by Cheryl Angst
John nodded his understanding and started at the sudden sound of the seals from the first airlock popping. Grinding gears followed as the door opened.
“All set,” said Paul. “Now get across before you freeze.”
John took a deep breath and stepped into the chill of the ITT. His feet echoed off the metal plating on the floor, and his bag thumped loudly against his thigh. He worked to get his breathing under control before he met anyone from the other ship. He closed his eyes and walked the remainder of the way half by instinct and half by memory. Within moments he found himself standing in the decompression chamber on board the Firestorm. In a matter of seconds the grey door would roll open and he would be faced with his first view of the interior of a modern warship. He hoped he wouldn’t vomit.
Chapter 13
The door to the tunnel closed behind him with an echoing finality. The magnetic couplings secured to the ship’s exterior released and the ITT drifted away like a giant tape worm. The transport reeled it in until the large red painted square marking the airlock’s position on the hull remained the only sign of its presence. The words, Caution: Airlock Expansion Outlet. Do Not Block were emblazoned above, visible from over one hundred meters away.
He was trapped between the inner and outer hulls of the Firestorm. John wasn’t claustrophobic, but standing in the tiny space between the hulls was purgatory. Time stood still as the moment he dreaded arrived. Caught, like an insect in amber, he was paralyzed by the wait. The ship’s gravity pulled him to the deck as the locks popped and the door rolled open.
The glare from the yellow overhead lights blinded him as the smell of artificially circulated air assaulted his nostrils. John blinked as he took his first tentative steps on the Firestorm and was swept away by the startling familiarity of his immediate surroundings.
Not much had changed in twenty years. He noted the thick, armored walls, their sloping curves that followed the lines of the ship, and the typical neutral beige paint used everywhere by the UESF. Even their interior decorating tastes hadn’t changed.
A panel near the airlock door beeped, signaling its imminent closure.
John shuffled across the tile flooring and almost bumped into the two men waiting to greet him.
Large blue eyes gazed at him from within a chiseled face topped with blond hair light enough to be white. The man smiled and held out a hand. “Professor Thompson? I’m Captain William Forbes. Welcome aboard the Firestorm.”
John’s eyes widened. How could someone so young be in command of one of the premier ships in the fleet? Were they pulling toddlers from their mothers’ arms and thrusting them into uniform? John took Forbes’ hand and forced a weak smile in return.
John clutched his bag tighter as he realized there was more to his welcome than he expected. Another man was standing next to the captain, arm outstretched, ready to grasp his.
“This is Commander Maxwell Cheng, the Firestorm’s executive officer,” said Forbes.
“How do you do?” asked Cheng.
Another baby.
He extracted his hand from the man’s vice-like grip. John was about to reply when a soft cough caught his attention.
Forbes smiled as a petite female officer approached the tiny group. “And this is Lt. Rebeccah Santiago, my diplomatic officer.”
* * * *
Rebeccah stared up at the man in front of her. His firm handshake caught her off guard, a stark contrast to his shuffling, nervous entry into the ship, his stunned silence, and the absolute terror in his eyes. She found it hard to believe the UESF would send them an expert on avian anthropology afraid of space travel.
She smiled warmly, trying to put him at ease.
Letting go of her hand, he clutched his travel bag tightly to his chest, his long fingers clenching and unclenching around the straps. She decided to break the awkward silence. “Welcome, Professor. We’re honored to have you aboard.”
He pulled his gaze away from his intense study of the decking and made eye contact with her again.
“Um, yes. Thank you.”
The muscles in his jaw bulged as he clenched his mouth closed.
Her heart ached in sympathy--he looked ill.
“Would you care for a tour of the ship?” asked Forbes.
“No,” Professor Thompson quickly replied. “No, thank you. I’d like to go straight to my cabin.”
“Uh, okay,” said Forbes. “If you change your mind, I’m sure Lt. Santiago here would be willing to organize something for you.”
Cheng sniggered, making her blush under the professor’s scrutiny. Rebeccah cast a quick glare at the XO, then said, “Of course. I’ll be happy to help you with anything you need during the mission.” Cheng was still snickering and she forced herself to retain her professional demeanor despite an overwhelming urge to drive her elbow into his ribs.
Thompson nodded and turned his attention to the captain, who, unlike Cheng, at least tried to make polite conversation with their guest. As soon as they reached a junction in the corridor, Cheng spoke up. “Sir, we should be heading back to the bridge.”
“Commander?”
“We have a lot to do prior to getting underway.” He gave the professor a patronizing pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Professor. We’ll take care of everything. You just relax and enjoy the voyage.”
“Commander...” Forbes seemed unsure about Cheng’s blatant lie.
“We’ll be fine,” Rebeccah said. “I can escort Professor Thompson to his cabin.”
Cheng gave Forbes a knowing look, then turned once again to Thompson. “I’m sure you can imagine the amount of work involved in preparing a vessel like this for the jump to trans-light space.”
Rebeccah stifled a gasp. She swore she caught a flicker of disdain cross the professor’s features when Cheng spoke. She shook her head. Professor Thompson couldn’t possibly understand how absurd Cheng’s excuse was.
“I guess the commander and I should be heading back to the bridge,” Forbes said. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to chat during the voyage.”
“Yes, uh, yes,” replied the professor.
“I would be honored if you would dine at my table tonight,” said Forbes as he gestured for Cheng to hold still a moment longer.
Thompson didn’t answer, apparently absorbed in his study of the pattern on the deck. Rebeccah shrugged her shoulders in response to Forbes’ questioning glance. Cheng coughed and shifted from foot to foot. With a shrug of his own, Forbes turned and walked down the adjoining corridor; Cheng following in close pursuit.
* * * *
One foot in front of the other. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
He tried to avoid noting the details of his surroundings. He didn’t want to make connections between this warship and the ones he’d served on. He ordered his eyes to stare at the decking, but they had other plans. Despite his mantra, his brain seemed determined to learn about the ship and its crew.
The uniform style had changed a little, but the sound of UESF boots striding along the corridors remained the same. He liked the new shirts. Made of a lightweight tan material, he noted the freedom of movement the officers enjoyed, and recalled the stiff pull of seams on his own uniform whenever he needed to stretch or do something physical. He noticed the change within seconds, and found he approved of the new location of the rank insignia. In his day, he wore his rank on his sleeve cuffs, now they resided on the collar.
The UESF logo and the ship’s name were printed on the right and left shoulders, and the surname of each individual was embroidered in black over the left breast pocket. Ribbons representing various medals earned adorned the space above the right. All in all, John felt satisfied he could identify anyone he encountered on the ship. The only thing throwing him off was the UESF’s decision to have every department wear the same neutral top.
“Where are the departmental insignia?”
Santiago glanced down at her sleeve before answering. �
��Check the trim on the cuff, as well as the color of the belt, and the emblem on the buckle.” She pointed to her own dark green cuffs and belt, and the symbolic olive branch in the center.
“Subtle.”
“The UESF decided to make it harder for an enemy to determine the chain of command in a combat situation.”
“Hmm.”
Images of a battle to take over an avian outpost played before his mind’s eye. The avians hadn’t taken out the leaders wearing blue tops, but had targeted the medics in their burgundy uniforms instead. The horror of watching the one group of soldiers universally respected as neutral cut down took the fight out of the UESF troops faster than a field of anti-personnel mines.
One foot in front of the other. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
John and Lt. Santiago approached the general quarters of the ship. He made out the crew names on the doors they passed, and the aroma of food wafted from a nearby junction.
“The Senior Officers’ Mess is down that corridor,” Santiago said. “That’s where you’ll be taking your meals while on board.” She pointed the opposite way along the same hall. “The Junior Officers’ Mess is over there. The dining facilities for the enlisted troops are located on decks fourteen and fifteen, closer to their billets.”
“Which shift should I eat with?” he asked, knowing the kitchen staff prepared staggered meals to accommodate the three shifts that kept the ship running twenty-four hours a day.
Her eyes widened at the question. “The captain and the rest of the main bridge crew eat on the alpha shift schedule. Please join us.”
He nodded.
One foot in front of the other. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
They arrived at the door to his cabin. Small and cramped by civilian standards, John recognized the opulence inherent in the space he’d been granted. To be offered quarters with a bed and separate seating area was a huge gesture of respect. The window in the living area was another luxury accorded to only the highest ranking officers on board. In short, he was impressed.
“I’m sorry,” said Lt. Santiago. “I know this is not what you’re used to.”
“It’s fine,” he replied. Doubt flashed across her features so he added, “It’s more than I was expecting.”
Again, her eyes widened and John puzzled over her reaction. She was too old to be a recent graduate, but she surprised far too easily for an experienced officer. He wondered if she wasn’t a few stops short of a roundtrip.
Alarm coursed through his veins when he realized his own questions and reactions might be blowing his cover. He coughed and scrambled to find something he figured a civilian would ask about. He set his bag down on the bed and moved to the panel on the wall. “I assume I can control all my cabin’s functions from here?”
“Yes. You can adjust the ambient temperature, the lighting, and the window dressings.” She keyed in a few commands to illustrate. “You can also play music or access any of the video networks through here. The screen will descend in front of the bulkhead on your right,” she said, gesturing toward the far wall, “should you wish to watch anything.”
“Thank you.”
He hoped she wouldn’t linger. He hadn’t meant to ask any questions during the walk from the airlock to his cabin, but he’d never been good at curbing his curiosity. To his relief, his escort seemed somewhat preoccupied. Walking back toward the door, he said, “Thank you for your assistance. Please let Captain Forbes know I will join him for dinner.”
She smiled and appeared to take the hint. Santiago moved into the corridor.
“I’ll tell him.” She began walking away then paused to look back over her shoulder. “Welcome aboard, Professor.”
John nodded and closed the door. He dimmed the lights, lowered the window coverings, and sat heavily on the bed. Holding his head with trembling hands, he gulped in several deep breaths and prayed the trip would be over soon.
* * * *
“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to take your station?” asked Cheng.
The question brought Rebeccah out of her reverie. She blushed slightly and took her place to the right of the captain’s command area.
“I assume you delivered the professor to his accommodations?” said Forbes, leaning back in his chair.
“Yes, sir,” Rebeccah said. “He asked me to tell you he will join you for dinner.”
Cheng rolled his eyes. “Wonderful, just what we need, a pathetic stuffed shirt asking inane questions all night, or trying to teach us about the finer uses of the English language.”
“He’s not an English professor, Commander.” Rebeccah kept her tone respectful--barely. “He’s one of the foremost experts on avian anthropology and sociology.”
“Right.” More eye rolling.
“So,” Forbes leaned forward to ask, “was he everything you thought he’d be?” He chuckled. “I got the impression he wasn’t quite what you expected.”
She smiled at the understatement. “Well he’s certainly less outgoing in person than he is in his seminars.”
“You watched his lectures?” Cheng asked. “Boy, you are nuts. All we’re doing is ferrying the guy into avian space. He’s not going to test us on our knowledge of alien social structures.”
“He didn’t seem introverted,” Forbes said. “He seemed downright terrified.” His tone became more serious. “I wonder what’s so important about this meeting with the avians that HQ would send someone so obviously unsuited to space travel.”
Rebeccah nodded. She’d wondered the same thing too--before he asked several questions no civilian would think of posing. Now she had other questions about John Thompson. She was positive he wasn’t the man their briefing notes indicated.
Chapter 14
John kept the blast shields on the windows down and footage from the video networks running day and night in an effort to mask the sounds and sensations of the ship. He tried to tell himself he was in a low-budget hotel at a conference to explain his cramped quarters. If it weren’t for his need to eat, and the damn emergency drills, he would have been able to block the knowledge of his surroundings out completely.
Still the nightmares came.
* * * *
“John!”
The ground shuddered under his feet, jarring his teeth and shaking his bones. Gunfire, explosions, and screams filled the air as he careened down the street. Heedless of enemies holed up in the buildings, he sprinted, his boots raising clouds of dust and debris. The shrill cries of terrified women and children begging for mercy drowned out the sound of his heartbeat and ragged breathing. He ran.
“John!”
“Daddy!”
The words--screamed in desperation--echoed in his mind. They came from the building at the end of the street. He ran, but got no closer. Blind terror drove his feet into the dirt. His heart threatened to burst through his chest, yet he continued to run. The sound of a low flying bomber turned his bowels to water. He didn’t have to be on that ship to know its target.
“Daddy!”
“John! Please, oh God, please no.”
Lungs burning, he staggered along the street. He wouldn’t make it. The bomber swooped in low overhead, its ominous bulk underscoring the massive weaponry carried on board. Tears streaming down his face, he collapsed to his knees.
“No. God, no.”
He cradled the cold and brittle rifle. The black barrel matched the despair in his heart. The whine as the bomber’s sonic weapon powered up raised the hairs on his arms. He clenched his gun, gripping the stock so tightly his knuckles drained of blood. The ship’s cannon discharged and the crash of the collapsing building rode the sonic wave toward him. Head down, shoulders sagging in surrender, he did nothing to protect himself from the blast. It thundered down the street, moving with the force of a hurricane. He was thrown flat, dirt and rocks pelting him like the sting of a thousand hornets.
&nb
sp; Silence.
Shakily regaining his knees, he searched for the building at the end of the street. A smoking pile of debris greeted his grit-filled eyes. Ships flew by overhead, their engines silent. Gunfire ripped past him, the bullets mute. He knelt in a deathly quiet world. He lowered his head--heedless of the battle raging around him--as tears poured down his cheeks, exploding in tiny puffs in the dust on his thighs.
His wife and daughter were gone. He’d failed again.
* * * *
The effects of the nightmares lingered as he completed his morning routine, and often followed him into the Officers’ Mess for breakfast. During these moments of overlapping reality, John found it hard to interact with those around him. He kept to himself, stayed only long enough to eat his fill, and tried to minimize the impact of life aboard the Firestorm on his already fragile psyche.
He refused to go anywhere other than to the mess hall and his quarters, he refused all social invitations, and he refused to entertain visitors in his cabin. Yet somehow, the ship crept into his life. He didn’t want to feel comfortable here; he wanted his apartment in Vancouver. He didn’t want to wake up and find the vibration of the engines soothing. He wanted to awaken to the cooing of pigeons and his supposedly soothing--yet unconscionably irritating--alarm. He didn’t want to miss the sound of boot steps when he walked in loafers on the deck; he needed to convince himself he made the right decision when he exchanged the UESF for a lonely--he wasn’t lonely--life on Earth. He wanted to hate every last molecule of the ship and her crew.
The smell of paint and boot polish lingered everywhere. He couldn’t escape it. It followed him into the mess hall. It followed him into the shower. It invaded his dreams. It clung to him like a second skin. A skin that on Earth would have disturbed him; here on the Firestorm, it began to feel oddly comforting.
Chapter 15
