didn’t know what happened, Captain. Quincy ran over here, said get down, and then everything blew up.”
“Not everything. We’re still in one piece. The others?” She was already checking them for pulse, for any visible injuries.
“Dunno. I just woke up, kinda—” His voice sounded strange, uninflected. Quincy was underneath the pile. She, Alene, and Cele were all unconscious, but alive. Ky relaxed slightly.
“Let’s get Quincy to the medbox,” she said. Jim nodded, clambered up, staggered a moment, then steadied.
“Low grav . . .”
“Yes. We’re saving power. Mehar, you help me.” She didn’t trust Jim’s balance. In the light gravity, Quincy was easy to lift and carry. They were halfway to the alcove where the medbox was installed when Ky remembered that it wouldn’t be functional now.
“On second thought, we’ll just put her in her bunk,” Ky said. “We’ve got to get the drives back up.” They tucked Quincy into her bunk, and Ky hoped for the best, then checked on Sheryl. The navigator had been in her cubby when the mine went off; she was just rousing and claimed a mighty headache.
Now for the cargo spaces. Ky dreaded what she would find. Number two was as dark as Engineering had been. Again Ky ordered on the overhead lights . . . there was the weapon, chocked up to point at the emergency passage, and a large hole in the bulkhead beyond it. The stench of melted plastics made it through the suit filters. Martin lay sprawled a few feet away, alive but unresponsive.
“Number three wiring nexus,” Ky said. “Damn. If we’re lucky, that explains why the drives don’t come on. Let’s get Martin up near the medbox.” If she could get the power back on, he and Quincy would have to take turns. She called Jim and Mehar to start working on the damage as soon as they were able.
When she had made the worst cases as comfortable as possible, she went back to the damage site, where Jim was poking at the melted mass of the hold 3 nexus. “Going to be a bitch to fix,” he said. “Or we could just cut it all out and start over.”
“And how long will that take?”
“On a ship this size, with the shop and equipment we have? Maybe a day. Maybe two.”
She didn’t have a day or two. None of them had a day or two.
“Can you patch controls onto the drive end of the mess? In a few hours?”
“Uh . . .” She could see the desire to show off warring with his awareness that soft soap and bragging wouldn’t work this time. “Maybe. If I had help. I know—sorta know—most of it, but—”
“Toby, do you know how to patch in controls?”
“I know the main functions, but not the auxiliaries, Captain. But is there a reference manual in your implant?”
Was there? She still had not had time to access the special functions. “Get started on the main functions, the two of you. I want the insystem drive up enough to give us
onboard power. Then we can worry about the rest. Use anything in stores you need.”
In her mind the enemy warships moved ever closer, targeting her with weapons against which her defense might not hold even if it were up. With the crew all accounted for, she headed back upship. Rafe had managed to sit up and blinked as she checked him. “Did we win?” he asked.
“So far,” Ky said. “How are you?”
“Headache. My implant tells me it was scrambled, but it’s recovering functions.”
“Good. Toby and Jim could use your help down in Engineering. Can you make it there?”
“Yeah. I think.” He stood, wavered, then headed for the exit without another word. Ky watched him a moment, then went to her cabin.
Stella was up, too, slumped against the bulkhead. “Where’s Toby?” she asked.
“Down in Engineering. You?”
“Do you have any idea how bad that smells?” Stella wrinkled her nose.
“Yes,” Ky said. “But I can’t clean up yet—there’s other problems.”
“Always other problems,” Stella said. She sighed, pushed herself more upright. “So what can I do to help?”
“Feel better,” Ky said. “I need some clear thinking from my staff. We have only reserve power—the insystem drive’s down. Osman’s dead, but his allies with the big guns are out there somewhere and we don’t have scan.”
“Where are the mercs?”
“I wish I knew,” Ky said. “I hope they’re coming to help, but I haven’t heard from them in . . . a long time.” When Stella said nothing, she turned away. “I have to get to the bridge,” she said. “It’ll be good news if the lights come on full.”
“Fiat lux,” Stella said. “But we have a hull, and air, right?”
“Right.”
“And Osman’s dead. So we won.”
“A battle. Not the war.”
“You’re such an encouraging commander,” Stella said.
“Thanks,” Ky said. “I try.”
On the bridge, Lee also was awake. His left eye looked more normal now, and he was working his way across the boards. “Drive’s not responding at all,” he said. “There’s a disconnect somewhere.”
