Derelict: Tomb (Derelict Saga Book 2)

by Paul E. Cooley

  During their trip down the corridor, they’d come to a few T-intersections. He wanted to travel them, see where they led, and discover what treasures they might contain. Then again, they might very well harbor horrors. He shivered as the memory of the pinecone things once more jumped into his consciousness.

  Carbonaro went first. She stepped into the slip-point and thrust herself upward. A moment later, her voice popped through his helmet. “Come on up. Be careful. There’s some damage.”

  “Of course there is,” he said. He checked his flanks to make sure nothing was creeping up on him, and stepped inside the slip-point. After taking one more look around him, he deactivated his boots and pistoned his legs. As soon as he was less than a meter off the deck, he knew he’d put too much force into the jump. He was flying upwards through a shaft of darkness. His helmet light did little to illuminate the area since the materials seemed to eat the light, reflecting nothing back. But what he could see were shapes.

  Dickerson hit his suit thrusters to slow him down from the suicidal 4m/s, but it was a little late for that. The nest of shadows he’d seen on the left side was a tangle of cables that snaked from holes in the shaft walls. He only had a brief glimpse of the damage, but the walls were ragged and falling apart. No wonder his light wasn’t reflecting off steel or aluminum--there wasn’t any left.

  He was thankful the remains of the walls weren’t floating in here too. Whatever had done this damage, they’d obviously removed it before they lost gravity. Unless something ate it, he thought.

  Another five meters and he saw a corridor egress. He reached out, set the mag-glove to 1/4 power, and slowed himself until he popped up directly in front of the egress point. Carb’s helmet lights chased away the darkness in front of him.

  “About time,” she said.

  “Right. You could have let me know just how cluttered it was.”

  “I did,” she said in a sweet voice. “You just didn’t listen.”

  He connected to the squad channel. “Corporal? Over.”

  “Go ahead. Over.”

  Dickerson cast his helmet around the corridor. It was mostly empty except for the odd piece of trash. It was much cleaner than he’d expected. Even the ceiling was intact.

  “We just reached the deck above you. Do you want me to come back and escort you and Elliott?”

  There was a pause. “Dickerson? Are you saying I need you to look out for me?”

  He looked at Carb. She couldn’t see the quizzical expression in his eyes, but she giggled into the channel. “That’s not what I meant, Corporal.”

  “No, I don’t need that. What I do need is for you to get to the medical bay and let me know if I should bother bringing him up there.”

  “Aye, Corporal. Out.” Dickerson flipped back to private comms. “What are you laughing at?”

  “She likes you,” Carbonaro said. “If she doesn’t kill you first, you two might even end up knocking boots.”

  “Shut up,” Dickerson said. He checked his block. “Looks like the medical bay is down that hall.”

  “We’ll see if they have anti-anxiety meds,” Carb said. “I think you need them.” She finished the sentence through a laugh.

  “Right,” he said in response and began mag-walking in the direction the map showed. This time, he led and Carb stayed a meter behind and to the left. The same rules applied as on their approach.

  The corridor walls had the occasional ding, dent, or discoloration, but as they neared the medical bay, the damage was more apparent. Meter-long slashes, black scars from explosions, and the tell-tale marks of flechette rounds marred the walls, the ceiling, and the floor.

  “Whoa,” Dickerson said.

  “Christ, Dickerson. What the hell happened here?” Carb asked.

  “Look like a firefight to you?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “But that doesn’t explain those gouges. Sliced through the walls like beam cutters.” She paused for a moment. “But I’ve never seen a beam cutter make a metal wound that ragged.”

  Ragged. That was the word. Those weren’t slashes. Those were long, ragged, rips and tears through Atmo-steel. Nothing, but nothing, could do that. Could it?

  A shadow at the far edge of the light appeared. He held up a fist and knew Carb had instantly stopped. “You see what I’m looking at?”

  “Yeah,” Carb said. “It’s not putting off heat and it’s not radioactive. So we don’t have to worry about it being alive or killing us with billions of sieverts.”

  He shook his head. “The pinecones didn’t show up on infrared either, Carb.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Right.”

  Silence fell over the comms as they waited. The shadow didn’t appear to be moving at all. Considering they were in z-g and Mira had obviously been tossed about, a floating object staying completely stationary was improbable at best.

  “I’m going to take the opposite side of the corridor,” he said. “Cover me.”

  “Copy,” Carb said, her usual sass absent.

  Dickerson moved like a drunk, awkward crab to the far wall. Squatting, he crept forward, his helmet lights aimed straight at the shadowy object. With each step he took, the shadow dissolved into a shape. Once he knew what it was he stopped, his balls shriveling.

  “What the hell?” he mumbled.

  “What is it?” Carb asked.

  He waved her forward. “We’re clear. Come on up.”

  Carb stood from her cover position and mag-walked to his side. The light from her helmet added to his. She whistled through the comms. “Someone died hard.”

  “Yeah,” Dickerson said.

  The reason the object wasn’t moving was the fact it was attached to the wall by a deck patch harpoon. Someone had fired it more or less point blank and skewered a body straight to the wall. The body had been ripped apart from the waist down, revealing bones and muscle. The rib cage was open and most of the internal organs were missing. But the coups de grace was the head.

  Tattered shreds of a jumpsuit still partially covered the man’s arms and just above his chest. The arms had been removed just above the elbow and the neck was torn open. But the face was the worst.

  The skin was peeled back from the cheeks exposing muscle, bone, and the esophageal cavity. The lower jawbone was missing giving the face a confused expression. The skull had been scalped, but clumsily at best, since strands of hair still clung to the back of the head like a bad toupee.

  Dried blood clung to the wall in long icicles and ink blot splatters. The deck flooring was covered in dried gore. Dickerson felt like puking, but managed to stifle it. He’d seen worse, he really had, but in this creepy ghostship, this was just too much.

  “I’m not even sure I want to know what this was,” Carb said. “Yeah. I’m sure. I don’t want to know.”

  “Only question I have,” Dickerson said, “is whether the poor bastard was still alive when they did this to him.” He peered at the jumpsuit and made out the label above the pocket. “Hope for T. Reed’s sake, he was already dead.”

  “That his name?” Carb asked.

  Dickerson nodded. “First confirmed casualty since the shuttle bay.”

  “Small favors,” Carb said. “Now I can’t wait to see what’s waiting for us in the medical bay.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Once they passed the unfortunate Mr. Reed, the corridor filled with entrances to small rooms. Without power, it was impossible to get the doors open without cutting beams or breach charges. Dickerson was certain they weren’t worth the trouble. The doors had powered labels as well, meaning they weren’t lit for emergency conditions. Any important ingress/egress point on a ship this size simply had to be marked with light-sensitive paint explaining what they were. But unlike the shuttle bay door to the cargo bay, these were absent.

  Dickerson’s knees hurt from squatting. Carb’s probably did too, but she wasn’t one to complain. At some point soon, they’d have to stand instead of duck walking. Apart from the pain, he didn’t like how sl
ow they were moving. They’d left Kalimura and Elliott alone too long already. If she had to protect and evacuate the grievously wounded marine, those things would probably eat them both alive. He couldn’t imagine her leaving Elliott behind.

  Just as he was about to stand up, he saw the corridor end in a large doorway. “Carb?”

  “I see it,” she said. “That has to be it.”

  “Yeah. According to the schematics, it’s right in front of us.”

  “The door’s closed,” she said. “Hope they have an emergency power wheel.”

  “I’m sure they do,” he said. “Every med bay I’ve ever seen has one. On a ship like this? It was probably marked as a safe place in case of a blowout.”

  Carb groaned. “If that’s the case, how many corpses are going to be in there?”

  Dickerson frowned. “Shit. Hadn’t thought of that.” He continued forward two more meters before he stood from his crouch. His back muscles thanked him immediately. “Might as well get this over with.” His rear cam showed Carb had risen off the deck. With her flechette rifle cradled in her hands, her profile looked like the standard recruiting poster for the SFMC.

  He mag-walked to the side of the door and waited. Her suit lights added to the illumination as she took the other side of the door. With a two-person fireteam, one marine breached the objective while the other provided cover fire. So far, they hadn’t seen any threats on this deck, but that didn’t mean the medical bay wouldn’t be full of them. Plus, the two of them had been through real combat, faced combatants that mined doors, ambushed from any direction they could, and frequently employed suicide bombers. This was routine.

  He felt along the bulkhead until he found the recessed panel. At first, he couldn’t open it with his fingers. The panel was frozen shut. He magnetized his free glove, placed it on the panel, and pulled. It opened with a cloud of dust flowing in its wake.

  “Guess this was never used,” Carb said.

  “Guess not. I don’t know if this door is just going to open, so get ready.”

  “Copy that,” she said.

  He turned the small crank until a green indicator light appeared. The door had power. After readjusting his rifle for a quick grab and aim, he pressed the open button. He felt a vibration behind the wall, but the door didn’t open. A red warning light appeared. “Shit. Mechanism is jammed. Probably from the other side.”

  “Well,” Carb said, “I guess we have to do it the hard way.” She mag-locked her rifle to her back and pulled out a long, thin piece of Atmo-steel. “I don’t want to cut this door open. Their autodoc may not have a pressure dome.”

  “Shit. You’re right. That would suck.”

  “Yes, it would,” Carb said. She placed the jack at the bottom of the door and pushed. The thin piece of stiff metal had a seal popper on the end. Once the jack was wedged as close as she could get it, she sent a block command to the device. An army of nannies flowed out of the seal popper and began chewing on the pressure-locking materials at the door’s base.

  After a few seconds, Carb hit the end of the popper and it slid beneath the door. “Voila,” she said. “Now let’s see if we can get this bitch to move.” The piece of metal was curved so she could use the free end like a crowbar. She mag-locked a boot to the popper and pressed down.

  The door rose a few centimeters and stopped. “Okay, hit it again.”

  Dickerson pressed the button again. The red light disappeared, the green indicator returning in its place. The wall vibrated again beneath his hand. The red light reappeared. “No joy,” he said.

  Carb hissed through her teeth. “Well, big boy, get down here and let’s lift it.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Dickerson said.

  He knelt next to her and placed his gloved fingers beneath the door. It was a narrow clearance, but at least his knuckles wouldn’t drag the floor. “One, two, three!” Carb yelled.

  Dickerson lifted with his knees as did Carb. The door slid upward another few centimeters and then halted. Growling, he readjusted his grip, and pulled. Through the open comms, he could hear Carb’s heavy breathing and her own groans of effort. Between their combined force, the door slid to a meter high and then stuck fast.

  He suddenly realized the door was partway open and no one was covering the gaping kill hole before them. “Drop and cover,” he said.

  The pair slid to the floor, laying prone, and aimed both their lights and rifles at the room beyond. The white light shined on what looked like the base of a silvery credenza. Shadows danced at the edge of the light. He tightened the grip on his rifle and then relaxed again. The shadows weren’t dancing. That was just his imagination.

  “Now what?” Carb asked.

  “Ladies first?”

  She freed one hand and slapped him on the back. “Don’t call me a lady. You should know better than that by now.”

  “Sorry,” he chuckled. “Small people first.”

  “Fuck off,” Carb said.

  Without waiting for a response, she pulled herself forward with her mag-gloves. Dickerson remained prone and pointing his rifle through the gap, his HUD searching for targets. He needn’t have bothered. She made it under the door without a problem.

  “Clear,” she said. “Get in here.”

  “Copy.” He re-slung his rifle and crawled beneath the partially open door. Halfway through, he had a terrible image of the door crashing down atop him, cutting him in half. He ignored the fear and continued, the anxiety slowly abating as he made more and more progress. Once on the other side, he rose to a standing position and turned his head to the opposite direction Carb faced.

  The medical bay was hardly pristine. He’d hoped for a clean room with all the equipment intact. Instead, it was a shambles.

  Dried sprays of blood covered the right-hand wall and decking. Arterial spray, he thought. Which of you ancient motherfuckers slit a throat? The image of T. Reed’s mangled body slipped into his mind. Someone had to have gone crazy, he thought.

  As with Reed, the trauma had to have happened while the ship still had gravity. Blood was like any other liquid--it turned into blobs in zero-g and floated. Since there were no tell-tale chips of frozen liquid flying around the place, all this must have happened before the ship lost both life-support and gravity.

  “Dickerson,” she said. “Look over the credenza.”

  He turned and walked to where she stood. Before he even reached her, he saw what she was looking at. A woman, probably in her late 30s, sat belted in a chair behind the credenza. Her face was frozen in a scream, eyes bugged out in shock, surprise, and asphyxiation. Her skin still held the deep bruising around her neck from a pair of hands.

  “Fuck this,” Dickerson said. “Let’s find the autodoc.”

  “Copy that,” Carb said.

  The pair mag-walked around the credenza and to a short hallway leading to a larger open space. This doorway was open. At least they wouldn’t have to use the seal popper again.

  “Something’s moving in there,” Carb said.

  Dickerson stopped walking and stared through the doorway. Their strong lights diffused past a few meters, leaving the pair looking at shadows at the edge of their vision. He focused his helmet light to a narrow beam and slowly moved it across the darkness ahead.

  Something floated. Several somethings to be exact. “Shit,” Dickerson said. “Get your rifle ready. You see them?”

  “Yeah,” Carb said, “bodies. At least I hope they’re bodies.”

  You know you’re fucked when you hope the shadows are corpses, he said to himself. His skin crawled, but he shook away a paralyzing bolt of fear and continued forward. Carb was on his left and a meter behind, her steps matching his.

  As they neared the doorway, his narrow beam of light struck one of the shadows. An eye stared back at him. “Jesus,” he said and swayed backward, his mag-boots keeping him from stumbling and falling on his ass.

  “What?” Carb asked, her rifle held tight against her hip.

  He exhale
d deeply. “Caught sight of a face. We definitely have corpses.”

  “Great,” Carb said. “I thought maybe you saw something icky heading this way.”

  He turned to face her helmet. “Icky? Really?”

  She shrugged and gestured her rifle forward.

  Dickerson shook his head and continued the few meters to the doorway. Once there, he reset the focus on his lights, bathing the room in wan, ambience. He whistled. “Well, Carb, at least we found the autodoc.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Yup. He’d been right. It was a fun flight.

  The debris cloud continued spreading, which was both good and bad. As it did, the cloud became less dense, making it easier to avoid the larger pieces of Mira floating in the void. That was the good. The bad? The cloud was less dense now meaning it was more difficult to fly between the smaller pockets of debris.

  Flecks of broken and shredded steel pinged off the SV-52’s hull and canopy. Taulbee hit the attitude thrusters and spun the craft to sidle between the shattered remains of a bulkhead and a severed deck plate. He could have survived a collision with either of them separately, but not together.

  Focused on the flying, the thoughts about Kalimura, the shit on the hull, Niro’s death, and Mira herself dissipated. The only thoughts were the ones he sent from his block to the ‘52’s controls.

  The support craft weathered the storm of junk, but his HUD lit up with collision warnings. Taulbee ignored them and continued flying toward the three familiar-looking objects. He passed another piece of bulkhead, barely avoiding it with three quick thruster burns. This little trip was costing a lot more fuel than he’d planned on. He’d hopefully have enough to shadow Gunny’s crew when they finally arrived at their target.

  After sliding past the remains of more deck plates, he finally reached a zone of safety. With the exception of metal flakes and a few Atmo-steel struts, the only other debris in sight were the three coffins floating ten meters away.