Prosperity Run
By Vincent Terrell
Prosperity Run,
they called it: a bright name for a much darker place. It hung among the
stars, in the clearing of a rock-littered nebula that resembled so much the
eye of a storm. The run must've been a few hundred years old - no one knew.
It wasn't the sort of place that kept track of its own history. People came
and went, and ships more or less stayed in one incarnation or another, but
the run lived on.
Everyone on
the run had a shot at being rich - everyone. For centuries there'd been a
gold rush of sorts. Oh, sure, any moron with a public ID card, some credit-chits
in hand, and a decent supply of sub-atomic particles could make himself gold
or plutonium or emeralds - public access terminals everywhere could do that.
Out on the run, though, the gases were all rich and pure, full of the heaviest
elements, and all those precious substances were naturally occurring in the
rocks out there. Plucking those elements out of space was cheaper than building
them out of sloughs of protons and neutrons. Save the transmutation costs
long enough and suddenly a person might find themselves very rich.
By far the oldest
sector on the station was the D ring. When the run was built it had been
a series of concentric rings, but only the outermost 'D' had survived. Once
simply a huge docking construct, it was now a rusting, well-pitted donut
with bulbous ' renovations' more reminiscent of smallpox than well-thought
out structural improvements. Of course, the run as a whole wasn't exactly
what you'd call a spaceport; 'unorganized metallic mass' was a truer, if
less flattering description. Still, D ring was far past the point where Station
would give it even the least aesthetic maintenance. These days Station just
tried to keep D ring from falling apart. There was graffiti sprayed over
graffiti: war slogans for conflicts ended centuries ago, calls to action
over movements kids back home read about in their history texts, names and
numbers for people who didn't exist anymore - people lost in time.
Being a space
station of sorts, Prosperity Run catered to spacers. Not the adventurous,
system-skipping types, of course: nobody looking for a thrill came to this
particular hole, mostly because it was so unnotable among the hundred other
fringe operations. But they did cater to the miners. Grungy synthetic sax
solos, stiff drinks, and easily cleaned tables - miner's bars. D ring had
the oldest and most notable, a single bar wedged in among the gantries and
grillwork of the loading bays that all the old prospectors frequented. The
9th Circle, it was called. People said it was opened and named by a guy called
Dante, though after the better part of a millennia there really wasn't anybody
to ask.
Young hopefuls
drank beers with grizzled miners there as all waited for a chance to rent
out one of the run's one hundred and twenty-six ore collectors. You could
look in their eyes, the old men sometimes said, and you'd see they knew they'd
never turn out like you did. "Still want more after all these years?" some
baby-faced kid would ask a gruff, fifty-year-old companion. And the miner
to him: "More? Haven't made enough to as much as buy me a ticket home. Only
ones 's making a profit out here is the bartenders." And that was true, but
even an old grizzled man probably had only gone up into the gaseous Prosperity
Nebula but a dozen times. Youth had all the enthusiasm, the energy. Old men
had the experience, but by that age not the money if they were still there.
A smart young team might include one to keep them alive out in that volatile
soup, but more than likely wouldn't. And so even the number of available
ships was slowly bleeding away, further compounding the problem.
"I hear that
number 53, the Richelui, went down last week around 2-theta-9. They say that
her transponder just cut out - no distress, no salvage request, no nothing.
Worse, they just set up an automated refueling depot out there, with sentries
and everything, and it doesn't have anything to say about their disappearance
either. You think pirates got her? Aliens?" Young red-haired Jason Touin
stared at the rest of the table with earnest worry.
"I think you've
been watching a bit too much science fiction," the equally young Kate O'reefe
replied. Malcolm watched them both between shocks of his own black hair and
the green-brown tint of a mostly-empty liquor bottle, then exchanged glances
with their perpetually dour Mcfearson, or Mac. Kate just grinned and set
her iced coffee and rum back down on the table. Not real coffee of course
- that stuff was three hundred credits a pound even before duties - but the
synthetic stuff that one could get out of a culinary wall terminal. Kate
liked the stuff, though most loathed it, and the aftertaste seemed to add
to her smile a bittersweet pursing of the lips. "Aliens? We've already done
aliens - hell, charted most of our half of the galaxy. The odds there are
a billion to one. Pirates out here might be semi-plausible, but the new depot'd
have noticed them. No, my money thinks that she just flew into a rock."
"Not likely,
kid." Mac scowled, an expression he'd perfected, and scratched his beard.
"I've flown on the Richelui; she handles damn near the best in the fleet.
If it was the Robspierre with its temperamental center left thruster, then
maybe, 'cause a lot of new guys just don't listen to the rest of us when
we warn them, but the Richelui? I'd bet pirates or a nebula flare-up." Malcolm
smiled at that.
"One of Prosperity's
growing pains did 53 in, Mac?"
"Did in the
Richelui, kid. '53' just ain't respectful enough for a starship. That's like
calling the Maximillian '101' or the Nero '69': you just don't do it. You
better knock off that adolescent planet-bounder bullshit quick. One of you
gets cocky, maybe decides to only double-check an airlock… boom."
"Not that speech
again," Jason moaned. "I have my doctorate in astrophysics and masters in
basic physics from Haras University. If I'd been willing to spend the extra
summer studying I could've gotten a second masters in conversion point physics.
You know how much it took to put me through that college?"
"Not much,
considering that you were sleeping with the dean's daughter," Malcolm sighed,
knowing Jason's counter-speech almost as well as the one old Mac had tried
to start. Kate rolled her eyes.
"Malcolm, a
little bit of that liquor in my glass, will you? These two depress me." And
at Jason's irate stare she shrugged. "Fine, I'll play along. What's the line?
'Nothing short of divine intervention. It took the Pax Universa just to keep
the university open.'" Jason nodded emphatically.
"Intervention,
yeah. But what did it all lead up to? Here I am, drinking cheap booze and
being told like a snot-nosed kid to triple-check my airlocks." Mac waved
his hand dismissively.
"You are a
snot-nosed kid. Besides, you should be happy to have gotten off that dust
bowl when you did. That place wreaks havoc with a man's allergies." Jason
didn't like that.
"I wish I was
back on Haras. That's my home planet, remember. I'm from the land of blue
skies and green trees."
"-And talking
tabbies," Mcfearson interjected scornfully.
"What old man,
you think I'm pedigree? My hair's a little red for that. Anyway, all I'm
saying is it's bad enough out here. I don't need you preaching to me. Lucky
if I ever set foot on one of those ships."
"Luckier if
you set foot back off it."
"Cut it out
you two," Kate hissed at them both. Mac gave a lift of the head to Jason.
"You're part
cat? Never mentioned that."
"Part hrasi,"
Jason objected. "And yes, I am: Irai Touin, great-great-grandfather on my
mother's side. With a last name like Touin, what'd you expect?" Mac shrugged.
"You're from
Haras." As though that explained it all.
"Something wrong
with being hybrid?" Another shrug.
"Not until you
get lonely and go psychopathic on us. Then I'll have to tie you down and-"
"Hey, I passed
my psyche-"
"Cut it," Malcolm
interrupted starkly. "Both of you. You'll have half a year cooped up together
in a flying tin can soon enough. Argue it then."
"I don't know
about that," Mac warned him, and for once Jason nodded glumly.
"He's right.
Out of the ten ships in port, something like eight are in dry dock. The #14
'Machiavelli', the #79 'Escher', the #42 'Adams', the #99 'Armstrong'…
everything with more than a few cubic feet of cargo space is in little pieces
on the D ring's floor." Malcolm from his red-haired friend to Mac, the back
again.
"It can't be
all that bad. Look, we're pretty far up on the waiting list for a hauler,
right?"
"Hey, guys,"
Kate interrupted, having dropped out of the conversation long ago, "check
out the vidscreen. Insys just declared 2-theta-9 and its surrounding sectors
off limits. Total dead zone." The squabble stopped and the three bickering
men joined their female counterpart in staring at the bar's video feed. Someone
near the counter turned up the volume on the screen that hung from the ceiling
as the grainy image of a Station newscaster read from a computer pad and
redelivered her message.
"Again, 2-theta-9
and all adjacent sectors have been placed inside a temporary no-fly zone
until further notice. Collector 53, the Richelui, has ceased contact while
on station-licensed operations in that area. Navigational telemetry suggests
severe storms have destroyed the collector, but until a further investigation
has been conducted Prosperity's station officials request all ships avoid
entering and contaminating the area." The newscaster smiled winningly before
the feed cut off to an image of the station's insignia, then back to the
cheap 'vid that'd been on before.
"Storms," Mac
grumbled. "That's bull. Wrong season for storms in that quad." Malcolm looked
up from his bottle.
"Season, Mac?"
"Yeah, season.
This isn't just any gas pocket, kids. It's a rotating nebula. Magnetism and
gravity on a cosmic scale keep stirring things up. Each of the quads in the
nebula's two halves takes a turn being rocked by storms for just that reason,
'bout one week every two months for each. Keeps shifting, you see, and right
now the storms aren't in that quad."
"Great." Jason,
who knew the most about astrophysics and thus understood the most of Mac's
observation, seemed the least enthused of the collegiate trio. "The nebula
has a menstrual cycle. That's just great."
"Doesn't account
for the Richelui, though. Insys does some odd things sometimes."
"I vote for
aliens," Jason said again. "Maybe we'll meet them if we get to go up."
"Better hope
not," Mac said darkly, voice noticeably more slurred than an hour before.
"Those ships don't have guns on 'em. Least not any proper guns…"
"As though you
remember when all ships had weapons! We've only been at peace for a few centuries
now, you know. Ugh, you'd make a horrible diplomat!" Jason shook his head,
staring into his mug.
Amidst the ensuing
silence Kate's shirt collar beeped. She pulled at it, looking down to see
the tiny personal computer embedded there. A warm smile diffused across her
face, and Malcolm wasn't entirely sure whether that was a change in fortune
or just alcohol's influence.
"Thought so.
Haaa." Malcolm frowned.
"What?"
"Guys. Didn't
you hear that announcement? My bets say Insys didn't fool anybody. Ships
are pulling into dock like crazy. People on the waiting list are losing their
nerves. I just got a 'crew opening' alert." Her collar beeped again. "Ah,
no, two alerts." She pulled a handheld from her pocket and tapped on it for
a bit with her stylus. "Ha. I could have us on the #87 'Eirhart' as early
as morning, the #71 'Robspierre' by the end of the week." Malcolm stared
at her, unbelieving.
"You're not
serious." Kate just smiled at him with slightly inebriated contentment.
"Got any decent
mining targets on your radar, Jason?" Their resident ore hunter grinned
deliriously.
"Oh, I might."
---v---
All right, so
it wasn't much to look at. What could one expect from a raw materials collector
nearly five hundred years old? It could have been worse. They had a relatively
impressive three out four engines running, and one was such a new replacement
that it was barely older than Mac! The old grappling arms and towing rig
had been replaced with a mass driver that could break up large objects and
a directed-gravity beam that could bring the bits into the hold, not to mention
a new-model gaseous materials scoop that'd earn them money no matter where
they flew. That was modern stuff for a ship of that age, and none of them
were complaining that they had what almost amounted to a weapon installed
onboard. Yeah, they could've done a lot worse, and never mind the worn-out,
cracked interior.
"How much do
we have to take home to break even?" Kate asked, and old Mac shrugged.
"T' break even?
Oh, one hundred and sixty thousand credits' worth. This is a pretty expensive
rig, not mention a huge one. T' have enough to go out again, though…
seventy thousand. We might pull off a profit if we get lucky." Jason was
leering down at the pilot's chair, then tentatively sat down on it and bounced
once or twice.
"Expensive,
huh? Maybe because this used to be leather three or four centuries ago. God,
now even the foam is hard."
"Don't worry,"
Malcolm said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "That's not where you're going
to be sitting anyway." Jason got the point and stood up sheepishly. "This
thing isn't exactly in pristine condition - that much I'll admit. But you'd
better learn to like it quick, because we're going fortune-hunting until
our supplies run out, and that's going to be awhile." His friend grimaced,
but conceded the point.
"Hey, there's
a lot of ship to explore! What're you two doing squabbling now? You've got
the entire trip for that!" Kate jumped for the hatch up to the second deck.
Mac shrugged.
"Seen one, seen
'em all. I'll stay down here."
So they had
a look around. For a small collector ship it was pretty big. Unfortunately,
big didn't seem to transfer to open and expansive. There must have been one
hell of a cargo bay, because the Eirhart was about as claustrophobic as they
came. The tunnels between the decks, the airlock, and through the emergency
airlocks up to the top-mounted grav-beam and mass driver turret were only
a few feet wide - a fairly tight squeeze. There was one cabin with two sets
of double bunk beds, one on either side of the wall. The galley was cramped,
with a sink, oven, cabinets of nearly indestructible utensils and containers,
and a few other paltry appliances. With the exceptions of the head, the
laundry/supply room, and the elevator-sized engine room, that was it. None
of them decided that they were curious enough to go crawling through the
ship's half-dozen service tunnels.
"Looks like
a pretty tough ship," Kate concluded as they reconvened in their one cabin.
"Look like an
old ship," Jason grumbled. Malcolm just sighed. It was going to be a long
tour of duty…
"You're both
right. Either way, it's ours for the time being. Get used to it, and scrawl
our names down if you find the crew log."
The log, if
the Eirhart still had her original one, would most likely be a historical
gem that dated back long before anyone alive could remember. Only a handful
of ships had them, and most were somewhat damaged, but those with the originals
had their crews carefully kept track of. Apparently the custom was for each
crewman to sign the log each voyage they took on the ship. You had to know
how to treat ancient paper (which he did) and how to correctly use the log's
accompanying fountain pen (which he didn't) in order to pull it off, or so
Mac said. Malcolm fully intended to complete the age-old prospector's ritual.
"Hey," Mac called
from below, his voice rattling off the bare metal walls, "get down here.
Insys Flight is giving us a call." They rushed like mad, and appropriately
Malcolm was down to the cockpit first. Sure enough, the communications panel
was blinking and reading out a whole list of extraneous information about
Insys. Malcolm waved the rest away.
"I'll speak
for us." He brought up the Insys flight controller on the main screen, ignoring
the faulty pixels and blurs around the young, uniformed blonde woman whose
image slowly materialized. "Good morning, controller. This is Malcolm Sauron
of the Eirhart speaking. I believe that I was registered commanding officer,
correct?"
"Pilot, commanding
officer - they're synonymous here, Mr. Sauron. First time out?"
"Indeed, Ms.?"
"Controller
is fine, Mr. Sauron." That one stung a bit. "Just the usual pre-flight check.
We like to keep close tabs on the crews we loan our ships out to. Speaking
of which, if you'll kindly introduce your crew with their positions for
confirmation…"
"Of course.
I am still Malcolm Sauron, registered pilot -"
"Have your license?
What's your rating?"
"Yes, and it's
a class-A civilian. The number is C7E3-K7A2." The young woman bit her lip,
consulting a computer below her, then nodded.
"Go on." He
waved a hand to Jason.
"Jason Touin,
our geologist and mineral prospector." Jason smiled, but upon checking her
computer the controller frowned.
"No, I'm not
pure-blooded," Jason said, beating her to the question. "Yes, I passed my
psyche test for solitary conduct with flying colors. No, I don't need drugs
for an extended flight, yes, I have some onboard anyway, and yes, I know
the risks." There was a moment of silence.
"Well," the
controller said, sounding somewhat daunted, "You seem quite capable. That's
all I need from you… Mr. Sauron?" Malcolm picked up where he left off.
"Our liquid
and gaseous-state materials prospector, ship's mechanic, and guiding hand
in general is -"
"Old 'Mac fearsome'.
Don't worry, Mr. Sauron, I've heard about this one since I started working
for Insys. I know Mac. You're still missing a back-up pilot and emergency
medic, though. A class-A license only gives you back-up medic status."
"We keep a 4-person
crew, miss. Our medic, back-up pilot, and navigator is Ms. Katherine O'reefe.
She's got equivalent pilot certifications and a medical degree. More than
enough for your requirements." The controller clicked away at her panel.
"I see." She
sounded unimpressed. "We're going to need a flight plan." Kate pushed him
aside.
"Yes, controller.
We're planning a straight passthrough along the 4-9 corridor, from edge to
edge, then back to dock. ETA for our return is five to six months. We're
loaded for at least two more." The controller went silent and dropped any
pretense of amiability.
"That would
include sector 4-theta-9. You are skimming adjacent to a no-fly zone. Are
you aware of this? It has been placed off-limits for a reason. There are
vicious storms in the area." Malcolm looked past Kate to get at the screen.
"Excuse me,
but haven't the opposite sectors been placed under hazard warning for storms?
Isn't this the wrong season for storms in 2-theta-9's area?" Mac gave him
a sharp look at that; the controller narrowed her eyes.
"Listen up,
mister. If we say there are storms somewhere, you'd better damn well believe
us. You are not equipped to travel in the active areas of this nebula, and
as such you will not enter sectors with storms designated in them. You will
not enter sector 2-theta-9 or any sector adjacent to it for any reason until
the no fly ban is lifted. If you are in any way detected as doing so you
will have your assets frozen, your cargo sold on open market, your crew detained,
and you may find yourself facing additional reparations. Endangerment of
one of the run's ships is a capital offense here. Furthermore, if you face
any other dilemmas - pirates, navigational hazards, system failures, or anything
else even remotely dangerous to the Eirhart, you send out a distress and
we'll scramble forces to assist you. That mass driver mounted on your ship
is for chewing up rocks, not busting armor plating, so don't think that you
can 'handle yourself' if you get in a fight. We've already lost too many
ships to you hero-types who think those collectors are for fighting in. You
just radio back home and we'll send in assistance: fighters, destroyers,
med-evac shuttles, tug boats - whatever it takes. Understand?" Malcolm nodded.
"Yes, controller.
Perfectly. Are we clear for undocking?"
"Against my
better judgement. Keep your nose clean out there, Mr. Sauron." He was going
to thank her, but the controller severed the connection.
"Think they're
hiding something?" Jason asked. Malcolm nodded slowly and Mac scowled at
them both.
"You two are
going ruin our careers with that curiosity. Never mind the no-fly zone or
what happened to the Richelui. Be worried about us." They looked at one another.
"Yeah," Malcolm
murmured, more subdued. "Yeah, we're going to have it hard enough without
worrying about everybody else. We'd better get out there, then, before all
the rest snatch up our marks." Kate broke the somber atmosphere.
"Hey, hey, why
the long faces? Come on, we're gonna be spacers!"
---v---
"This is bullshit."
Jason spat sandy coffee grounds back into his cup. "We haven't done anything.
My rocks are all gone. There is literally nothing out here but dust and gas.
We'll need a miracle just to break even." He leaned back into his chair,
then poured some more coffee out of the thermos. "And we have cold, gritty
damned coffee. This shit tastes the same as the bacon." Malcolm sighed and
nodded.
"I think they
grind the leftovers from the bacon mold into coffee grounds. But don't lose
hope; we're not done yet. There's still a good quarter of 4-theta-9 to look
at, and then another half dozen sectors after that."
"Doesn't matter.
It's all drifted into the 3-9 corridor. There won't be anything further down.
If we break flight plan we'll run into some other miner and be reported."
Malcolm frowned at him.
"Surely there
couldn't have been a cosmic draft that blew everything away?"
"Look, who's
got the doctorate in astrophysics here? Yeah, that's about what I suspected.
Now I'm telling you that there isn't anything out here. We'd be better off
cutting our losses and heading back. Mac was saying this two weeks ago, and
now even I can't reasonably argue against him."
Malcolm shook
his head. "Have a little heart. We'll find something eventually." They looked
at the controls heavily.
"You don't actually
believe that, do you?" Jason asked uncertainly. Malcolm was silent.
"We'll find
something. I won't go home empty-handed my first time out." Jason nodded
glumly. Then the proximity sensor went off.
"Ha ha! Speak
of the devil, Malcolm, and -"
The ship jumped
out from under them. Jason was cut off by the shrieks of metal tearing metal
as the Eirhart shook and howled in pain. The seat belt kept Malcolm snuggly
in place, but unrestrained Jason went flying into the ceiling with a sickening
ripping-flesh noise. Jason screamed in pain, but the hull's deafening cries
of metal shearing away drowned him out.
"Shit!" Malcolm
yelled, then ran off another string of expletives as he tried to hit his
console's intercom button. "Kate!!! Get down here now! Kate, Mac, something
just hit us!"
The ship wasn't
done tossing them around. Gravity reversed and sent Jason crashing into the
floor, leaving him a moaning wet red heap. Malcolm hollered for his crew,
but even after the tremors and racket had subsided they didn't answer. For
another minute the din of screeching framework continued with the cabin's
shaking, but eventually both died down.
The lights were
out. The controls were dark, and the only sound left was Jason gurgling moans.
In a disconcerting lurch all of Malcolm's weight dropped out from under him;
suddenly he was floating out of his chair, gently held back by the seat's
safety restraints. "Uhhnnn… There goes gravity." He swore. "Kate, goddamit,
get down here! You too, Mac! Jason needs medical attention!" This time there
was some noisy clambering, then Kate pulled herself out of the tunnel to
the upper decks and flipped down into the cockpit.
"What the hell
was that? Gunfire?" She had her bag with her, and Malcolm waved her to Jason.
"Oh my god… Malcolm, what just happened?" He unbuckled and pulled himself
under the pilot's terminal to pull off the underside panel and look at the
damage. The innards were all melted together. It was useless.
"I don't know
yet. Not gunfire, or at least not much of it, seeing as we're not dead yet.
The proximity sensor went off right before it happened. I think something
just smacked us hard. Comet, maybe. Anything going fast enough could've done
it." He replaced the panel and moved to the copilot's controls. They were
at least salvageable.
"No way. We've
been working on starships for millennia. There were single-pilot fighters
that could shrug off a small comet five hundred years ago. There's nothing
out there we couldn't have weathered without much more than a rumble through
the hull."
"These ships
are centuries old. Maybe it had some odd shape or quality that got it through
the shields, or maybe they failed earlier, or maybe it was another spaceship,
all right? It doesn't really matter now, does it?" Kate glanced over from
Jason, who was mumbling softly, and looked at Malcolm worriedly.
"What do we
have left?" Mac's deep, throaty voice demanded from across the room. An
electrical current jumped across a single connection Malcolm was fiddling
with and made him yelp, but the system came back to life. With that an automated
repair cascade began and slowly but surely every other panel and system started
to patch itself back together.
"Thank the gods
for automated repair," Malcolm said softly, pulling himself back up and floating
into the copilot's chair. "Let's see what's left." The panel flickered dimly,
and its reports were full of red. "Damn, not much. No gravity, no navigation,
no distress beacon - no communications at all. Even our collection tools
are shot. We've got passive sensors and maneuvering jets working, but not
much else." Then Malcolm stopped. "And, uh, I think we've entered the no-fly
zone." Mac shifted behind him nervously, a quiet brushing of wool synthetics
betraying the old man's fidget.
"And why do
you say that? You just said that navigation was down." Malcolm gulped and
pointed at the screen. Mac sailed from the rungs of the tunnel to Malcolm's
side, then stared at his sensor display.
"Ah, kid: now
we've done it. We're going to hell for sure."
"What is it?"
Kate asked, plaintively curious. Mac shifted his eyes to her.
"We just found
the Richelui, and by the looks of her she's better off than we are." There
was silence.
It hung out
there, floating derelict, veiled in bands of green and purple that wrapped
about its blocky form, surrounded by a fine mist of silvery pebbles and larger
pock-marked brown asteroids. Whitish hull plating filled what had obviously
once been a gaping hole in the ship's midsection. It resembled silicon caulk
in the way it glopped over the edges of the Richelui's wound, but reminded
Malcolm more of a scar. That was the result of a botched computer's repair
effort, the slightly chaotic patchwork you got from any automated routine
running under a failing computer system. Or perhaps the computer hadn't known
what to do with the foreign object that'd embedded itself in the Richelui's
guts. There was a mound of lumped armor plating in the center of the wound,
as though the repair systems had simply coated the tail end of the offending
object and thus encapsulated it within the ship. An eerie sight: one ship,
stranded without a master, had simply fallen back on its directive to stay
intact.
"Now what?"
Kate asked quietly. Malcolm and Mac looked at one another; Mac shrugged while
Malcolm shook his head. "They might need our help."
"We might need
their help," Malcolm countered. "Besides, they've been out here seven or
eight months longer than we have. Chances are they're all dead. The Richelui
herself, though… her automated repair systems and routines have had
months to heal her up. I'm thinking salvage." Mac looked between the two
of them.
"We're in over
our heads. If we're going to directly violate Insys law, we might as well
live to see home. Salvaging the Richelui would get us killed."
"Couldn't we
just take it?" Kate asked. "I mean, commandeer the thing?"
"Insys'd have
our heads the day we stuck our noses into port," Mac growled.
"Screw Insys.
If we don't get off this piece of scrap metal we're dead," Jason sputtered.
Kate shushed him.
"Quiet. Don't
move too much." Their cameras showed the Richelui adrift mere kilometers
away, caught in a gentle spin by sluggish stellar winds. Malcolm bit his
lip.
"It looks all
right. Hull's fine, if you ignore that dimple in the scarred area. Pretty,
almost. Let's sidle up a little bit closer to them. I think a little EVA
is in order."
"Jason's hurt,"
Kate argued. "It'd kill him!"
"I'll go alone.
Don't open any doors, all right? You might vent the entire ship. How about
it, Mac? Can you find me a gun?" Mcfearson snorted.
"Like hell,
kid. In this day and age you'd be lucky if I could find you a plastic spoon
to fight with."
"It'll have
to do."
---v---
Green and bright
red gases lit up the backdrop of space all around him. The EVA suit was cold
and noisy, but the view was incredible. He grappled the coil they'd used
to tether the ships together and pulled himself towards the Richelui, hand
over hand. The suit's radio crackled loudly and Kate's disembodied voice
echoed in his ear.
"How are you
doing out there, Malcolm?"
"Frigid. I could
do for some steak right now, or maybe even some of that artificial coffee."
There was a snort.
"Must be pretty
cold in there if you'd say that. Listen, you're coming upon on the airlock,
but we still don't have a password for it."
"Not a problem,
I'll do it." The grey-silver of the Richelui's tough outer skin loomed below
him. It was beginning to look like ground. "I'm coming up on the security
panel now." He let go of the line and floated down to the airlock, magnetic
boots pulling themselves onto the hull. "If I can hack the Haras University's
computers, then an ore collector's airlock ought to be simple." From an outer
shin pocket he pulled a handheld computer with one program on it and flicked
it on. NEED INPUT SOURCE, it blinked. Malcolm pried off the aging airlock
panel cover and started snapping wires. They all wound into a single box,
which he unplugged and replaced with his own handheld computer. It went to
work, whirring away. For a moment he sat there stiffly, the hull of the Richelui
bleeding all of the warmth out of his suit. Then the computer blinked and
the airlock opened. Malcolm grinned.
"I'm in." He
wrestled the computer back out, pulled the cover out of space and replaced
it, then dove into the airlock. The controls inside the airlock were unprotected;
he hit the 'cycle' button. The door closed and Malcolm slumped against the
wall as the air started flowing back in.
"Malcolm, you
all right in there?" Kate asked again.
"Yeah, I'm fine.
Looks just like ours." The room was small and drowning in bright florescent
white light. "It's cold out there, but the temperature's fine in here. Actually,
the environmental controls are probably better. I can hear the air hissing
in."
"Well, don't
get jumpy. I don't want you to pop your helmet too soon and choke on a foreign
deck."
"I'm not in
a hurry." He sat there and put his arm over his eyes, blocking out the light.
"Kind of bright in here."
"Does it look
any more beaten up on the inside?" Kate asked warily.
"Not at all.
If anything, it's cleaner." The 'ready' tone off and the inner lock cycled
open, exposing the ship's insides. "My god…"
Old brown blood
coated the walls, caking in layers everywhere. Malcolm stepped out onto the
deck of the airlock's antechamber, then looked through the transparent steel
of the secondary airlocks down each of the three tunnels. A black metal object
that had broken through the main tunnel had sealed that one off a few feet
past the tunnel door, but the other two were open.
"Malcolm?"
"Hold on," he
breathed. Malcolm opened up his helmet with tentative pressure. He sniffed
the air; it was stale and dry. Without much more hesitation he pulled off
the rest of his suit and tossed it to the floor. The radio he removed and
kept as a headset.
"Malcolm?"
"I'm here. There's
a lot of blood, and an unidentified object blocking the main tunnel, but
otherwise it's perfectly intact. I'm going to switch your connection to reception
only so that I can move more carefully, all right? I'll report back in a
minute." He reached up to his ear and cut out her response channel, then
pulled out the torch Mac had found for him. It wasn't a gun, nor really a
knife - he didn't actually know how to use either anyway - but if he stuck
it in somebody's face he might be able to defend himself. Just to be sure
he checked the fuel cell on it, then clipped it back onto his belt.
The rightmost
tunnel was clear, so he tried that one. Malcolm opened the door, then swore
and splayed out against the wall, holding onto the safety rungs as the air
suddenly swept out of the room and into the rest of the ship. The current
pulled him towards the tunnel as an unlikely amount of air was sucked into
it. Then the vents in the ceiling came on and began actively pumping air
back into the room - suddenly the airlock antechamber became a wind tunnel
and Malcolm was left choking for air. As the ship filled the air current
lessened, until he fell forward to crash onto the floor, gasping. He caught
his breath, then spoke softly into the mike. "I'm okay. Thought the ship
had decompressed, but I think it just needed to replace the atmosphere in
there. It's not even that cold. I'm going to keep going."
Further down
the lights dimmed, but the dullness was acceptable. He floated down the tunnel,
looking down the areas where it branched off. The blood there was still wet,
but brown. Brown slime… looked like a janitor's nightmare. It was
everywhere: in streaks, blotches, and sheets. The stench was overpowering
- like moldy bread. The grime and brown sludge made Malcolm retch as he crawled
through the dark, shadowy tube. Up ahead the lights were in better condition,
but not by much. He moved that way slowly, looking from side to side and
trying not to throw up. Once he hit the tunnel's end and came out into the
grey shade, though, his stomach went weak.
In the airless,
temperature-controlled environment the crew had practically been embalmed.
He'd had no idea that so few human bodies could contain so much blood. It
was everywhere, over everything. An old woman in a leather jacket lay on
her back on the deck, a large knife embedded in her forehead. A young,
fair-complexioned woman was still slumped in the pilot's chair, flayed alive.
The decay, even at its considerably slowed rate, had still turned pieces
of her back and flank to slimy yellow-brown jelly. Up above him, the ceiling
fan was muffled and moved slowly. Malcolm looked up at it and flinched -
there was another crewman up there. He was crucified, spread-eagled with
hands and limbs taped to the ceiling. The poor man's intestinal tract hung
out like a grotesque chandelier. Malcolm swooned, stepping back with his
dizziness increasing at every step.
"This is sick…
The bridge is full of bodies… ugh. I have to sit down." He staggered
back. "The stench… uhh…" Malcolm collapsed. The crewman was staring
down at him; he groaned and looked to the side, but the older woman was lying
there, grinning at him. "I think need a minute," he mumbled into the mike,
closing his eyes and catching his breath. Even then, the scent of decay made
him nauseous, and was rapidly increasing. He bit his lip and sat up. "I hope
that whoever or whatever did this isn't around any more." A metal rumble
back at the other end of the tunnel echoed his sentiments. "Hello?" he asked
cautiously. There was no response. "Hello? Somebody there?" Intense panic
gripped him and he stood, pulling the torch from his belt. "Hello?" he asked
again, turning in a slow circle. "Hello?"
Something heavy
gripped his back. Malcolm spun around with a wildly flailing punch. He crashed
into a suited figure, knocking the person backward to the ground. The figure
sprawled out below him, throwing forwards two protective arms, and in response
Malcolm thrust his torch into the person's face.
"Kid!" the figure
yelled, "It's me!" Shaking, Malcolm lowered his 'sidearm'.
"Dammit, Mac,
I almost killed you! You could've spoken up!" The EVA-suited man clambered
to his feet. He pulled off his helmet and then reached up towards Malcolm's
headset to flick the radio back to 'send and receive'.
"Keep in touch,
kid. Don't you ever cut communications. If you'd left it on you would've
heard us warning you." He looked around, taking in the grisly sight without
as much as a bat of the eye.