Derelict: Tomb (Derelict Saga Book 2)

by Paul E. Cooley

  Dunn flipped his attention to Taulbee’s feed. His XO sat in the SV-52 and hovered fifty meters above Gunny’s squad on Mira’s topside. The ‘52’s bright lights illuminated an area of nearly thirty meters, but quickly faded beyond that circle. He’d been following Murdoch and Copenhaver as they’d placed their first line. When they returned for another, he’d followed them back just as Gunny had suggested. Taulbee was their lookout and ready with the line in case he had to get them out of trouble.

  LCpl Wendt and Private Lyke, the other fire-team in Gunny’s squad, had placed their first line without any supervision. Except from Gunny, of course. Dunn couldn’t imagine the days before block communication, constant video feeds, and mag-boots. The early S&R Companies, once a fleet unto themselves, traveled the asteroid belt and the burgeoning commercial shipping lanes to help ships and miners in distress. After a hundred years of technological leaps, not to mention the ever-shrinking budget for military search-and-rescue operations, the S&R fleet was now down to three ships, and a whopping 50 personnel.

  He wondered what it must have been like to try and board ships in z-g before the magnetic technologies had reached their peak. Frequent malfunctions, a crushingly slow and awkward mag-walk pace, and short battery life plagued humankind’s first untethered steps in z-g. S&R personnel had died trying to save the multitude of wildcat miners and resource hunters that entered into the business with no training for z-g survival. The mortality rate had been high for the first decades, both among those that chose to live beyond Earth and Luna stations, and those that sacrificed themselves to make it possible.

  The first time he’d stepped out in space without a tether, he’d nearly shit himself. True z-g gave you no sense of being human beyond the swirling cauldron of nervous bile in your stomach and nerve-endings screaming that you were about to fall into the void.

  The first ship he’d walked upon with mag-boots had been an ancient S&R wreck still orbiting Mars. It hadn’t been damaged by flechette or beam weapons. It hadn’t seen combat. What it had seen was explosive decompression resulting in all hands lost. Marines in boot at the SFMC base in Schiaparelli Crater all made the trip to the wreck, walked across its surface, learned how to safely breach its pressure doors, perform survival maneuvers, and shoot one another through the z-g corridors.

  He hadn’t ever discussed it with other marines, but while on that ship, the S&R Cellianne, he’d felt the ghosts of the original crew in his every step. Forty hands lost in the blink of an eye, but the ship was still there flying in an endless orbit around the red planet. For all he knew, it would be used by the SFMC for generations to come. Of course, after the Satellite Battle, SFMC now had hundreds of wrecks to use for training. He wondered how many of those wrecks he and his Company had fought upon.

  Captain, Black said, breaking his fugue.

  The AI had initiated a private block connection. Dunn took a sip of coffee before he allowed Black to enter his mind and read his thoughts. Yes, Black?

  I have received a message from Colonel Heyes on Trident Station. The Trio has sent a communique as well. Would you like me to transfer them to your block?

  He raised an eyebrow. Should these be viewed in private? It was a strange question to ask, but since Black had seen fit to communicate through a private block connection, it was also a fair one.

  I do not know the contents of the Trio’s message. It was marked for your eyes only. I assumed the missive from Colonel Heyes should be treated in the same fashion.

  Dunn nodded to himself. Okay. Let’s see what the colonel has to say.

  His block notified him of two new files. The presence in his mind retreated, but didn’t leave. Black kept the block connection alive, but had effectively stepped away from the captain’s thoughts. Dunn was thankful for that. Black? I’m going to sever the link. Nothing personal.

  Understood, Captain. I expected as much.

  The block connection dropped on Black’s end. Dunn took a mental sigh of relief. He could have tried to keep the AI from reading his every thought but knew from experience the effort was filled with frustration and exhaustion. Keeping his private thoughts private was always a risk during a block-to-block connection. Best to just sever it and hope he didn’t offend the AI in the process.

  He opened the file on his block and streamed it to the private holo-display. The SFMC logo appeared and then faded as Colonel Heyes’ ridiculously decorated private office appeared. The colonel, out of shape and looking like the universal definition for the word “bureaucrat,” tented his hands in front of him on the cherry-wood desk. He smiled like a cannibal.

  “Captain Dunn. Congratulations on reaching Mira without incident. I know it must have been a trying voyage, but your Company has made me proud.” The colonel paused as if his words warranted applause. The smile drooped slightly. “However, I do have a matter of some urgency to discuss with you.

  “During a routine inventory check, we discovered that ten crates were mistakenly placed aboard your ship. Their serial numbers are enclosed. Quirinus is unable to tell us how it happened, but those crates were not supposed to leave Trident Station under any circumstances. Therefore, I must ask you to not open them. If you already have, you are ordered to return their contents. These crates and their contents are considered quarantined items under Section 7 of the General Code.” The colonel’s smile disappeared completely. “It’s an order I expect you to follow.” A few seconds of dead air dragged out while Heyes continued looking grim. At last, his smile, more fake than ever, reappeared. “I look forward to your first images of Mira’s interior and wish you the best of luck, Captain. Heyes out.”

  The image of the office and Heyes’ fat-cheeked face faded back into the SFMC logo. Then the serial numbers appeared. He transferred the numbers into his block and leaned back in his chair.

  Ten crates. Heyes said they had ten crates aboard that didn’t belong. Gunny’s squads hadn’t mentioned them, nor had Gunny himself. How the hell had that happened?

  He brought up the ship’s inventory, scanned it for the crates, found them, and then blinked. The ten were listed as “Classified Materials.” And who loaded them? According to the manifest logs, Kalimura’s squad had placed them aboard S&R Black. How did she not point out those ten crates? He didn’t know the corporal all that well, but Kalimura certainly seemed to take any task very seriously. Gunny had said she bordered on OCD tendencies. Surely she asked Quirinus about them.

  A slight chill hit him at the thought. What had the colonel said? “Quirinus is unable to tell us how…” That made no sense at all. The members of the Trio each had their own specialization. Portunes was best suited for tactics and helping the SFMC with mission planning and execution. Janus had supervisory control over both Trident Station and the Neptune Shipyards. Quirinus’ responsibilities involved logistics and quartermaster duties. In other words, Quirinus knew everything about anything that entered the station and also kept logs on each and every piece of cargo entering or leaving the supply depots.

  Malfunction? That was even more worrisome. If a member of the Trio had developed a fault, the other two could soon be prone to illogical thinking or decision making. But if that were the case, wouldn’t the tech-heads at Trident Station have noticed?

  He moved aside the colonel’s message and brought up the one from the Trio. Whatever they had to say was probably more important. He loaded the file and watched as the private holo-display lit up before him.

  Instead of a logo, a still image of Trident Station filled his view. The massive complex of cylindrical modules, the wheels connecting them together, and the bright hue of Neptune glowing behind them was beautiful. It was his favorite picture of the station and one the Trio was obviously a fan of as well.

  “Captain Dunn,” Portunes’ voice said, “the Trio is aware you have ten crates in your possession that Colonel Heyes believes should not be aboard. We strongly recommend you disobey his orders and become familiar with their contents. We believe their use will directly
affect the success or failure of your mission. If you encounter exo-solar material, they will become invaluable resources to keeping your ship safe as well as the members of your crew.” The message ended and cut to black.

  “What the fuck?” Dunn said aloud.

  No longer focused on the internal audio his block had provided, he heard Oakes say, “Sorry, sir?”

  Dunn disconnected from the holo-display and his eyes once again filled with the S&R Black’s cockpit. Oakes had turned in his chair to face the captain, his eyebrows raised. “Nothing, Lieutenant. As you were.”

  “Aye, sir.” Oakes spun in his chair and went back to monitoring the feeds and flight information.

  Dunn suddenly wanted an ocean of THC streaming through his bloodstream. It wouldn’t help him understand the two messages any better, but it would certainly make him less anxious. This was the second time the Trio had advised him to disobey a direct order from his commanding officer. Before this mission, he’d never had an AI question a military order, much less suggest insubordination.

  The first “advice” had been to blow Mira to pieces and say it couldn’t be salvaged. Now? Hey, open these top secret crates although you’ve been told not to. He’d ignored their first piece of advice, and now he had a squad missing in action, and a dead marine as a result. And although he’d have been court-martialed for not even trying to salvage Mira, he suddenly wondered if the Trio had been right all along.

  FUBAR, he thought, everything is FUBAR. He stood from his chair. “You have the bridge, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir,” Oakes said without turning.

  He headed out of the cockpit and through the first hatch. The cargo bay was a long walk, but it would give him time to think. First, he had to confirm the crates were actually aboard. Once he saw them with his own eyes, he’d figure out what to do next.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dickerson knew Elliott was a goner. There was no way they could keep him alive long enough to reach an autodoc. No way. He was going to die here in this shuttle inside this fucking ghost ship. The best they could hope for was to return his body to S&R Black for a proper ceremony. At worst, he’d be just another corpse left to float inside the derelict.

  He’d been staring at Elliott’s mag-locked suit as if he could somehow make eye contact with the comatose marine through the impenetrable visor. But he didn’t need to see the man’s face to know he was dying; the suit’s life sign readouts made that fact all too certain.

  The hatch to the cockpit slid aside. He broke eye contact with Elliott’s suit and looked up at Kalimura. The corporal shut the hatch behind her and stood in silence. “We have to leave. Now,” she said over the comms.

  “Wait. What?” Carbonaro turned her helmet to face the corporal. “Why the fuck would we do that?”

  Kalimura seemed to sag slightly. “Because this area is unsafe,” she said.

  Dickerson rose to his feet. “You talk to Black?”

  The corporal nodded. “I did. Black suggests we get the hell out of here. I tend to agree with her.”

  “So you talked to Gunny?” Carbonaro asked, hope in her voice.

  “No,” Kalimura said. She moved forward to Elliott and paused before she spoke. “Let’s get him ready to move.”

  “What do you mean you didn’t talk to Gunny?” Carbonaro said, her voice higher pitched than normal.

  Kalimura stopped in mid-step and put her feet down. She stood to her full height, her helmet pointed directly at Carbonaro. “Carb. Focus. We’re still unable to talk directly to the command crew. But we have to leave right now.”

  Silence followed her words. The last sentence was punctuated with anger and frustration. Carbonaro paused for a moment before raising herself from the deck. “Yes, Corporal,” she said.

  Dickerson moved forward to help Kalimura with Elliott. “I’ll carry him,” he said.

  Kalimura moved to help and then stopped. He looked up at her. “What?”

  “Is there a point?” Kalimura asked.

  No one spoke. Dickerson sighed inside his helmet, unaware his mic was still hot. Kalimura swung her helmet to peer at him and he felt as though the two of them had locked eyes. “No. There’s no point.”

  “Fuck that,” Carbonaro said. “I’ll carry him. Let’s get him to--”

  “Stow it, Carb,” Kalimura said. “We’re taking him. We have a chance, but it’s a thin one. I have updated schematics of Mira. If they’re accurate, we’ll find an autodoc and an emergency power generator. But I want to be very clear. I have two marines left in my squad that are alive and relatively healthy. My priority is making sure you two get out of here alive. If Elliott becomes a liability to that priority, then we’ll leave him behind. No arguments. Understood?”

  Carbonaro muttered something through the comms, but Dickerson wasn’t sure what it was. Kalimura either didn’t hear it or didn’t care.

  “Aye, Corporal,” Dickerson said.

  “Aye, Boss,” Carb said.

  “Good.” She leaned down to grab Elliott beneath his arms. “Gear up. I want everything we salvaged from the skiff on our backs. After that, we’ll get him up.”

  Dickerson passed out the flechette rifles, extra magazines, the remains of the medkit, the beam cutters and batteries, as well as liquid rations. The three marines quickly filled their suit packs and even Elliott’s. If he died, Dickerson was going to take his pack. Since he’d no idea if they’d ever find another way to resupply, they couldn’t take any chances. He didn’t know why, but he made sure Kalimura didn’t see him take the strangely marked cylinder out of the sample case before ramming it into his suit pack. The moment it disappeared inside, he felt guilty. He almost removed it. Almost.

  Once they cut his suit magnetics, Elliott weighed nothing. The three of them easily raised him from the deck. Dickerson mag-locked one of Elliott’s gloves to his suit pack and put the rest of him over his shoulder. Kalimura walked to the cargo bay hatch and put her hand over the “OPEN” button.

  “Okay, let’s say goodbye to our little home,” she said.

  “Thanks for nothing,” Carb muttered.

  Kalimura punched the button. The warning lights flashed yellow, bathing the marines in surreal light. The pumps came on and swallowed as much atmosphere as they could back into the reserve tanks. Then the lights turned red. The hatch slowly slid upward revealing a rectangle of absolute darkness.

  “Carb,” Kalimura said, “watch our backs. Dickerson, follow me.”

  “Aye,” the two marines said in unison.

  The corporal’s suit lights came to life, bright circles penetrating the yawning mouth of blackness ahead. Once again, the darkness swallowed the light a little more than five meters out. “Carb? Get your rifle and keep it handy.”

  “Aye, Boss.”

  Before Carbonaro had even replied, Kalimura had her rifle in her hands. Dickerson rolled his eyes and pulled his pistol from his belt. With Elliott mag-locked to his suit, he had one free hand. If the Corporal was calling for weapons, he sure as shit wasn’t going to be unarmed when they stepped into the cavernous shuttle bay.

  Kalimura stepped out of the shuttle and Dickerson followed. The first few steps were awkward as he swung his helmet lights side to side to cover their flank.

  The corporal’s helmet light shined on one of the corpses from the shuttle. It had hit the far wall, chips of crimson ice floating beside it. One of its arms had broken off like a piece of frozen chicken. Could have done without seeing that, he thought to himself.

  They hugged the wall, bypassing the O2 station they’d used and continued to the back of the shuttle bay. Kalimura’s helmet light panned starboard and illuminated a large pressure door. The moment the light hit the door, the luminescent emergency strips came to life. The words “CARGO BAY” glowed in bright green.

  “Shit,” Carb said, “how did we not see this earlier?”

  “Because we weren’t looking for it,” Kalimura said. “The strips require a direct hit from a light to charge t
hem. We could have wandered around this bay for hours before finding this door.”

  Kalimura reached for a small recessed panel next to the pressure door. She tapped it with her fingers and it swung open. A moment later, she wound the emergency power generator until a light on the panel glowed green. “Listen up,” she said over the comms, “we don’t know what’s on the other side of this door. So be ready. For anything. Carb? I want an angle inside the room. On my right. I’ll take the left.”

  “Copy, Boss.”

  Carbonaro mag-walked to the right side of the door, dropped to her knees, and aimed her rifle. Once it opened, she’d have a view of the room from the middle to the left. Even though her lights would only provide enough illumination to see the first few meters, it was better than nothing.

  Dickerson bent his knees trying to make himself as small a target as possible. His responsibility was to fire on anything directly in front of them. His pistol, hardly as effective as a rifle, would at least provide covering fire if something came at them. Nothing is coming at us, he thought to himself. This ship is a goddamned tomb.

  “On three,” Kalimura said. She counted off and then tripped the panel.

  Dickerson held his breath as the pressure door slid aside, heart racing. The three marines’ lights pierced the darkness, but only to a point. At the illumination’s edge, he made out shadowy rectangles and cylinders. Probably crates and drums, but it was difficult to tell. He was just happy something horrible hadn’t jumped through the wide rectangle of darkness to rip off his face.

  “Clear,” Kalimura said.

  “Clear,” Carb echoed.

  Dickerson exhaled heavily into his mic. “Clear from what I can tell.”