Rule of Evidence

by John G. Hemry

  His arms and legs were aching now, but Paul stubbornly kept moving, trying to keep his eyes focused on the Maury's hull for the small features which would reveal the presence of the airlock from up close. It occurred to Paul that he was probably being watched from the Michaelson, as if he were a bug on the expanse of the Maury's hull. "USS Michaelson, this is Lieutenant Sinclair."

  "Michaelson, aye."

  "I'm been ordered to reach the Maury's forward external airlock. Can you give me an idea how close I am?"

  "Wait, one."

  Paul kept moving as he waited, wondering how long it would take to urge his screaming muscles back into motion if he stopped.

  "Lieutenant Sinclair, we estimate you are within three meters of the airlock and slightly above it."

  "I understand I am within three meters, slightly above." Paul moved over some more, angling downward now. One foot slid against something the friction pad wouldn't hold on. That's the airlock rim. Got you. A little farther over and down. His hands crossed the slick rim, then Paul saw the location of the external power plug. "I am at the airlock. Plugging in my portable power unit, now."

  "Lieutenant Sinclair."

  Paul recognized the voice even through the rasp of the communications circuit. "Yes, Captain."

  "Try to find the captain of the Maury if you can."

  "Aye, aye, sir." Paul cautiously tried to attach his portable power unit, but the jack kept wobbling away from the plug, until Paul cursed and rammed it home. Using his suit's systems, he activated the airlock, waiting impatiently as it cycled, then as the hatch inched open. Swinging inside, Paul felt his limbs trembling with exhaustion and relief. At least I'm not hanging on the edge of nothing anymore.

  The inner door swung open more smoothly. Paul pulled himself inside the Maury, looking either way down the passageway. No one here. Anyone left is surely involved in damage control or repair. Air's okay in here. Pressure's a little low, though. I need to get to the Maury's bridge. He knew the way, though as always traveling through one of the Michaelson's sister ships felt odd, as if he were simultaneously in a familiar and an unfamiliar place.

  Paul checked the bridge hatch, finding it sealed. Paul released the hatch, opening it to swing inside.

  The Maury's bridge was crowded, something which brought Paul great relief after the eerie feeling of abandonment in the passageways he'd gone through. In the dim illumination of the emergency lights, sailors were working on equipment while officers huddled together. In their focus on their immediate tasks, in a compartment full of personnel in survival suits, no one seemed to notice Paul. He made his way over to the captain's chair, and found her seated there with a data pad on which a diagram of the Maury could be seen, watching the activity around her with an intent and agonized expression.

  "Ma'am? I'm Lieutenant Sinclair, from the Michaelson."

  Heads snapped around. The Maury's Captain gave Paul a brief nod of greeting. "Captain Halis. How'd you get here, Mr. Sinclair?"

  "The Michaelson's sent over three damage control teams, ma'am. I came in through the forward external airlock to establish contact with you."

  A commander, probably the Maury's executive officer, pointed brusquely toward the data pad held by the captain. "What's the damage look like from outside? We can't tell, and we've been focused on trying to maintain air-tight boundaries in the forward part of the ship. All of our systems are off-line. Even a lot of the emergency gear. We took a helluva shock."

  "Yes, sir." Paul noticed for the first time that the commander had one arm in a splint bound tightly to his body to keep it from drifting. He probably wasn't the only member of the Maury's crew with broken bones or other internal and external injuries. Paul came forward a little more and pointed at the diagram of the Maury. "There's massive damage here and here."

  Captain Halis stared grimly at where Paul had pointed. "The engineering compartments."

  "Yes, ma'am. Damage spreads outward from them. We're still trying to assess damage, but so far there don't appear to be any airtight spaces left between the number two and number four survival bulkheads."

  The commander tried to rub his forehead, his survival suit glove sliding over the surface of his face shield, his eyes glazed. "No wonder we can't talk to anybody back there."

  "What about my engineering personnel?" Captain Halis demanded. "Massive damage, you said. What does that translate to in terms of my people?"

  Paul felt a sudden tightening of his throat, but forced the words out. "Lieutenant Kilgary, our officer in charge, estimates . . . very serious casualties in engineering."

  Captain Halis closed her eyes as if unable to accept the news. "Any idea what very serious means, Lieutenant? Were those Lieutenant Kilgary's exact words?"

  "No, ma'am. She . . ." The tightness grew, reaching down into the hollow space in Paul's guts. "She said she thought they'd been wiped out."

  "Dear God." Captain Halis covered her eyes with one hand for a moment. "Dear God." She slowly lowered the hand and looked back at Paul. "Tell your Lieutenant—" Her eyes finally focused on Paul's face. "Sinclair. From the Michaelson. You're Lieutenant Shen's sierra oscar, aren't you?"

  Paul nodded mutely. The use of the Navy phonetic alphabet to spell out the initials for "significant other" had for some time struck him as an amusing in-joke. But not now.

  Captain Halis raised one arm and gripped Paul's shoulder so hard he could easily feel the pressure through his survival suit. "Sorry," she whispered. "So very sorry." Then the arm fell and she was captain of a stricken ship once more. "What else can you tell me?"

  Paul forced himself to concentrate only on his job. "Lieutenant Kilgary has our damage control teams trying to reinforce your ship's internal structure. It's badly ripped up. She asked that you be certain not to light off any maneuvering system, or anything else without coordinating with us."

  The executive officer's jaw worked. "You think we could tear the Maury apart?"

  "Sir, she's . . . really hurt bad, sir."

  The commander grimaced, but Captain Halis merely nodded. "Bad doesn't mean hopeless. We'll save her. Don't worry, we won't try to get any navigational or maneuvering systems going. Why is your Lieutenant concerned about other systems?"

  "There's so many loose and broken wires out there, ma'am. It'd—"

  Captain Halis held up one hand palm out. "I understand. We need to establish reliable communications with people outside this ship. I need you to make your way back outside. Can you serve as a comm relay in the airlock?"

  "We've got better than that, ma'am." A hollow-eyed petty officer with a large bruise visible on his left temple offered Paul some pieces of equipment. "Emergency relays. Plug one in to the jack inside the airlock and the other to the jack on the outside. It's a manual bypass. They should let us talk to the world again."

  The task gave Paul the excuse he needed to try to shove away any more thoughts of Jen. "Will do. Any special message, captain?"

  "If the relays don't work, tell your captain we need portable power units in here, as well as some air recyclers. Let your officer in charge of your assistance teams, you said Lieutenant Kilgary, correct? Let her know we're still trying to seal the number two survival bulkhead. Any further assistance from her side would be appreciated."

  "Aye, aye, ma'am. You need portable power and air recyclers, and our continued assistance sealing the number two survival bulkhead." Paul came to attention, saluted, and then moved as quickly as he could back the way he came. He kept his mind focused on Captain Halis's message and the job he had to do. Once back at the airlock, he only had to look a moment to find the necessary jack for the first relay. Plugging it in firmly, Paul cycled the airlock, then slid outside and plugged in the second relay. "On the Michaelson, this is Lieutenant Sinclair. Do you copy?"

  "We copy."

  "The Maury's captain says they need portable power units and air recyclers. I've installed some relays. You should be able to talk to the Maury's bridge now."

  "Roger." A
pause, then the voice came again. "We have comms with the Maury's bridge. Thanks, Lieutenant."

  "I'm returning to my team now." Paul began moving carefully across the still-too-smooth surface of the Maury's outer hull, hoping his friction pads would hold, trying not to think beyond the next hand or foot hold. Finally reaching the edge of the damaged area again, Paul found his progress progressively easier, as tears and bends in the hull provided firm holds. His hand slipped on one attempted hold, though. Startled and angry, Paul tried to grab that point again, felt his hand slipping once more, then while reaching back for a third try noticed the survival-suited palm of his hand. There was something on it, now. Something black, with bits of paler material in it.

  That's . . . oh, no. Paul fought down nausea, staring at the hull surface directly before his eyes. Someone. What's left of someone. Pieces of someone. The blood's black. No oxygen to make it red. Dried out, all the moisture sucked into space, but the powder left makes the surface slick. He looked around, desperately seeking something to wipe his palm on. Paul finally rubbed his hand quickly several times over the nearest protruding metal edge. He didn't look at the palm again, not wanting to know if his rough cleaning efforts had left a lot of material on his glove.

  Swinging in past the ragged edge where the Maury's hull had been blown open, Paul scanned the wreckage for signs of his team. Dark patches moved here and there amid the wreckage. Lighter objects could be seen among the dark, some of them still recognizable as bodies or large pieces of bodies. Jen? I can't look. I— He swallowed convulsively. "Chief Meyer."

  "Here. Lieutenant Sinclair?"

  "Right. I'm just aft of the number two survival bulkhead." Paul looked around, trying to see his surroundings without seeing the torn remnants of Maury's crew among them. A bright object appeared on his display. There's his beacon. "I see you, Chief. I'm on my way."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Lieutenant Kilgary? This is Lieutenant Sinclair."

  There was a pause before she answered. "Here. Did you get to the bridge of the Maury, Paul?"

  "Yes, ma'am." It felt a little odd to still be using formality with Colleen , but Paul needed to concentrate on professional rituals to keep darker thoughts at bay. "Captain Halis rogered up on not powering up anything. I helped establish comms from the Maury to the Michaelson, so they're talking now. Captain Halis says they're still trying to seal the forward survival bulkhead, and would like our assistance there."

  He could hear Lieutenant Kilgary's heavy sigh over the circuit. "I need about twice as many people as I've got here. Okay. Chief Meyer tells me there's relatively less structural damage in your area. Take your people away from what I had them doing and start them going over that bulkhead again and sealing any problem areas."

  "Aye, aye, ma'am."

  "How's Captain Halis doing, Paul?"

  "She's . . ." How to say it? "Very unhappy but on top of everything."

  "I understand. How are you doing?"

  "A little tired—"

  "That's not what I mean. I know what the damage here implies for you personally. Can you still remain focused on your job?"

  "Of course I can!" Paul put force into his reply, as if that could somehow fill the hollowness inside him.

  "I wouldn't think less of you if it were otherwise. Okay, get your people moving. We've got less than an hour left before we need to get back to the gig."

  Startled, Paul checked his own suit's readings. The rebreather's okay so far, but it's not guaranteeing anything past another couple of hours. Power level's not great, either. Colleen's right. We need to allow a decent safety margin for getting back to the Michaelson. "Chief Meyer, we've got new orders."

  The maze of wreckage made it easier to forget other issues as Paul worked his way back to the forward survival bulkhead. Then he immersed himself in overseeing his damage control team, personally checking for ruptures or weak spots in the bulkhead whenever a free moment offered itself. At some point, he heard Kilgary warning everyone that the gig was delivering two more damage control teams and everyone should watch for sailors landing around them.

  "That's it." It took a moment for Paul to recognize Kilgary's voice this time, hoarse with physical and emotional strain. "Paul, Sonya, get your teams back to the outer hull for pickup by the gig. It's coming in a little closer this time and it'll have a retrieval net spread around the airlock."

  "Aye, aye. Chief Meyer, it's time to go." Out and back again, Paul both looking for and dreading seeing the frozen arm that'd been near their arrival point. But he didn't see it again, and soon enough his team was back near where they'd arrived on the Maury. He could see the gig floating where it awaited them, looking far too small against the emptiness around it. But he could also see the glowing lines which outlined the retrieval net, a large mesh surface spread out for ten meters around the airlock to catch anyone who aimed badly. As he watched, some of the glowing lines vibrated as a sailor from one of the other damage control teams landed in the net.

  "That's all of my team," Kilgary advised. "Paul, take yours over next. Sonya, your team boards last this time."

  "Aye, aye. Chief, you go first. I'll send the rest after you and follow last."

  "Aye, aye, sir. Me first, you last." Chief Meyer's voice didn't seem to have changed, but then it had been emotionless and controlled since they got their first good look at the Maury. Paul watched the chief launch himself out, heading like a slow-moving bullet for the target center represented by the hatch on the gig. Meyer landed and pulled himself to one side, waving for someone else to follow.

  Paul sent them off at the usual five-count intervals, concentrating on that task. When the last sailor was clear, he aimed himself and jumped.

  Now, sailing between the Maury and gig, there was nothing to think about. Despite his training, Paul twisted his head to look back at the Maury. Up close, it had sometimes been easy to forget how widespread the devastation was, how insignificant the chance of survival had been for anyone caught in that blast. From here, and with all he'd see inside the ship, it couldn't be mistaken or ignored. Admit it to yourself. Jen's gone.

  Packed in tight on the gig again, Paul no longer had anything at all to divert his attention. No looming hazardous mission, no constant work with his hands and mind, no oversight of his team's work. All he could do was sit in the dimmed interior of the gig, feeling the survival suits around him press in from all sides, feeling the hollowness in him, and wondering if he'd ever feel anything but empty again.

  Bumps and lurches announced their arrival back at the Michaelson. A wait followed, only minutes long but seeming an eternity for those inside the gig, as the gig's dock was pressurized. Finally, the hatch cracked open and sailors began pulling themselves out of the gig. Lieutenant Kilgary hung at the gig hatch, waving the sailors onward. "Everyone clear the gig area. Get into another compartment and get out of your suits. No bunching up. No ass dragging. Keep moving."

  Paul's turn came. He moved automatically, swinging out of the hatch, then feeling a hand on his arm. He looked to see Lieutenant Kilgary motioning him to the side. "How are you doing?"

  "I . . ."

  "That's what I thought." Kilgary had already pulled off her suit's helmet and now she assisted Paul in getting his helmet off. Her own eyes were haunted by fatigue and sorrow. "I don't want to risk you wandering around in this state oblivious to your own danger readings."

  "I'm not that bad off."

  "Can you hear your own voice? You held up great out there, Paul. I'd have never known you had such a personal stake in this. But now that pressure's off and you're feeling it."

  Paul hung against the nearest bulkhead, staring at nothing. "I guess I am. Are you sure . . . ?"

  Kilgary's face sagged. "Damage to the after survival bulkhead hadn't been patched. We couldn't get in there, back into the less damaged sections aft of that bulkhead, but that says something."

  "Yeah." A last very slender hope gone. "I guess—"

  The comm panel in the compart
ment blared an attention signal. "Is Lieutenant Sinclair still down there?"

  The sailor nearest the panel glanced at Paul, then pushed the transmit button. "Yes, sir. He's listening."

  "We've received a Personal For message for him from the captain of the Maury."

  Paul blinked in confusion, then felt the emptiness growing inside once more. They found her. That must be it. Found what's left of her. I don't want . . . But, as if of their own accord, his legs pushed him toward the comm panel and his arm raised so his hand could push the transmit key. He stared stupidly at the panel for a moment, the hollowness spreading to his brain, before he remembered to talk. "What is it? I mean . . . this is Lieutenant Sinclair."

  "Personal for Lieutenant Sinclair from Captain Halis. Quote: Contact has been established with Lieutenant Shen and twenty-one enlisted who remain alive in the after section of the ship. Unquote."