No Man's Space 1: Starship Encounter (2 page)

Probably the latter. No crewmen wanted an engineer as their acting captain.

“Why aren’t you wearing your gear, sir?” Flanagan stared around in case I’d gone mad when I’d started stripping out of my protective gear.

No, I hadn’t lost my mind.
Yet
.

The first tests had shown a perfectly clean artificial atmosphere. The captain must’ve known that some of us were trapped in the lower decks, and he must’ve set the venting system to filter the air once everyone else had died. I’d taken off my protective gear because it limited my movements and my sight. Have you ever seen an engineer trying to wield a sword? I didn’t need to make my life any harder.

“Air’s clean,” simply I said. The men would never follow me if I started explaining the science behind everything I did. To them, engineers were like wizards, and nobody wants to get close to someone who can cast a curse upon you.

“Could’ve told me sooner!” Flanagan pulled off his protective helmet and threw it aside. It landed on one of the dead Cassocks’ stomach. He kept walking towards the bridge as if he hadn’t shown a complete disregard for death. He noticed me staring and shrugged. “What? He won’t complain.”

The corridors and rooms were plagued with corpses, friend and foe alike. The Cassocks outnumbered us at least three to one, but the captain must’ve faced something worse than a mere boarding. I refused to accept that Captain O’Keeffe had killed his own men without giving them a chance to fight. The Cassocks were dangerous and merciless, but committing suicide before fighting was hardly a captain’s style.

“You won’t like this, sir.” Flanagan stopped before entering the bridge and let me go in first. “Too messy for my liking. Haven’t brought my boots with me.”

At least a dozen Cassocks had fallen near the entrance, and another twenty had fallen inside. Captain O’Keeffe and the commander had died defending our last bastion aboard the ship. I couldn’t see the subcommander, but he’d probably died elsewhere. We hadn’t spotted any survivors.

I knelt beside O’Keeffe and closed his empty blue eyes that stared straight ahead. I placed his hands on his chest to cover the blood and placed his gun in his right hand. His gray hair had stains of blood in it. He’d probably fought until his last breath, even after ordering his men to poison everyone aboard the ship.

It had been his last, desperate move.

I muttered a few words of farewell. I never thought I’d take death so ritualistically, but I admired the officers for their bravery. I would’ve let the men fight for longer. It would’ve made us die even more slowly and painfully.

“He won’t hear you,” Flanagan said insensitively. He didn’t crouch beside anyone or pay his respects to the dead. Instead, he kept his electric gun in his hand and picked a couple extra guns in case he needed them. “We must secure the ship, sir. Don’t know if we’ve got more Cassocks around or if they’ll shoot us.”

Flanagan waved his hand in the air to turn on the sensors. They showed five enemy frigates surrounding us. The captain’s logs mentioned three ships. The other two must’ve remained cloaked.

The North Star, a modern ship of the line, could fight against one frigate, maybe two if we were lucky. But outmanned and outgunned? We had no chances against five enemy ships. I’m not exaggerating; this is well beyond any crew’s limitations. Some men claim that a task is impossible to make it even more impressive once they achieve it. Fighting five frigates fairly was beyond anyone’s skills.

Wait. Who’s said anything about fairly?

The enemy had approached us in the middle of the night, when most of our crew had been asleep. I know there aren’t any nights in space, but modern ships stick to Earth times to simulate days and nights. Earlier models tried keeping on the lights continuously, but it made the men restless and messed up their biological clocks.

The case is: we were attacked at night, the enemy had sneakily dodged our sensors, and they’d killed our men without giving them a chance to fight back. Why did we have to play fair?

What do you mean
the right thing to do
?

A gentleman might play nice with his enemies. Officers are supposed to be gentlemen, but I’ve already told you: I’m an engineer. I lack the manners or the impulse to act nice. Those damned Cassocks had killed everyone aboard my ship, and they were going to pay.

“Beat to quarters, Flanagan,” I said. I stood back up and noticed the blood stains on my knees and shoes. I hadn’t even noticed the blood before, but the men must’ve fought hard before falling to the poison. It was still warm.

Flanagan stared at the badge on the left side of my chest: a white anchor over the silhouette of a spaceship heading out into space. Silver laurels circled my badge, marking me as a lieutenant in the Engineering Corps.

Engineers weren’t supposed to lead men into battle, but what did he want me to do? Wait until the Cassocks noticed that their own men were dead? They’d destroy our ship before we could even run. The core explosion had probably disabled our engines.

“Sir?” Flanagan said. He was trying not to sound insubordinate, but every single cell in his body tried to make him contradict my orders. He didn’t consider me capable of leading in battle. But how can a man of the sea openly doubt his officer’s skills? He doesn’t; he shuts up and follows orders. Flanagan was a vet; he knew how things worked when you ended up with an incapable officer.

Luckily for both of us, I was open to suggestions. I wasn’t going to tell him yet, though. First I needed to make the chain of command clear before everyone.

“You’ve heard me, man,” I said. “Beat to quarters and get an updated headcount. I’m in charge unless you raise one of the officers from the dead.”

Flanagan bit the inside of his mouth and his weathered face tensed. He was measuring me and considering punching my nose and getting rid of me before I caused any trouble. But we were outnumbered and unlikely to survive; what difference would losing yet another officer make? He nodded. “You’re in charge, sir.” He headed to the room’s intercoms and began instructing the crew.

“You’re in charge, sir?” Midshipman Gomez ran into the bridge and froze when he saw all the corpses.

The captain’s chair had stains of blood, and so did the commander’s. Most of the standing officers had fallen defending the bridge. The lad counted them with his fingers. His sugar high hadn’t waded, and he barely reacted negatively to the blood.

He eventually finished and approached me with an expression well beyond his years. “If they’re all dead and you’re the acting captain, does that make me the acting commander? And are we fighting the Cassocks out there? I’ve always wanted to lead a fight, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon. And do I have standing rights? The captain didn’t let midshipmen on the bridge, but I’m the only officer left, aren’t I? Can I sit on the commander’s chair? Once they’ve cleaned it, of course… it’s yucky right now. And can I eat in the wardroom? It’s going to be empty now that you’ll use the great cabin.”

“God save us,” Flanagan muttered from the other side of the bridge. Midshipman Gomez didn’t offer many guarantees as a second-in-command.

“Religious?” I asked.

“No,” Flanagan said, “but looks like a good time to explore a new faith.”

Either Gomez hadn’t heard us or he didn’t care. He walked over to the beige officers’ chairs in the center of the bridge. They had high backrests and plushy armrests, and they were much more comfortable than your typical holo-cinema room. Gomez ran his hand along one of the seats and checked the plushy seat.

The kid had never seen death before, and he was already thinking of stealing a dead man’s chair! What kind of TV shows had he watched as a kid? At his age, I would’ve cried for days! Heck, if I’d been alone, I’d have curled up into a ball and hidden under a table.

“Nobody’s sitting anywhere or dining in the wardroom,” I said. “And I’m definitely not stealing the captain’s cabin, not even if the whole damned crew is dead. I haven’t seen the subcommander’s corpse, so we may already have an acting captain.”

“Doubt it.” Flanagan returned from the intercom and gestured at the screens to show several of the ship’s security cameras. Most of them had been disabled, but some showed corpses and more corpses. “Won’t find any survivors here, sir. Want the lads to check the hangars in case someone’s hiding in the escape pods?”

“Do it.” I gulped and tried to man up, but the dead crew was too much. I would’ve died if I hadn’t forced my men to stay up until late while we tweaked the fuel system. It had been a silly upgrade, but it had saved our lives.

And what could I do with my twelve year-old second in command?

As if my thoughts had called for divine intervention, Subcommander Adamson stumbled out of the captain’s emergency escape pod on the bridge. I’d heard of it before, but I’d assumed it was just an urban legend about the Navy: why would a captain need an escape pod on the bridge if captains are supposed to sink with their vessels?

Adamson was covered in blood from his stomach to his feet. One of his hands covered a large wound in his stomach, and he was pale. He stumbled backwards and sat on the floor beside the escape pod. He nodded in my direction… more or less. I don’t think he recognized me.

I crouched beside him. Flanagan and Gomez stood beside me, staring at the scene as if it were a tragic representation of our unavoidable fate. Adamson held my double-breasted jacket, marking it with four long red trails.

“Pity it’s black,” Flanagan said, referring to my jacket. “Won’t be easy to hide the blood.”

I glared at Flanagan, but he shrugged. He’d seen more death than me, but it didn’t give him the right to ignore a dying man’s last words.

The subcommander was agonizing. He needed a surgeon, but we’d found no surgeons alive and he assured that all the surgeons aboard the North Star were dead. The captain had pushed him into the escape pod before activating the poison gas, but it had been too late: Adamson was already mortally wounded.

The subcommander was wounded, but he wanted to warn us of what had happened.

Our men hadn’t noticed the Cassocks when they’d stalked our ship and boarded her in the middle of the night. They’d run along the corridors, entering rooms and murdering the men in their sleep. Some of the officers had heard the screaming and had run to defend the bridge before the enemy had arrived, but the Cassocks had been too many.

The captain had ordered the engineers to arrange the core explosion and disable the venting systems, hoping that none of the Cassocks would’ve reached the lower deck. He’d been right, and we were alive because his plan had worked.

The subcommander gulped as he tried to gather the energy to continue his tale.

I was no doctor, but his end was near. No man needed to waste his last breath warning us; we’d manage.

“Don’t, sir,” I told him. “Keep your strength.”

“Won’t be of much use,” Flanagan said.

I glared at him, but he remained impassible.

Subcommander Adamson pressed my arm. “He’s right,” he said. “I’m dying anyway.” There was no fear in his voice, only tiredness and pity. Pity to die too soon, pity to never reach the rank of captain, and pity to hand command over to an engineering officer who would never manage to lead the North Star to safety. He might’ve been more optimistic than me about my own skills, though.

The men on watch had been caught without warning. The Cassocks hadn’t killed them; they’d stunned them and taken them to one of their frigates. They wouldn’t be dead yet, not until the Cassocks captured or destroyed the North Star. There was still hope, but not for the subcommander.

“Rescue our boys,” Adamson told me. His eyes were tired and dying, but he stared at me intensely. If I didn’t obey him, he’d return from death and haunt me.

Flanagan didn’t care that the man was dying or about his death wish. He told him that he disapproved of everything the captain had done, and that we’d have had more chances of survival if the captain hadn’t killed our own men as well as the enemy.

The subcommander agreed, but he remained respectful for O’Keeffe’s memory. He told us that the surgeons on watch must’ve been taken with several officers, and maybe even with part of our crew.

Fear overtook him as soon as he’d given me the instructions. His mouth distorted and he grabbed the neck of my jacket. “You’re in charge, Wood,” he told me. “Take our lads back home.” He pushed me back and his hand dropped listlessly to his side.

“What a dramatic death.” Flanagan turned his back to him and headed straight for the controls to run a systems check. He complained loudly at nobody in particular. “Why do officers take life so solemnly even when they’re scared shitless? You don’t need to keep the act when you’re about to die.”

Gomez stared at Flanagan. The sugar high might’ve subdued, but perhaps he’d realized the gravity of the situation.

“Thank you, Flanagan,” I said, starting to get annoyed.

He looked up with less skepticism in his face. Was he testing my officer skills? Had I passed?

As if command hadn’t been enough, I was now tasked with confronting five enemy frigates and rescuing our men. If we were lucky, we’d die trying. If we weren’t, we’d be captured alive.

Command meant one thing: I had to take charge.

Pardon the engineering analogy, but our situation was like the First Law of Thermodynamics: you can’t win, you can’t draw, and you can’t quit the game. It’s unfair, and it sucks.