Swallowing as much of my fear as I could digest, I left the controls and operated the portal links. A thin tube extended from my vessel, and kissed the side of the battlecruiser. The instrument panel beside the door showed me that the pressures had equalised, and through the window I could see the port doorway in the side of the battlecruiser slide open. Nothing moved at the far end. With a hiss of compressed air, my door slid open and I moved carefully along the thin tube that now protected me from the vacuum of space, a hostile vacuum that would kill me in seconds if it could. But a known threat. What hostile threat would await me inside the Imperium starship?
Setting foot across the other doorway was a big thing. The Imperium had a habit of torturing their captives, often showing the footage live across the star systems they held in order to discourage dissent in the star systems they held. Entering by the Admiral’s Entry probably qualified me for extra disembowelling or something, so I was naturally nervous. But the interior was dark. Nothing moved, and the ship was silent.
My laser gun was in one hand, and for good measure I had a flamethrower in the other. A third hand would have been nice, to either wipe my brow or steady myself - unfortunately I didn’t have one available. On my wrist was an instrument a little like a watch. This one had readouts about oxygen and atmosphere levels. The air was breathable, so swallowing a little more fear I stepped across into the ship. The door hissed closed behind me, and I looked around. Admirals always get a welcoming party to show them around the ship. All I could see was a thin layer of dust underfoot. The switches and controls scattered around the hatch were unfamiliar, so I pressed a few at random in the hope that some lights might come on. Typical of my luck - nothing. Three corridors led away from me. One ahead into the bowels of the ship, and leading for and one aft. On the basis that most admirals would head for either the Bridge or the bar (or both) and would expect not to have to wander around the ship too much to find them, I chose the middle corridor. When I stepped into it, a faint emergency lighting system flickered and came to life. So at least the ship still had some power.
The emergency lighting was not much of a blessing for my nerves though, as the lights were spread out and created shadows that somehow were more threatening than the darkness. I advanced slowly, fanning the flamethrower from side to side in the best military manner. Every so often I spun around see if anything was following me. The dimly lit corridor remained stubbornly still, silent and empty of threat, so I continued.
At last the corridor ended at a door. In Imperium script, the words ‘Restricted Access’ were stencilled across the whole door. I automatically assumed it was the bar, and was mildly disappointed when the door opened easily and the dim lighting revealed the command bridge of the battlecruiser. That the bridge was deserted too made me relax a little. No star ship crew leaves the bridge unattended, as long as the crew is functioning. Ah. That probably meant no crew, or at least, no functioning crew. My brief relaxation stopped abruptly, and my tension level rose. Still watching the corners and the shadows, I moved cautiously to the wheelhouse desk. Odd, isn’t it, how the old nautical terms still get used in space travel? The indicators functioned normally, or so it seemed. The engines were all functional and operating at standby. Tentatively I touched the power lever and pushed it. A tremor ran through the ship as the engine power rose. Quickly I pulled the lever back. I did not want the cruiser accelerating away from my own ship. Knowing my Unit Commander well, I had an idea that he would be more likely to clap me in detention on charges of losing my ship if I returned with this battlecruiser instead of my own Speedbird. Never underestimate the ability of your superiors to be stupid and vindictive is a good motto in the military.
I looked around the work stations. The captain’s chair might give me some answers, so I strode fearlessly across the empty bridge and sat in the chair of command. I swung it to and fro, and then spun all the way around in it. As chairs went, it was impressive; as the command centre of an interstellar battlecruiser I was a little underwhelmed. Placing the flamethrower on the floor beside the chair, and laying the laser pistol across my legs, I examined the control buttons on the chair arms. There had been a reply to my comm: it should have come from here unless the ship had a separate comms room. Certainly the battlecruiser was big enough for that.
One button was marked ‘Intercom’. Well, I was here so perhaps it was time that I announced myself. Somewhat self- consciously, I pressed the button and held it down. “This is an envoy of the Free Union. I have taken possession of this vessel,” I announced rather pretentiously. My voice came out of the speakers hidden in the ceiling, and presumably echoed around the star ship. I released the button, and waited.
“Help me.”
The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. I jumped out of the command seat, grabbing my weapons, but the bridge remained empty. The voice had been deep, hoarse, breathless, and unidentifiable as male or female. And of course, the speaker could not be seen. I relaxed. Well, a little. I swept my gaze around the bridge again, but apart from a few small cobwebs, I could see nothing unusual so I sat down in the captain’s chair and found the comms controls hidden under the drinks holder.
I knew my base frequency all too well, usually from tuning in to receive querulous demands for my location, reprimands for not being where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there, and of course for being given increasingly bizarre orders. The usual fare for any reconnaissance pilot on a detached mission, of course. The times I contacted Star Base first, I normally had to wait around for ages until my superiors had decided whose turn it was to shout at me this time. This time however the Reconnaissance Unit Star Commander was on the other end of the comms channel at once, which I decided had to be a bad sign.
“Sitrep!” my Flight Commander barked at me, as if I was a naughty puppy.
“I’m on the bridge of the Imperium battlecruiser, sir. I have taken formal possession of the vessel for the Free Union.”
“The crew? We don’t want you to cause a border infraction, but we do want that ship.”
“No sign of the crew, sir,” I replied. “No one prevented me from boarding, or indeed welcomed me aboard.” I had decided not to mention the scary disembodied voice. My Flight Commander was usually a disembodied voice and I was more scared of him, frankly.
“Right. You are to remain on board in possession of the battlecruiser. Is it operational? Could you recover it alone?”
“Yes sir, but the control systems are unfamiliar and I’d not like to try to program and control a hyper jump without some backup.”
“That’s fair enough.”
The Flight Commander sounded so reasonable that I started to panic. Not without good reason, of course.
“But you are to familiarise yourself with the weapons systems. Should the Imperium try to retake possession of the ship, you are to respond appropriately.”
“You mean fight? Me, on my own?”
“You and the brand-new Star class battlecruiser you are sitting in, you mean? Which has state-of-the-art automation and enough weapons to pulverise a medium sized star system in about three minutes?”
“When you put it like that, sir…”
“The recovery team is being assembled now. You won’t be alone for long. Don’t mess this one up, boyo. The Free Union!”
“And The F.U. to you, too, sir.”
My Flight Commander closed the comms channel. Typical. No gratitude, just a veiled threat. Feeling far from relaxed, I left the captain’s chair and wandered around the bridge until I located the weapons and defence system console. This was easy as it was covered in big red buttons with alarming warning labels all over them of the ‘Release Mega Death on the Insurgents’ ‘Press Button A to immolate Identified Continent, Button B to nuke entire planet (Warning, requires authorisation from someone only a bit more senior than you first)’ variety. I shuddered. A second bank of controls seemed to handle the defence screens, so I activated those.
“Help me. Hel
p me now.”
The disembodied voice seemed quite annoyed that I hadn’t leapt to obey its earlier demands, for even though the voice was low and husky, it carried a certain astringency in tone that was a new departure.
“Help you?” I shouted back. “Who are you? Where are you?”
“Seek and you shall find,” came the reply.
I paused to reflect on this. The reply gave me certain information to work with, after all. Firstly, that whoever was speaking could hear me even if I didn’t use the comms systems, and secondly that it was able to quote from an ancient Sol religious book. That either made it a well-educated voice or a religious nutter, or both, and it was hard to decide which might be more dangerous to my health.
“Why?” I asked.
The quiet voice from the speakers was now showing some signs of annoyance. I once did one of those courses on analysing body language and voice patterns, so I could tell. I know - I only went because I fancied the lecturer, but still I picked up some useful hints.
“What do you mean, ‘Why’? Here I am, asking, nay, begging you for help and you ask why?”
“Look, I’ve taken control of this spaceship,” I replied. “I am technically therefore the ranking officer on board. You want help, fine. Tell me who you are, and where to find you. Then I’ll think about helping you. What help do you want, anyway?”
“I’m dying. I need your help. Hurry. Take the lift to the third level, then follow the corridor to the end, and I’ll be there.”
“Waiting for me?” I asked.
“And dying. Remember that bit.”
“Right.”
The voice went quiet then, and I sat in the captain’s chair to think. This needed some thought. If a member of the crew was alive, albeit hurt, then legally was I still salvaging an abandoned vessel? My Flight Commander might get all official on me, on the grounds that someone would get all official on him and I was a better culprit in his eyes than he was. He might be happier if this unidentified voice did, in fact, expire. However, there was a possibility that the voice was not a crew member but a passenger or a technician from the builders since the battlecruiser was so new. I could tell it was new as the buttons on the weapons delivery console showed no sign of use at all, and Imperium battlecruisers had a well-earned reputation for blasting at things both on suspicion, general principles, boredom and ennui, and most commonly of all by accident (on purpose) with plausible deniability. And if it was a crew member but they were incapacitated, then salvage rights would still apply, I recalled from my lecture in Room 101 at the Space Corps training base on ‘Making Money From your Missions’. And if they were a junior member of the crew, for example one of the cleaning staff or a vending machine operative, then they would be simply disappeared or bribed by my superiors anyway.
The lift was in a corner of the bridge, handily identified from the four other doorways by the word ‘Lift’ stencilled on the wall above it. I checked my weapons again, and then examined the list of options. The third level was shown as ‘Stores and Reclamation/Recycling’, which was encouraging. A damaged member of the crew would head for Engineering, Armoury, or best of all Medical; unless they were a compulsive eater of course. More cheerfully I pressed the door button. The doors slid open quietly to reveal a smallish lift for maybe five persons, and a few more cobwebs. The cobwebs surprised me as the ship did seem too new to have acquired them. Level Three. I touched the control, and the doors hissed shut. There was no sensation of movement, but the indicator lights flickered between the floor levels until the lift halted. Level Three. Below this were only two maintenance levels and then the hull itself. I suppose if this was a Reclamation/Recycling level, I really was in the bowels of the battlecruiser.
I pointed the flamethrower at the doors of the lift and with my other hand thumbed the button to open them. Of course, the doors behind me opened instead, so I spun around and pasted my most martial glare onto my face. Ahead the corridor ran down the not inconsiderable length of the battlecruiser. The lighting was fitful and incomplete and the corridor narrow and dark.
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t like dark, narrow corridors,” I muttered.
“Actually, they rather add to the ambience, I find,” came the disembodied reply, doing nothing for my level of confidence but a great deal to enhance my natural suspicion, not to mention topping up the reserves of fear.
“Are you sure that you need my aid?” I asked, without moving a step further down that doom-laden corridor.
“Oh yes,” replied the voice. “Help, help, I’m dying,” it added, somewhat insincerely and in my view with a certain lack of conviction.
I pressed the lift buttons again, but the door stayed resolutely shut. Instead I tried the trigger on the flamethrower, and a quite satisfactory jet of fire spurted down the corridor, illuminating nooks and crannies and curves that all failed to hold anything likely to be threatening.
“How is that helping me?” I heard.
“It’s not. It’s helping me. Now, where are you?”
“Down at the end of the corridor. There’s a storage area and I’m trapped in it. Help, please.”
Slowly, one step at a time, I moved down the corridor, occasionally checking behind me to see that nothing nasty or unpleasant was likely to cut off my escape route, or anything else for that matter. “Who are you?” I called out.
“We haven’t been introduced. Please, move faster, I’m not doing at all well here.”
“Are you one of the crew?”
“The Imperium takes a strong line on stowaways. Or to put it another way, the stowaways usually end up on a strong line.”
Prevarication and gentle evasion did not impress me. My father had been a lawyer, and getting my weekly allowance out of him had taught me many things as a child. “So you aren’t a crew member, then.”
“Well, it might be best to think of me as supercargo. Are you coming to save my life, or what?”
I didn’t answer. By now I had come close to the point of the corridor where there was an intersection. I poked the end of the flamethrower around the corner and triggered a short blast.
“Missed. Thankfully, or your rescue mission would be rather misnamed. There’s no one there, I’m in the storage area at the end of the corridor.”
Peering down the corridor, I could see that the lights at the end of what now seemed to be a tunnel rather than a high-tech spaceship facility were few and far between. It might be more accurate to say that I couldn’t see, in fact. But there are times when a contracted Free Union Space Corps pilot just has to salute and say ‘FU’; this was not one of them. So I slowly moved closer to the storage bay, trying to make as little noise as possible. Occasional cobwebs brushed against my face and I slapped them away with irritation. This was meant to be a newly commissioned battlecruiser, not a ship recommissioned in haste after a long layoff. Some maintenance team had been a bit slapdash with their cleaning.
The storage bay had no door, and no interior lights. Shadows lay all around, and there were occasional glints of bright metal. Unidentifiable heaps of what seemed to be spare clothing and uniforms were jumbled up in one corner.
“So, where are you, why are you in here of all places, and what help do you need?” I asked, still keeping the flamethrower and my hand blaster at the ready.
There was a hint of movement in one corner, and I focused my attention on it. One of the piles of clothing was stirring. Slowly the pile shook itself and a bare, naked leg appeared. The leg was quite clearly feminine, and I wondered what else might be about to appear. My speculation, caused I admit by having spent the last month entirely without companionship, ended when next an arm and then a head emerged; then lay very still. I holstered the blaster and stepped towards what I assumed must be a crew member, with some disappointment. My vision of wealth beyond the dreams of, well anything I could dream, following the salvage award slipped away as a live crew member was automatically in law still in possession of the ship and I was therefore here
illegally. Unusually for me, I was in luck. The crew member’s head fell off the body and then scowled at me; which I thought was somewhat uncivil; but at least she was dead and therefore not in a legal state to contest my claims.
“I hate to say this, but you might be beyond my limited medical skill set,” I told the head. “I’m not very sure that I can do anything to help you.”
“No, you will do just nicely.”
The voice was still disembodied, which was a bit odd when there was a body on the floor in front of me. As I watched, the heap of clothes shuddered and heaved again and another leg appeared. Nowhere near as sultry and attractive as the first leg, this was in fact skinny and exceptionally hairy with a vicious looking claw on one end.
Scout Pilot Of the Free Union (Space Scout Book 1) Page 4
