Adamant Spirits, page 18
Four of us had been assigned to this ship. Randall—Randy, as I privately called him. Randall was too mature of a name for him—me, and two other copilots. On paper, our jobs were to keep an eye on the scanners and mind the navigation settings. The course was set and the Axion-9, which was a beautiful, brand new vessel, would take us there without much help. But my last job was piloting long-range ships for the Earth Lunar Force, so I knew that we were not the only ones this far out in space.
More importantly, we were definitely not the only ones using the darkspace channels to travel through. After twelve years of sitting at piloting screens, I had seen a fair amount of surprises—random attacks, traps disguised as distress signals, and enough space debris to form a whole planet, just to name a few.
Darkspace channels could be tricky things. They used to be called wormholes, but they were more like superhighways through the galaxy, and probably beyond, but humans hadn’t gone that far, yet. It was only 2324, after all. We had so much to learn.
The hardest part of traveling through darkspace was finding the correct entrance to the channel. A miscalculation would take you far from your intended destination. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust the computer’s navigation system, it was that things could go wrong out here. They did.
I had a little faith in Randy. I could not fathom how he got the captain’s job. I would say he got it by blackmailing someone, but he wasn’t smart enough for that. So far he had miscalculated the amount of fuel we would need, chosen the incorrect shield settings so we burned more fuel than we should have, and failed to notify a space station we buzzed by and almost got fired upon.
My two fellow copilots, Jacob and Byron, were no better than Randy. Byron had started out with a little more backbone and responsibility, but he’d gone lax. It was so infuriating, I was unable to speak to any of them without forcing the words through gritted teeth.
I’d overheard Randy tell Jacob that he’d only done short-range freight runs before this one. Clearly, none of them had come out quite this far, but I had. Running missions with the Earth Lunar Force made anyone vigilant.
I sat back in my seat preparing myself to ask—no, demand—that someone take over. They were probably all drinking in the crew lounge. I got up from my station and stretched. The only thing keeping our feet on the floor were lock boots, which magnetically held to the metal underfoot. Our suits were also equipped with gravity pulls to mimic the sensation of being attached to the ground, but space flight was still an adjustment. At the age of thirty-two, I’d spent over half of it off-planet. My parents had both been pilots before I’d followed in their footsteps.
I walked from the navigation deck. I had to pass through the women’s space to get to the crews’ quarters. The female team we were transporting had separate private staterooms. Beds doubled as escape pods, fully stocked with food, water, and compressed oxygen.
Randy had scoffed when I had insisted on giving the women full instructions on how to use their escape pods and all the safety measures available in case there was an attack on the ship or some other misfortune. I’d shown them, anyway. It was procedure. If there was one thing I understood, it was that.
The door to their space opened as I neared it, and as I usually did when passing, I leaned in to see if they needed anything. They were all in the large central common space which had a dining area, couches for passing time, and even a small exercise area with equipment to keep the muscles toned during the lower gravity in space. Doors leading off the central room led to individual staterooms for each of the women—all experts in their fields.
They all looked up at me with waves and smiles. I felt a pang of envy for these women. They didn’t have to deal with Randy and his brainless buddies. They were a team and they worked well together, from what I observed.
“Hey there, Tarla,” said a brown-haired woman named Lexi. She was a linguist and sociologist, if my memory served. “Come join us.” She lifted a narrow cylindrical glass filled with peach-colored liquid. “We’re having a planning session with a bit of wine.”
I smiled at the way she said it as if it was scandalous. They were lounging on the couches in the soft jumpsuits issued by the government, drinking wine and snacking on cheese. At least that’s what it looked like at first. At second glance, I saw screens and notebooks—even a pair of antiquated eyeglasses—and formulas and diagrams drawn on the omniboard.
They were working. Meanwhile, I could hear the raucous laughter of my crewmates down the hall.
A woman with short dark hair—a biologist, named Jetta, rolled her eyes. “She’s having a bit. The rest of us are having normal amounts, as is appropriate for planning sessions.”
I chuckled. “I wish I could,” I said, truly meaning it. “But I have to get one of my colleagues to take over my shift.”
A blonde who looked like she stepped off a fashion runway, named Wyn, frowned at me. “Tarla, you look very pale. How long have you been up?” Wyn was a medic, even when she was having wine.
Too long, I thought, but I didn’t want the team to worry about me—or anything—so I waved off her question. “I'm fine. We’re about to enter the darkspace channel. Total time to your destination should be a little over fourteen hours,” I informed them. “So, you all need to get some rest. We’ll be at the planet Clarion-4 soon enough.”
“Will do, Captain,” said Lexi, even though they knew Randy held that title. The six of them looked so relaxed. I didn’t sense a hint of nerves or worry on any of their faces. They trusted us to deliver them safely to the planet. I would not share with them my concerns about our captain and his lackadaisical copilots.
I smiled, said my goodnights—because I planned to have a good sleep—and pushed off the door frame. I headed to the quarters reserved for the crew, but my gut sank the moment I walked inside the crew’s lounge.
Ours was much smaller than the passengers’ space but was designed the same with a central room ringed with doors. Randy, Jacob, and Byron sprawled on the couches howling in laughter. They held coffee mugs in their hands but I could smell the booze right away. There was no coffee in them. The room stank from the drink that didn’t quite make it into their mouths.
“Well if it isn’t our resident schoolmarm,” slurred Randy in a sloppy British accent I wasn’t convinced was authentic. “Had enough of those screens have you? We can pour you one.”
I fought to keep the disgust off of my face. “I need someone to relieve me on the bridge. It’s been ten hours. Jacob, you’re up.”
Jacob rolled his eyes then laid his head back on the cushion. “The ship can bloody well fly itself. We don’t need to babysit it. Isn’t that right, Captain?”
“That is right.” Randy gave me a narrow-eyed look. “Do what you want love, but the boys and I here are on a break.”
My shoulders slumped. I was tired. “This is not the way a captain behaves.” I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Probably shouldn’t have.
Randy’s expression chilled. “Is that so? And how should a captain behave, copilot?”
“We are about to enter the darkspace channel,” I said. “There are anomalies that need to be looked out for. It’s not a safe zone and we can’t risk entering the channel with anything less than precision. If we enter at the incorrect point, the channel will shoot us past our exit point and we don’t have enough fuel to make mistakes.” My eyes narrowed right back at him.
“That’s your opinion, love,” said Randy condescendingly. “I trust the finely-tuned navigation system that will guide us far better than a set of human eyes would. But no one stopping you from being on those precious screens of yours.” He waved a hand toward the deck. “No one at all.”
“I could take over for a bit,” said Byron, rising. “Tarla’s been a good sport.”
I stood there for a moment. Exhaustion pounded through me like bricks tied to my legs. I wasn’t excited to hand off the navigation to someone who had been drinking. “I’ll go with you and make sure you’re set up.”
“She’s going to babysit you,” warned Randy with a nasty twinkle. “Or maybe just sit on you, Byron.” He seemed to find that hilarious and let loose with a grating fit of laughter. “I will want a full report.”
I shut my mouth before I said anything that could get me in trouble. When we returned to Earth, I was lodging a formal complaint against Randall Cunningham III and not letting it go until it was taken up the chain and this asshole was fired. I’d have documentation and the ship’s logs to back it up.
With a hard look at Randy and Jacob, I turned around and returned to the navigation deck with Byron following. I was in no condition to go back to those screens. I would likely fall asleep in front of them, but at least if an alert appeared, I would awaken for it. I could get some rest when Byron sobered up.
“I do appreciate this,” I said to Byron, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Off the record, the captain isn’t taking this very seriously.” His mouth tightened. “Neither were Jacob and me. But I’m here, now.”
I gave him another look and saw that he wasn’t as drunk as I thought. Maybe I’d get some decent sleep after all. I gave him a small smile and threw myself back in my chair. “Thank you.” Randy’s words had made anger rummage through my gut, stirring things up. It momentarily cut through the fatigue. “I’m not going to sit on you, by the way.”
He chuckled. “Didn’t think you would. So where are we at with the darkspace channel entrance?”
I pointed to the screen where the coordinates and estimates scrolled relentlessly down the screen. “Entering the Colaxo solar field one thousand eighty ticks from—” I noticed a message—a small one—politely informing me that an unknown substance had become attached to the portside hull which could affect travel speed. “What the fuck is that?” I checked the ship’s outer cameras, which gave views of all sides of the ship, and immediately saw a strange, black splatter. It looked like oil or paint on the hull.
Byron leaned close and frowned at the images. “The scanners can’t identify it.”
“That’s odd,” I said, pouring over the recent logs. They showed no collisions or interruptions. “It has to be some sort of space junk or waste expelled from another ship.” I gnawed the inside of my cheek in worry. How long has it been there? It could have been a while and I missed it in my fatigue.
“Wouldn’t the ship analyzers be able to identify it?”
“I’d think so.” I glanced with concern at the readings. We were minutes away from the darkspace channel entrance we were aiming for. “I’m running a heat flash over the outer ship body.” That should burn off whatever the substance was. I turned to Byron. “Refresh the navigation course to take into account what the substance may have done to our trajectory.”
Byron was in his seat, fingers flying over the screen. “Fuck.”
“What?”
He showed me the message that appeared: Approval needed for course deviation.
My gut sank. “Randy needs to come here and approve this or we’ll be entering the dark space imprecisely. Call him, please. He won’t come for me.”
Byron grimaced. “He won’t come. He thinks I’m pussy whipped because I help you out.”
We didn’t have time for this. I turned on the intercom to a loud setting. It would boom through the crew lounge, but his voice would come through loud and clear for the ship’s computer to pick up and process. “Captain Cunningham to the nav deck. Your approval is needed for a course correction.”
After a pause, in which I held my breath—would he actually ignore me?—came a slurred reply, “override approved.”
I sighed and the computer allowed the correction. I checked the outer cameras again and my throat clamped shut. The black substance was still there after the heat flash. Not only was it still there, but it had grown. I exchanged horrified looks with Byron.
My palm slammed on the call button, to summon the captain to the deck when alarms screamed all over the ship.
We were being dragged into the darkspace channel too soon, being controlled by something other than the ship’s navigation system.
Tarla
Finally. Captain Randall Cunningham III burst onto the navigation deck, all business despite his red face and beer-stained uniform. I whipped my head around to glance at him. “We need to engage auxiliary thrusters and reverse course now,” and I added, snidely, “sir.”
“There’s no time,” he snapped, staring at his screen as if it was the first time he’d ever seen the thing. “We go in.”
This time, I put my foot down. “We won’t be entering the darkspace channel at the correct point. We’ll miss our destination.” I had to shout to be heard over the siren. “There is still time to correct—”
“Stand down, copilot.” He sat in his chair, legs spread, looking all casual, as if we weren’t about to be sucked into the channel, guided by some unseen force.
I jabbed a finger toward the side of the ship with the black goo. “That stuff, whatever it is, is causing this. It could be organic and sentient. It could be leading us to our death.”
“If you had been more attentive at your post, we may have avoided this in the first place.”
I couldn’t say exactly what happened after that. A whole lot of words came out of my mouth in a very loud voice—with wildly inappropriate language—and then I entered the command to reverse course using the emergency override. The ship began to buck, but we did stop moving forward.
“Computer—reverse emergency override,” boomed the captain. He pointed a finger at me. “Never disobey a direct order.”
Jacob and Byron looked like they were caught in headlights. Byron, who knew this was all wrong, didn’t move or speak.
“You’re going to kill us all,” I snarled at him.
“Tarla Mazar, you are hereby relieved of your duty.” He flicked a hand toward Jacob and Byron. “Confine her to her quarters. No communication.”
“Um.” Byron looked uncomfortable with this course. He glanced at the screens, possibly noticing the same thing I did but decided to obey his captain. “Yes, sir.”
“Byron, you know this isn’t right,” I said as he and Jacob each seized one of my arms. They propelled me from my station to the exit.
“I can’t disobey my captain,” said Byron. His face was covered in sweat.
The captain in question gave a sneer as I was dragged by him.
“Damnit, Randy!” I shouted as I passed him. “You’ve fucked us.”
He pretended he didn’t hear me and began fiddling with his screen. “Cease warning notifications.” The ship went quiet. Lights returned to normal. We were moving toward the darkspace channel again. My attention moved from wanting to redirect the ship to survival—for the six women in the passenger quarters who were probably terrified.
I hooked my elbows over the women’s doorframe as it slid open. Inside, the women were sitting close together. Their eyes were already wide and fearful from the alarms and they cried out when they saw me being dragged by my copilots.
All six of them stood up, shooting hostile glares toward Jacob, who was trying to pry my arms off the doorframe.
“The fuck, Tarla,” Jetta said. “Do you—”
I shook my head. I had no doubt that had I asked the women for help, they would have given it. They would have overcome Jacob and Byron, easily. But in this case, I wanted to be locked in my room and these women needed to be in theirs, too.
I used all of my strength to hang on to the door opening as my crewmates tried to pull me off. “Get to your pods,” I gasped out. “Prepare for imp—” Ah, Jacob and Byron pulled me off before I could finish, but I got a warning out.
The women’s shocked, frozen faces were the last I saw of them. Their door closed and the men dragged me the rest of the way to my stateroom. I was locked inside with communication disabled.
That was fine. I yanked on my climate jumpsuit. It was stowed in all rooms in case of hull breaches or if we wound up on a planet with conditions incompatible with human life. Currently, whatever came next would likely be incompatible with all life.
I climbed into my bed. Inside was a panel that slid aside, revealing a small screen and instructions.
If we were being pulled into the darkspace channel by an unknown life force—and I couldn’t imagine what else that black stuff could be—we needed to prepare for the worst. This was space. It was not kind. A rounded dome slid down from a ceiling panel and fitted over my body. It sealed with a hiss just as a strong force rocked the ship.
I hoped the women were doing the same thing I was. Thank goodness I’d given them the instructions on how to turn their beds into escape pods. They wouldn’t jettison unless impact was imminent, but the pressurized pod would protect them from most damage and extreme conditions, including the vacuum of space if we didn’t make it to a habitable planet.
Another jolt shook the ship. If I stretched my neck I could make out a sliver of the window. Everything was red out there. My heart sank. We were now in the darkspace channel, all right. But it was not good. Red meant we were hurtling far faster than we should. Red meant the ship’s integrity would not hold. And if there was one set of conditions that the escape pods could not withstand, it was here.
I didn’t know what was happening on the navigation deck. I could only imagine the panic and disarray the three men there were experiencing. I was beyond anger and frustration with them and was now rooting for them, because if they managed to pull us out of this, we would live. I was thirty-two years old. I didn’t want to die. I really didn’t want the brilliant women in the passenger quarters to die.
The readout inside my pod showed my pulse and respiration dangerously high. Of course, it was. I was completely terrified. But true to the sophisticated nature of these pods, I felt a poke in my back and my body and mind slowed down.
