The scratching sound leaked through the audio pick-ups again and he stopped watching the feed. His eyes went back to reactor 3 and its shielding. The sound had to be coming from outside the ship, right where the fin was. It just had to be.
He flicked his eyes back to the feed. The missing half-circle had reappeared although it was much cooler than the rest of the area around the fin. “Black? What the hell was that?”
“I am unable to speculate,” the AI said.
“Unable,” Nobel muttered. “Are you unable or unwilling?” he asked, frustration bubbling in his voice.
Black paused. “Lieutenant. Unless I’m mistaken, you seem to be accusing me of something.”
Nobel nodded. “I guess I am, Black. Please elaborate on ‘unable to speculate.’” He said each word of the sentence in a slow, punctuated cadence.
“As you wish, Lieutenant.” The feed showing the fin zoomed in further. The infrared image was already growing darker as the heat dissipated. “I have theories, but nothing concrete. I can, for instance, tell you that I have not seen this behavior before. I can also tell you that the ambient temperature outside the hull is near absolute zero which frequently results in strange anomalies for infrared filters. I could also tell you that it’s possible a piece of exo-solar material has landed on the ship and is causing the anomaly.”
A shiver ran down his spine. “Are you telling me that?”
“No,” the AI said. “I am unable to narrow down the options further than what I have already mentioned.”
There was that word again. “Unable” was different than “can’t” or “I don’t know.”
Nobel listened for the scratching sound, but it didn’t reoccur. “Black? What do you suggest to fix the fin?”
“Without more information on the damage, it’s impossible to say. However, I calculate a 72% chance that it will require a patch and weld. Therefore, I suggest you carry patching equipment and wear a combat suit in case you suffer encounters with unexpected debris.”
He nodded to himself. “Pretty much what I was thinking.” He stared down at the thick rad-proof gloves on his hands. A combat suit’s radiation shielding wasn’t as strong as a rad-suit, but it would provide enough protection outside the ship. So long as one of the reactors didn’t explode.
“Okay, Black. I’m heading to the cargo bay.”
“Very good, Lieutenant,” Black said. “I shall monitor you.”
“You do that,” Nobel said. He felt angry. He felt as though Black was lying to him. He tried to shake off the paranoia, but it kept hitting his mind like a hammer. The worst part? Black seemed to know he was afraid of her.
He left the engineering bay and headed to the decontamination stall. The suit hadn’t absorbed enough rads to cause problems for him, but it was habit. And Nobel was a creature of habit.
While he rinsed beneath the shower and placed the rad suit in the decon hamper, the scratching continued on the hull.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The top of the door was out of reach for someone of Carb’s diminutive height. Even for Dickerson, sealing the top seals required him to mag-lock and climb in the z-g to reach it. He pulled the seal-patching liquid from his belt and put the tip against the gap. The bottle, an applicator actually, measured the gap and released the correct amount of fluid as he traced the line. Each centimeter of movement resulted in a thick, black substance caulking the gap. It took two minutes for him to finish the upper seal and then begin on the sides until he met Carb’s lines from the bottom.
The sealant hardened instantly creating a seal that could only be popped using a jack or a cutting beam. Or a can opener, he thought and smiled. The smile quickly faded when he thought of the pinecone thing’s single claw.
“How we doing, big boy?” Carb asked.
“Almost done, little girl.”
She hissed into the mic. “If we ever get out of our suits again, I’m punching you right in the mouth.”
“You going to find a step-stool first?”
Carb giggled. “Touché,” she said.
“There,” Dickerson said as his last line met hers, “that should do it.”
After placing the sealant back in his belt, Dickerson hand-walked down the door until his boots touched the floor. He examined the seals making sure every gap was filled.
“Good work,” he said. “Or at least good enough to seal that room off for a while.”
“Better hope it’s longer than that,” Carb said. “How the hell do we know if that thing is going to come back to life?”
“I think it’s safe to assume it’s not a zombie,” Dickerson said dryly.
“Assume nothing,” Carb said. “Remember how we assumed this would be a milk run?”
He didn’t respond. There was absolutely nothing to say to that. When the Command Crew finally told them the real reason they’d flown all the way out to Pluto, and the ship they were going to try and save, Dickerson had felt more than simple unease. He’d felt fear. And, if he was honest with himself, excitement as well.
“Let’s get back to the corporal,” he said.
“Yeah,” Carb replied as she mag-walked back to the medical bay’s front entrance.
He followed her, his rifle still held between his hands. They were safe here. At least that’s what all three of them thought. But that didn’t mean they actually were. For all he knew, a large school of those nightmarish things could be outside the pressure door even now. He shuddered at the thought.
Dickerson stopped at the credenza, doing his best to ignore the remains behind them, and saw a holo-terminal. “Hey, Carb. Hold up.”
“What?” she asked and turned around.
He stepped behind the credenza, moved the chair and the corpse attached to it, and studied the terminal. It didn’t look damaged, but he didn’t see any indicator lights. “Found a terminal,” he said.
“Oh. Good. Is it live?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Pretty old model. Not even sure where the interface is.”
“Check the bottom of the desk. Maybe the switch is there?”
Yeah. Maybe.
More and more automation and more and more control by the AIs on ships like Mira, and even S&R Black, made finding manual solutions a misery. And sometimes impossible.
Atmo and Trans Orbital made automation a selling point of their ships. Trans Orbital liked to use the slogan: “Don’t want to hire a crew? You don’t have to.” As if running a ship through the commercial shipping lanes, picking up and transporting mined or refined resources, was as easy as telling the AI where to go.
Dickerson knew that was bullshit. What TO and Atmo didn’t want their customers to know were the number of incidents that involved completely automated refineries and ships. Dozens, if not hundreds, of humans died every year because an AI either lost its shit or suffered a mechanical breakdown it couldn’t fix. Humans were still a necessity. They always would be.
He ran a glove beneath the desk and found a button. Here goes nothing, he said to himself, and pressed it. A recessed indicator light glowed green next to the terminal. A second later, the holo-display popped into existence.
A Trans Orbital logo appeared entwined with that of Atmo. Both were below the Sol Federation emblem. The animated logos froze and then a message appeared. “MIRA OFFLINE.”
“No shit,” he said aloud.
“What?” Carb asked.
He pointed at the display. “Gave me the helpful message that Mira is offline.”
“Yeah,” Carb said. “Tell us something we don’t already fucking know.”
A series of menu options appeared. The one marked “Ship Status” glowed red. He selected it and the display changed to show an outline of the ship itself. The aft section was completely crimson while the midships was mostly yellow, with several portions marked in red as well. The foredecks were mostly green, with a few yellow and red spots.
That was just the damage report. He selected “Environmental Status” and the entire ship turned red. Excep
t, of course, for the medical bay. A new message appeared replacing the blinking “MIRA OFFLINE” status. It read “ABANDON SHIP.”
“Fuck you,” he said to the holo-terminal. He flipped back to the ship status and studied the time stamps. 41 years ago, on November 11th Earth Standard Date, the Mira had suffered extreme damage. The aft portion of the ship, the damage to the midships, and the loss of atmosphere all happened on the same day, and in the same hour.
“Well, that tells us something,” he said.
“What? What the hell are you talking about, Dickerson?”
“Mira. We now know when she stopped and suffered damage.”
“And how does that help us?” Carb asked.
He stood to his full height and glared at the holo terminal. “That we’ve been lied to,” he said. He turned to face her. “Mira stopped transmitting in June, 43 years ago. At least that’s what SF Gov claimed. That means the ship was still functional nearly two years after they said it had stopped transmitting.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying Mira was still intact two years after they said it had gone dark?”
“Exactly,” Dickerson said. “The Trio and SF Gov must know that. Unless Mira did stop transmitting. But I have a hard time believing that. The comms array was still functional at the time.”
Carb shook her head. “Why the hell would they lie about that?
“Good question,” Dickerson said. “It’s like asking why the real Mira is so different from the images in the history holos. I don’t know what it means, but it means something.”
“Well, that’s perceptive,” she said. “Anything about communications? Are they still up and running?”
He shook his head. “According to this, the comms array hadn’t yet been completely destroyed. Damaged, but not dead. However, the terminal doesn’t have access to current information, only the readouts downloaded before Mira went to shit. My best guess is we’ll need to make it to the bridge. Which is another problem.”
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“Because according to the terminal, the bridge suffered extensive damage the same day the ship lost atmosphere and the aft was damned near cut loose.”
“Great,” Carb said. “Fuck this. Let’s find Elliott a suit and get the hell off this ancient tub.”
“Copy that,” Dickerson said. He stared at the holo-display one last time, drinking in the information. His HUD recorded the displays and he shunted the still images off to his block for later retrieval. Maybe Black would know what it all meant, assuming they ever communicated with the AI again.
Dickerson reluctantly walked away from the display, sure he’d forgotten to get more useful data. He hadn’t even bothered trying to connect his block to the holo-terminal. It was undoubtedly too old for that. He wondered how Kalimura had managed to connect to the shuttle.
He followed Carb into the examination room where Kalimura stood watch over Elliott. The corporal’s helmet was turned away from them and facing the autodoc. She appeared to be studying the display.
“We got it sealed off, Boss,” Carb said.
“Good. Get back here,” Kalimura responded.
“Um, check your six, Corporal,” Dickerson said, purposefully elongating the last word with a Texas drawl.
She stood straight and then turned. “Oh. Right. Sorry. Should have checked my HUD.”
“Boss?” Carb said. “Not my place to say it, but you need to be a little more aware of your surroundings.”
Kalimura said nothing. She turned back to the autodoc. Dickerson and Carb waited patiently for her to say something or do something. After a moment, she finally straightened again. “I’m sending the locations to your blocks,” she said.
A half-second later, his HUD lit up with a block message. The corporal had marked the emergency station on this deck as well as the ones above. Dickerson studied the map. “You expecting us to have to go up another deck?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what to expect. And neither do you.”
“Aye, Corporal. You’ve got that right.”
“So, Boss, how do you want to do it?” Carb asked.
Kalimura turned to them again. Instead of the barely confident voice she’d had since Carb called her out, she sounded calm, in control, and better yet, in command.
“I’m staying here with Elliott. No offense, but I have more medical training than you two.”
“No shit,” Dickerson said.
“I want you,” she said, ignoring his remark, “to scout the locations. We need a suit. Two if you can manage it. If you don’t find one on this level, go up. And stay in communication. I want to know if you find something. I also want--” She paused. “We,” she said, emphasizing the word, “also need a way to communicate with Black. If you find any equipment that might help, I want that grabbed too.”
“Aye, Boss,” Carb said.
“Copy, Corporal. If it’s out there, we’ll find it,” Dickerson said.
“Good. As soon as you leave this room, I’ll use my jack to seal it shut. Whatever you do, don’t come back here and open the door without telling me. I need to make sure Elliott is safe first.”
“Aye, Boss,” Carb said.
“Let’s go,” Dickerson said. He turned to leave the room, Carb following him.
“Good hunting, marines. And be careful,” Kalimura said.
“Aye, Corporal,” Dickerson said.
He and Carb walked out of the room and to the medical bay entrance. When they reached the door, Dickerson stood beside the manual controls. “Ready when you are, Corporal.”
“Okay,” she said, “I’m putting the generator to sleep so we don’t waste any power. Lights are going out in 3-2-1.”
The world’s brightness disappeared. His HUD compensated at once to minimize the afterimage, but the glow was still on his retinas. Although he couldn’t hear, he knew the room’s atmospheric blowers had ceased. The O2, the heat, all of the changes the generator had made in the last twenty minutes would escape the moment they opened the door. Dickerson just hoped the autodoc’s pressure seals held.
“Squad. You’re clear to go,” Kalimura said.
“Aye, Corporal. Turning on suit lights.” He sent a command to his block and the helmet and suit lights kicked on bathing the door and the walls. Carb’s own lights added to his a second later. Dickerson’s finger hovered over the button. The door mechanism should have received enough power to work normally. He hoped. “Opening door,” he said over the squad comms and pressed the button.
The door slid upward jerkily, as though the machinery was fighting through damage or something jamming the mechanism. Although he couldn’t hear it, he knew air had rushed past his suit and out into the vacuum. The pair made their way through the open hatch and Dickerson closed it behind them.
“Take point,” Dickerson said. “I’ll cover.”
“Copy,” Carb said. She bent her knees and mag-walked down the right side.
He stood tall as he walked down the left side of the corridor, his lights pointed ahead of Carb in an effort to illuminate any possible targets above her. A distance counter on his HUD slowly ticked down from fifty meters.
Once they crossed the slip-point they’d used to get to the medical bay deck, they were in unexplored territory. Twenty-five meters of darkness lay before them. They hadn’t gone three meters before Dickerson saw a shadow near the ceiling. “Hold,” he said. Carb immediately halted. He focused his helmet light to narrow the beam and painted the target.
The shadow, however, was too nested in darkness for him to make out its shape, but he did get an idea of its size. “You see it?”
“Yes,” Carb said. “Is that a helmet?”
“I think so,” he said. “But I can’t tell. I’m moving up.”
“Covering,” she said.
After only a few long-legged steps, he was two meters ahead of Carb. The shape near the ceiling was in fact a helmet with an open face-plate. Unlike the SFMC helmets, the visor was transparent. Dick
erson wished it wasn’t. “Carb? It’s a helmet. And it ain’t empty.”
“Shit,” Carb said. “Do I want to know?”
“No,” he said. “You really don’t. I don’t see anything else floating. Let’s get moving.”
“Copy,” she said. “I’ll cover.”
“Copy.” Dickerson set his lights back to a broad field and continued down the deck. He wondered whose head had been in that helmet. Part of him knew he should pull it down and determine how the head had been decapitated to prepare themselves for a new threat. But he simply didn’t have the energy. Bullshit, he said to himself, you’re just tired of seeing dead folks who’ve been ripped apart for no goddamned good reason. Yeah. That.
They continued forward in silence, each swinging their helmets slightly to make sure the entire corridor was lit as far as their lights could reach. Dickerson caught sight of ice chips floating near the ceiling as well as the port side wall. He did his best to ignore the streaks of fluid sprayed across the metal corridor. Whatever had happened in the medical bay had continued on out here. Unless the people in the med bay were hiding from it.
Up ahead, the corridor ended in a pressure door. He walked to it and studied the surface. The metal was free of any stains and looked newer than the rest of the steel. “I think this is an emergency station door.”
Carb grunted. “How you figure that out, genius? The fact the station is 1 meter behind the door?”
“Yeah,” Dickerson said. He turned to stare at her. “Isn’t that how you figured it out?”
She knelt down and studied the seals. “Shit. This door doesn’t have the standard seals. They must be embedded in the deck.”
“Wonderful,” Dickerson said. “Cut in?”
“Yeah,” Carb said. “I don’t think a jack is going to work on this.”
“Copy that.” Dickerson switched over to the squad channel. “Corporal?”
“Kalimura here. Go.”
Dickerson pushed on the door with his glove. Even with the suit’s augmentation, it was like trying to move a mountain. “We’ve reached the emergency station.”
“Copy. Have you seen anything else?”
Derelict: Tomb (Derelict Saga Book 2) Page 17
