by Tripp Ellis
“As far as what’s causing the intermittent power outages, it’s difficult to say. Chasing down electrical gremlins in a ship this old is next to impossible. Could be bad wiring, corroded terminals, any number of things.”
“You don’t think this is just an electrical issue, do you?”
“I’d rather not say what I think.” Violet measured her words, eyeing Declan.
“Did something happen? Have you seen something… Odd?”
Violet hesitated. “Let’s just say, I’m ready to get off this ship.”
Mitch returned with a cart. He, Jaxon, and Declan hefted a crate, grunting and groaning.
“You know, this is going to go a lot faster if you all pitch in and help,” Declan said.
“There’s a freight elevator we can use to take this to the upper decks,” Zoey said.
They loaded the crates onto the cart and wheeled them up to the airlock. It took two trips to move all the crates.
As they were unloading the second round of crates in the hallway by the inner airlock hatch, a thunderous impact shuddered the ship.
Then another.
Dozens of smaller hits pinged against the hull. The sound reverberated throughout the ship.
“What the hell is that?” Mitch asked.
“Are we under attack?” asked Jaxon.
“No,” Zoey said, listening to the rumble. It sounded like a hailstorm. “Meteorites.”
Another massive impact rattled the hull.
Zoey raced into the airlock and peered through the view port in the outer hatch. Her eyes went wide at the sight. A large meteorite was tumbling through the nebula, barreling straight toward the Zephyr.
It was twice the size of the small craft.
The giant space rock plowed into the Zephyr, tearing it to shreds. The ship exploded in a blinding fury. Twisted metal and debris showered out as the meteorite bowled through the craft. The explosion rocked the Revenant, knocking Zoey, and the others, to the deck.
She climbed back to her feet, and the others staggered into the airlock and crowded around the viewport. They all looked on in horror.
The Zephyr was gone.
Mangled bits of wreckage spiraled out into space.
“That’s just fucking great!” Jaxon slammed his fist into the bulkhead.
Declan stared, slack-jawed. His knees went weak, and a wave of despair rushed over him.
“Brody was on the Zephyr, right?” Mitch’s face was somber.
Declan’s head fell into his hands. His soul ached, and the lump in his throat burned. But he held the tears back. Brody wasn’t perfect, but despite his sins, he was blood.
“This ship doesn’t want us to leave,” Violet said in a grim voice.
“Oh, give me a break,” Jaxon said. “It’s bad luck. That’s all. Nothing supernatural about it.”
“There’s a lot of unexplained shit out there,” 8-Ball said. “Ain’t nothing surprises me anymore. I know I ain’t the only one that’s seen funky shit happening on this ship.”
Nobody seemed ready to volunteer stories, but there was a grim acknowledgment among them. Something strange was happening.
Declan pulled himself together. He pushed the pain into a dark corner and stood tall. It would certainly come back to haunt him later, but he didn’t have time for wallowing now.
He took a deep breath, and did what any good leader would do. He rallied the troops to action. “Look, we’ve got one priority. That’s to get this ship operational in the next 40 hours,” Declan said. “Mitch, Jaxon… quit screwing around and shore up that hull. With as spotty as this ship’s electrical system is, all it would take is for one of those containment hatches to spontaneously open and we’re all in deep trouble. Especially if it were to happen in the middle of a slide-space jump”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Mitch said. He patted Declan on the shoulder. “I’m really sorry, man.”
Mitch nodded to Jaxon and they strolled down the corridor.
“Violet, I want you and Zoey to go over the ship’s control systems one more time,” Declan said. “Then check it again after that.”
“Aye, sir.” Violet’s concerned eyes examined him.
“We could try calling for help,” 8-Ball said.
“Who knows how long it would take for the signal to reach New Earth? If Customs, or the UPDF, did respond they’d confiscate the ship and I’d be arrested, along with several other members of this crew. Not an option. And they are certainly not going to help you liberate your beloved captain.”
8-Ball sighed. Declan had a point.
“I’ll be in the captain’s quarters if anyone needs me.” Declan spun around and headed down the corridor.
“What are you going to do there?” Violet asked.
“Drink.”
Violet chased after him and grabbed his arm. Her eyes burned into him. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”
Declan jerked his arm free. “I think it’s a great idea.”
26
ZOEY
In the CIC, Violet and Zoey ran another diagnostic.
“I don’t understand,” Violet said. “Everything checks out.”
“Why aren’t the reactors responding?”
“I’ve analyzed every line of code. There are no viruses, no mechanical failures. By all rights, they should work.”
Zoey looked at her curiously—there were millions of lines of code. It was obvious Violet had an above average level of intelligence.
The emergency lighting flickered. It was eerie. The three of them exchanged a nervous glance.
“So, I take it you and Declan are a couple?”
Violet crinkled her brow. “Why would you say that?”
“I just got that vibe.”
“No. Me and Declan. No way.” She was adamant. But Zoey could see through her protests. She had seen the way Violet looked at him. Maybe they weren’t a couple, but Violet had feelings for him. That was for certain.
Zoey decided not to pry. She moved on to more pressing subjects. “Tell me about the Numarian curse.”
“It’s just a myth,” Violet said, trying to downplay it.
“You seemed awful spooked about it down in the cargo hold.”
Violet was silent a moment.
“The way I heard it, the Numarians were slaughtered,” 8-Ball said.
“They were a primitive society, known for their wealth and abundance,” Violet said. “Marauders invaded and did the whole rape, pillage, and burn thing. They killed the king’s family and took his treasure. Somehow he survived and put a curse on the treasure. Legend has it that the marauders met with an untimely demise shortly thereafter. In all this time, the treasure has never surfaced. Though many have gone looking.” She paused. “I’ve read numerous accounts of sailors stumbling across the treasure, only to meet with misfortune.”
Zoey looked at her with skepticism.
“Like I said, it’s probably just a myth. No one has ever been able to find any remnants of the Numarian culture.”
“That’s because they were destroyed,” said 8-Ball.
“If that is the Numarian treasure, how did it get aboard this ship?” Zoey asked.
Violet shrugged. “I don’t know. But I found this.” She pulled up a static-filled surveillance video. It was just a short clip. “This is the only video I could find.”
The clip showed a man hunched over the command console in the CIC. He was probably doing the same thing they were—trying to figure out how to get the ship running. He was dressed in civilian clothes. A few minutes later, another man came up behind him, grabbed his head, and slit his throat.
Blood poured out of his neck as his body collapsed to the deck. The attacker just stood over him, holding the blood soaked knife. He turned and left the CIC.
Zoey caught a glimpse of the attacker’s face. He looked a lot like the man they found in the toilet stall.
The video turned to static, and the clip ended.
“That clip is dated six months ago
,” Violet said.
“They must have stumbled across the ship like we did,” 8-Ball said.
“Why did they turn on each other?” Zoey asked.
Violet arched an eyebrow at her.
Deep down inside, they all knew why—the crew had gone mad. And it had something to do with this ship.
In the captain’s room, Declan’s lustful eyes ogled the bottle of McMillan scotch. He pulled off the top and smelled its rich aroma. A fruity and sweet toffee flavor. He closed his eyes and inhaled, infusing his lungs. He could almost taste it.
10 years. It was a long time. Just one drink wouldn’t hurt. His brother had just gotten killed. He deserved at least a sip, he thought. Just a small little reprieve from the pain of life.
One drink.
Not two, or ten, or the whole bottle.
Just one.
He had age and wisdom behind him now. He could stop at just one. Maybe two. Sure, two wouldn’t hurt. Three at the most.
That would be a respectable amount. He could pour out three glasses, then throw away the rest of the bottle before he had the first sip. That would surely limit his intake.
But this scotch was too good to throw out. And they certainly weren’t making any more of it.
No. It would be a sin to throw it out.
He could control himself, he thought.
He poured a glass and watched the amber liquid swirl around as it rose to the top. It was much more than a single shot.
He picked up the glass and held it to his lips. He sniffed the aroma again. He was about to slug it down, but he stopped himself. He set the glass back down on the counter and eyed it some more. He was so tortured he was almost sweating. How much willpower did he really have, he wondered?
Across the ship, Jaxon and Mitch were fully suited up. They used the adjacent hallway as an airlock, and had loaded in their repair gear. There were a couple of tool boxes and a dozen metallic roles the size of paper towels.
“I can’t believe we’re stuck on this rust bucket,” Jaxon said.
“I can’t believe Brody’s gone.” Mitch’s face was bleak.
“I wouldn’t get too bent out of shape about it. It’s a six way split now.”
Mitch looked at Jaxon in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Brody always was an asshole anyway.”
“That’s Declan’s brother, man!” Mitch shook his head.
He pressed a button on the bulkhead, opening the hatch. Air rushed out of the compartment. The two entered the area of the breach. A gouge about a foot wide carved its way through several sections of the hull. Its edges were sharp and nasty. You could see straight through to the nebula outside.
“We need to sand these edges flush, then we can start patching,” Mitch said.
“I’ll grab the sander,” said Jaxon.
He headed back to the tool box. He lifted the lid—snakes slithered about the container. Jaxon shrieked as he sprang back, eyes wide.
“What is it?”
Jaxon looked again at the tool kit—nothing but an assortment of tools. No snakes.
“It’s nothing,” Jaxon said.
He knelt down and grabbed the sander. He moved to the bulkhead and began to sand down the rough burrs where the metal warped inward. Amber sparks showered as the sander ground the metal smooth.
Mitch took the metallic role and peeled off a strip that was about 2 feet long. It was like a giant roll of tape with an adhesive on one side. He affixed it to the bulkhead, covering the damage.
The material was soft and pliable. It was made of a photosensitive alloy that hardened when exposed to a certain spectrum of UV light. When fully cured, it was harder than composite steel.
Mitch ran a special UV wand over the material. The tape cured and bonded to the bulkhead. He repeated the process over and over again as they inched their way down the damaged bulkhead.
Jaxon began obsessing on insignificant details, slowing the process. He was grinding the burrs down to perfection.
“Hurry up, man,” Mitch said. “It doesn’t need to be perfect. Just focus on the big protrusions. We’ve got another 45 minutes of oxygen before we have to recharge the unit.”
“Why don’t you sand them yourself.” Jaxon glared at him.
“I’m just saying. This ain’t a beauty contest.”
Jaxon threw the sander down. It clanked against the deck. He stormed into the next compartment, and sealed the hatch behind him.
“Hey, what the fuck, man?”
Mitch marched to the hatch and tried to open it. But it wouldn’t budge. He pressed the access button on the bulkhead a few times, but it didn’t work.
“This isn’t funny. Open the hatch, Jaxon!”
There was no reply.
“I’m serious, man. Open the hatch right now!”
He banged his fist against the hatch. Still no response from Jaxon.
“Violet, do you copy? Violet, are you there?”
Nothing but static crackled over the comm line.
“Can anybody read me?”
No response.
Mitch trotted down the corridor to the far hatch. It was sealed shut as well. He was trapped in this compartment with 41 minutes of oxygen remaining in his suit. And he knew the meter probably wasn’t accurate.
27
WALKER
Walker watched as Malik and Saaja were escorted into the detention center.
Malik’s face was grim, and his eyes looked even darker than usual.
“957,” Lu said.
“What’s that?”
“There are 500, 2 person cells in this detention block. They’re almost at capacity. Those two make 957.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m good with numbers, and I count as they come and go.”
“Bullshit.
“Okay, I went to basic with one of the guards. He tells me the count, and also keeps me supplied.” Lu took another drag off the joint. “It was 954 after they took the main course to the galley. Then you came in, plus those two, makes 957. They’ll use the strong as forced labor. The weak and sick will be eliminated, or used for experiments.”
“What kind of experiments?”
“Don’t ask.”
Walker surveyed the bulkheads, looking for weaknesses. There was a poster of a naked Decluvian pinup queen stuck to the wall. As far as Decluvians went, she wasn’t bad looking.
“Unless you’ve got a plasma torch, you’re not getting out of here.”
“What’s the size of the crew?”
“There’s 623 operational crew members and 2112 Terrestrial Infantry. But most of them are on the ground right now.”
Walker pondered the numbers.
“What are you going to do, take on the whole ship by yourself?”
“Yes.” He was dead serious too.
Lu chuckled for a moment. “I like you. Optimistic. Good sense of humor.”
But Walker wasn’t laughing.
It wasn’t long before two armed guards came for Walker. One of them kept his weapon aimed at Walker as the other disengaged the containment beam. They motioned for him to exit the cell.
“It was nice knowing you,” Lu said. “Sure you don’t want a hit?” He offered Walker the joint.
Walker stepped out of the cell and one of the guards cuffed him.
The two guards were arguing about something, but Walker couldn’t understand what they were saying.
Lu translated. “They’re debating whether or not to kill you now, or wait till they get to the galley. That way they won’t have to carry you.”
One of the guards snapped at Lu, telling him to shut up.
“Seems the Emperor personally requested you be added to the menu,” Lu said. “Making friends in high places.”
The guards marched Walker into the corridor and headed toward the galley. Walker was going to be an appetizer, or an entree—maybe even dessert. None of which sounded appealing.
There were only two guards. He could probably take
them, he thought. But with his hands cuffed behind his back, it would limit his ability to fight.
He was restrained with hinged, high security, double locked cuffs. If he had some time, and a shim, he could get out with ease. Slam a pair of double locked handcuffs against a hard surface a few times, and the double lock will release. Then it’s possible to shim the spring-loaded mechanism. If you know what you’re doing, you can be out of a pair of handcuffs in a few minutes. And Walker knew what he was doing.
You didn’t just sign up to become a Reaper, go to boot camp, and get your badge. If you were enlisted, you did 8 weeks of recruit training. If you were officer material, you did 13 weeks at Officer Candidate School. Then you had to pass your physical screening test and get accepted to the program. Less than 6% of applicants were admitted. Once you had your Reaper contract, you attended Basic Space Combat Training at the Naval Special Warfare Academy. Roughly 80% of candidates failed to graduate on their first attempt. After graduating, you went through another 2 years of special ops training. One of those special ops schools was focused on how to survive and escape POW situations. Reapers were taught how to circumvent almost every restraining device and technique.
But these alien cuffs were something he had never encountered before. They were made out of some type of composite material. The old steel handcuffs with a simple chain were easy to break. Lock up the chain and apply enough torque, and the connectors would shear off. The stronger the metal, the more brittle, the easier it would snap. High quality handcuffs were easier to get out of than the cheap ones.
Walker wasn’t going to be able to shear his way out of these. The design, and the composite material, was too strong. But halfway to the galley, his wrists were starting to burn. The oil in his skin was having a reaction with the alien composite material. Wisps of smoke were wafting from the metal. It was disintegrating. The cuffs were designed to restrain Decluvians—not humans.
Walker stretched his fingers around and rubbed them over the hinges. With any luck, the oil would weaken the hinges enough for him to snap the cuffs in half.
When they reached the galley, the cook was bitching up a storm that Walker was still alive. He didn’t want a mess in his galley.
The yellow skinned guard put the barrel of his rifle to Walker’s head. The cook hollered even louder.
