Status Quo: The Chronicle of Jane Doe

by Chris Kuhn

  "The Navy said the same thing," I informed him. "Didn't work out."

  "Maybe their institution wasn't worthy of your efforts."

  "Oh, and yours is?"

  "To the extent that we have one. There is no political entity - no colony, no government, no Coalition - worth sacrificing yourself for. Certainly not this one."

  "Thanks for letting me know," I said.

  "Let me put this in perspective ," he said, ignoring my sarcasm. "I understand your Chief Engineer was an Abanshi. Adiene was her name?

  "Abeen," I spat.

  "My apologies. She lived for... what? A thousand years?" I was pretty sure it had been longer, but I didn't correct him. He continued. "How many empires fell in her lifetime? How many new ones formed to take their place? How many revolutions and uprisings has she seen? I imagine it would all blur together after awhile. Nationalism, patriotism... these things must have seemed increasingly ridiculous as the centuries added up. On the other hand, there is one thing that has been a universal constant - the backbone of every known civilization. You know what it is Trade. Barter. The exchange of goods. People need stuff, and they are willing to trade other stuff to get it. That's who we are."

  "Somehow," I observed wryly, "that definition fails to encapsulate you."

  "Forget about me," he said, shaking his head. "The Legion isn't a cohesive political body. We've got members of every race, ships from across the known universe. Politics vary. Beliefs vary. Trade is what unites us - we're an organization in only the loosest sense of the term." He paused, locking eyes with me, and leaning in so close I almost thought he was going to kiss me. "If you sign on, I can personally guarantee that your talents will not be wasted. You'll be judged solely on your ability to do the job. You can be yourself. You'll be surrounded by people who need you. People who respect you. People who don't give a shit about your attitude... In fact, they'll probably like it. You won't be unappreciated, and you'll never be alone."

  I looked at his face. I was certain that he'd meant every word, and it really bothered me that he'd known exactly which words to use. For a moment, I had a feeling which I didn't care to examine.

  But only for a moment.

  I head-butted Udo in the nose and scrambled over the table with every ounce of my strength. He hit the floor hard, and his pistol fell away. I didn't go after it. I didn't need to. I was on top of him, screaming and pounding on him.

  I continued for what felt like minutes. Everything poured out of me. Everything I had lost. Everyone who had died. Everyone who had suffered. My mother. My father. All of it. When I finally stopped, I realized that my hands had gone numb. Then I realized something else.

  Udo wasn't bleeding. Or crying out. Or defending himself. He was doing none of the things that organisms do when attacked. The smell that hit me wasn't blood - it wasn't even biological. It was more like coolant or petroleum. Artificial. The exposed skull beneath Adjani's skin looked more like carbon fiber than bone, and the eyes sloughed off like contact lenses to reveal artificial optics beneath.

  I squinted, trying to process the observation.

  I just beat a fucking android to death. Scratch that off my bucket-list.

  As I sat there stupidly, I heard the last voice I wanted to hear.

  “Do you really think the leader of the Free Trader's Legion would be stupid enough to come on a mission like this?”

  Mia. Fuck.

  Before I could turn, something slammed into my head. I watched the ground rush up to meet me, then felt the jarring impact. Grabbing me by the head with her left hand, she picked me up off the ground and held me - effortlessly - in the air. She looked me in the eye and touched my face with her right hand, her nails lightly tracing the outline of my cheek. She brought her face within inches of mine, and I could smell what she had for lunch that day. She placed her right index finger delicately on my cheekbone, tracing the lower rim of my eye socket with her claw-like fingernail, and then the bitch smiled at me. She shoved her nails through my skin and held them there, just under the surface.

  I heard myself cry out.

  I tried to pull back but her other hand was a vice around my head. I swung my arms at her body and face but the blows were ineffective. They hurt my hands but caused no damage to her. She looked at me with an amused pity, the way a lioness might view an aggressive housecat.

  "I'm going to really hurt you now," she said. She yanked her claw down my cheek, the fingers ripping through the soft skin, and heat rushed to my face

  Pain.

  My eyes were swollen. I felt the blood, tiny rivers merging at the chin, then pooling and dripping onto the dark floor of the bay. She withdrew her hand and I saw the blood on her nails. She took her fingers and ran them through my hair, then released her grip on me. I hit the deck like a sack of meat, hearing myself cry out. She leaned down and put her face in front of mine. She grabbed my hand and pressed it against the cool skin of her face.

  "Hurt me back," she said sweetly. "Don't be shy."

  I didn't. I couldn't. I knew it wouldn't matter, that whatever small injury I might inflict would be returned with compound interest.

  "Eat a dick," I said, shaking my head firmly.

  She grabbed my hand with one of hers and bent it back toward the wrist. I fell to the deck, crying out, my body moving of its own accord to save the damaged part.

  "Oh, honey," she said, releasing me again, “I like you. It's a shame we won't be working together. I think we would have gotten along famously.”

  I flexed my fingers, rotated the wrist. It hurt like hell, but everything still moved like it was supposed to, so I didn't think it was broken. I looked at Mia, suspecting that every ounce of pressure she'd applied had been carefully regulated. She was toying with me. Having fun. I looked at her watching me, circling me, and I thought of Sam the Cat.

  Sam had also liked to have fun. Nothing had pleased him more than small rodents. He'd swat them around, send them crashing into various hard surfaces until they'd stopped moving.

  I was pretty sure that was about to happen here.

  Mia crouched in front of me, and I looked up to see her quills beginning to emerge from her head and shoulders. Yanking one of the quills out of her shoulder, she approached me slowly, then ran it along my face. She pressed it to my throat.

  "Do you want to die slowly or quickly, sweetheart?" she asked.

  I didn't think shaking my head would be a smart idea.

  "Fast would be nice," I choked out.

  "Then hurt me," she said again, lowering her face to mine. She pulled the quill she was pushing into my throat away and held it between her fingers like a paintbrush in front of my eye. My memory again flashed back to my cat.

  Odd things you remember when you're about to die.

  Sam hadn't always won his little rodent game. Once or twice the little bastards had gotten away. Of course, that had only worked because there'd been a hole in the-

  A hole.

  The access hatch. The hatch in the deck. The one I'd entered through earlier. It was just a few meters away from me.

  Maybe.

  With every ounce of strength, I grabbed the quill from her loose fingers and stabbed her right in the eye. As she howled, I scrambled away from her and dashed to the access hatch. With one quick move I yanked the hatch open and fell inside, hitting the floor below as the hatch slammed shut.

  Then I crawled like hell.

  Mia was fast and strong, but she was also bulky. The tunnels were a tight fit for me in some places, so I knew she couldn't get me if I got to the right position. I could hear her above me in the bay, stomping around and roaring as she ripped the access hatch off its heavy metal hinges. I was already moving, racing toward the main centerline of the ship. As I passed through multiple junctions and tight spaces, I realized that I was actually going to make it.

  I popped open the first hatch I could find and jumped out. I was standing in a corridor. It was empty. I felt relief flood over me, like I'd almost drowned
but had finally made my way to the surface. I took a series of deep breaths. I was safe from Mia. Of course, she was hardly the only problem.

  Udo had said forty-five minutes.

  How many minutes ago was that? Five? Ten? I didn't know. So, I asked myself, what the fuck are you going to do now? It was a trick question; I couldn't do anything.

  But someone else could.

  Log 016: Not Working Out

  Of all the people I had to save...

  I approached the gym carefully, moving though the corridor this time. My best guess was that Mia, Bob, and the EVA twins were all that was left of the Pridemore's occupying force. But I didn't know for sure.

  I also didn't know what I was going to do.

  I had no weapons. No tools. No time.

  The door to the gym was open - it was always open - so I carefully stuck my head around the corner.

  I saw Byers, his arms tied above his head to some type of resistance machine. He looked more or less the same as he had in the bay; bloody and badly beaten. Apparently Mia had been taken her time with him, too, but he wasn't dead. His eyes were halfway closed and his body was limp. I couldn't tell if he was conscious, but the labored breathing was a good sign.

  I didn't see Bob anywhere, but my view was severely limited.

  Then I heard the sounds.

  A light jingling of metal filled my ears, followed by a sharp intake of breath. I heard more labored breathing as I waited, and then the clang of metal slamming into other metal.

  It was a sound I'd heard before. Someone was lifting weights. I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe Bob had set his rifle down somewhere. Not that he needs it to kick my ass right now. I saw a flash of motion and snapped my eyes back to Byers. His eyes were open and he was staring right at me. Staring and shaking his head vigorously.

  No. Wait. Don't.

  I froze. He mouthed something at me but I couldn't understand. I shrugged at him and shook my head in frustration. Just then, I heard the thud of heavy weights dropping to the deck. Shortly after, I heard a light metallic clicking sound. Byers jerked his head to the right and mouthed some more words. I couldn't understand them either, but the general message was obvious.

  Get out of the damn doorway.

  I did.

  I heard Bob walking toward me, then away. I heard the gurgle of water and another sound I couldn't identify.

  "Hey!" Byers called out. "I need water," he said, then coughed as if to illustrate his point.

  "Fuck off," Bob snapped. His voice came from just inside the doorway. I wondered if Byers had asked for water just to make me aware of that fact.

  "Hey!" Byers called to him again. "I'm gonna pass out here. I need water."

  "Good!" Bob snapped. “Then maybe you'll shut the fuck up.”

  Byers laughed.

  "Your form was all wrong, you know," Byers replied. "Earlier, I mean. When you were lifting. You were fucking it up pretty bad. You're one of those guys that goes to the gym and just kinda does his own thing, aren't you?"

  I heard something slam to the deck, followed by rapid footsteps. From my hiding spot behind an elliptical machine, I peered out again to get a better look.

  Bob was moving rapidly toward Byers, his arms slightly extended. As he got closer, though, Byers raised his feet from the ground, putting his weight on the arms above him. A look of agony appeared on his face, and I remembered what Mia had done to him in the bay. As Bob plowed into him, Byers wrapped both of his legs around the man's back.

  "Now!" Byers screamed. "Gun's two meters from the door, to your left!"

  I saw Bob actually pause for a second, apparently not putting it together. I didn't have that problem. I raced around the corner and saw it - the thick black rifle leaning against a rack of free weights. I snatched it up and leveled it at Bob, who had broken free from Byers and was running toward me. I saw him hesitate, then make a decision. Instead of continuing toward me, he jerked to the left, heading for the door.

  I pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Shit.

  The weapon was different. Not Navy issue. I must have missed something. Bob hadn't noticed. He threw himself through the door, and I heard him take off running down the corridor. I was half-tempted to chase him, but that was silly. I turned to Byers instead.

  "Right side," he said, "above the trigger."

  I looked down at the rifle and found a two-position switch marked safety. I flipped it and walked up to Byers.

  "Listen," I said bitterly. "you know how much I fuckin' hate you. But for this moment, our objectives are aligned. If we don't shut down the missiles, Udo's gonna find a way to use them on Earth. Agreed?"

  He nodded.

  "So I have a question for you. Can you disable those missiles remotely?"

  "Yes," he said, nodding solemnly. "We need to get to the primary weapons station on the bridge. Where's Udo?"

  "No longer a problem. Close your eyes." I said.

  I aimed the rifle at the buckle of the tie-down strap and pulled the trigger. I could probably have just undone it, but I wanted to make sure the gun would work now. Even though it was a laser weapon, I felt it jerk in my hands as I fired. Odd. The strap's buckle melted away, and I saw Byers wince as a hot piece of shrapnel hit his hand. He slowly moved his arms down and released himself.

  The gun was a little more powerful than its Navy counterpart, but I could work with it.

  "Let's go." I said, reaching under his arm and acting as his crutch to get moving.

  Making our way through the ship was eerily quiet, and I finally got to see the extent of the crew casualties. Each main corridor was filled with dead bodies. Every race and creed, ensign or lieutenant, greenhorn and veteran alike. Now and again I shot Byers hateful looks for his handy-work, and he refused to look me in the eye.

  “So, I gotta ask... Did Johnson figure you out?” I asked. “Is that why you capped him and stuffed him in a locker.” Byers didn't look at me, but nodded solemnly. “Asshole.”

  We finally got to the bridge corridor. Ahead of us was the massive door to the bridge itself. This door looked almost too big for its function. Next to the door was a touchpad and Byers slapped his bloody hand against it.

  "Byers, Michael," the touchpad stated. "Chief of Maintenance." The door slid aside. I was surprised that Udo hadn't- Hadn't what? Revoked his access? Right.

  Byers raced through the doorway, a man with a purpose. I followed him and then stopped.

  I let my eyes wander across the massive space. It was different -felt different- than the rest of the ship. There were consoles but no equipment. No motors turned, no pumps pumped, no weapons fired. It lacked greasy gears and humming magnets and clanging pieces of large metal. On the floor of the bridge, and scattered around its many stations, were the senior crew of the Pridemore. Captain Wiley sat, in the big chair, slumped and suffocated. Chief Abeen still looked strangely alive, eyes frozen open and fixed at the engineering station, but totally devoid of life. The other crew lay slumped and expired.

  Byers yanked open an equipment panel on the front wall. Thick fiber lines terminated at de-mux blocks around the perimeter, and dozens of smaller filaments emerged from them, running to sockets in the center of the space. Patch panel. With delicate efficiency, Byers started yanking fiber lines. Occasionally, he'd plug one into a different socket. Part of my brain was screaming at me to watch him, to point the gun at him, to demand a precise explanation. But that would be pointless. Even if I doubted his intentions, I wasn't knowledgeable enough about the bridge's IT systems.

  Turning away, I walked to the massive plotting table near the back wall. Projected above its surface were three-dimensional icons of vessels, planets, and various other waypoints across this solar system.

  I found the Melbourne and tapped the icon. Numbers appeared.

  Position. Course. Speed. Affiliation.

  The Melbourne was going to show up in four hours.

  Byers shut the panel, apparently having don
e whatever needed doing. He moved to the tactical console next and placed his hand against the smooth black surface. A dialog box appeared, requesting command codes. He typed for moment, and then his head suddenly snapped to look at me, as though he had an idea. I raised my eyebrows at him, and he snorted.

  “You're the hero,” he said. “You want the honors?” He motioned towards the console. “Three missiles are registered as intact. All you have to do is enter the wrong access code three times and the missiles will lock down into fail-safe mode. After that they'll be paperweights.”