Starship Revenant (The Galactic Wars Book 3) (11 page)

W
alker watched
as Malik and Saaja were escorted into the detention center.

Malik’s face was grim, and his eyes looked even darker than usual.

“957,” Lu said.

“What’s that?”

“There are 500, 2 person cells in this detention block. They’re almost at capacity. Those two make 957.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m good with numbers, and I count as they come and go.”

“Bullshit.

“Okay, I went to basic with one of the guards. He tells me the count, and also keeps me supplied.” Lu took another drag off the joint. “It was 954 after they took the main course to the galley. Then you came in, plus those two, makes 957. They’ll use the strong as forced labor. The weak and sick will be eliminated, or used for experiments.”

“What kind of experiments?”

“Don’t ask.”

Walker surveyed the bulkheads, looking for weaknesses. There was a poster of a naked Decluvian pinup queen stuck to the wall. As far as Decluvians went, she wasn’t bad looking.

“Unless you’ve got a plasma torch, you’re not getting out of here.”

“What’s the size of the crew?”

“There’s 623 operational crew members and 2112 Terrestrial Infantry. But most of them are on the ground right now.”

Walker pondered the numbers.

“What are you going to do, take on the whole ship by yourself?”

“Yes.” He was dead serious too.

Lu chuckled for a moment. “I like you. Optimistic. Good sense of humor.”

But Walker wasn’t laughing.

It wasn’t long before two armed guards came for Walker. One of them kept his weapon aimed at Walker as the other disengaged the containment beam. They motioned for him to exit the cell.

“It was nice knowing you,” Lu said. “Sure you don’t want a hit?” He offered Walker the joint.

Walker stepped out of the cell and one of the guards cuffed him.

The two guards were arguing about something, but Walker couldn’t understand what they were saying.

Lu translated. “They’re debating whether or not to kill you now, or wait till they get to the galley. That way they won’t have to carry you.”

One of the guards snapped at Lu, telling him to shut up.

“Seems the Emperor personally requested you be added to the menu,” Lu said. “Making friends in high places.”

The guards marched Walker into the corridor and headed toward the galley. Walker was going to be an appetizer, or an entree—maybe even dessert. None of which sounded appealing.

There were only two guards. He could probably take them, he thought. But with his hands cuffed behind his back, it would limit his ability to fight.

He was restrained with hinged, high security, double locked cuffs. If he had some time, and a shim, he could get out with ease. Slam a pair of double locked handcuffs against a hard surface a few times, and the double lock will release. Then it’s possible to shim the spring-loaded mechanism. If you know what you’re doing, you can be out of a pair of handcuffs in a few minutes. And Walker knew what he was doing.

You didn’t just sign up to become a Reaper, go to boot camp, and get your badge. If you were enlisted, you did 8 weeks of recruit training. If you were officer material, you did 13 weeks at Officer Candidate School. Then you had to pass your physical screening test and get accepted to the program. Less than 6% of applicants were admitted. Once you had your Reaper contract, you attended Basic Space Combat Training at the Naval Special Warfare Academy. Roughly 80% of candidates failed to graduate on their first attempt. After graduating, you went through another 2 years of special ops training. One of those special ops schools was focused on how to survive and escape POW situations. Reapers were taught how to circumvent almost every restraining device and technique.

But these alien cuffs were something he had never encountered before. They were made out of some type of composite material. The old steel handcuffs with a simple chain were easy to break. Lock up the chain and apply enough torque, and the connectors would shear off. The stronger the metal, the more brittle, the easier it would snap. High quality handcuffs were easier to get out of than the cheap ones.

Walker wasn’t going to be able to shear his way out of these. The design, and the composite material, was too strong. But halfway to the galley, his wrists were starting to burn. The oil in his skin was having a reaction with the alien composite material. Wisps of smoke were wafting from the metal. It was disintegrating. The cuffs were designed to restrain Decluvians—not humans.

Walker stretched his fingers around and rubbed them over the hinges. With any luck, the oil would weaken the hinges enough for him to snap the cuffs in half.

When they reached the galley, the cook was bitching up a storm that Walker was still alive. He didn’t want a mess in his galley.

The yellow skinned guard put the barrel of his rifle to Walker’s head. The cook hollered even louder.

Walker’s wrists were burning from the reaction to the handcuffs. He hoped the oil from his skin had weakened the hinges enough, because it was now or never.

The yellow guard lowered his weapon and got into a heated discussion with the cook. Walker didn’t understand a word of it. But that was just fine, he didn’t need to. The guard was distracted just enough for Walker to make his move.

He twisted and torqued his wrists, snapping the hinge. With lightning speed he jabbed an elbow into the blue guard’s nose. He could hear the bones crumple. Green blood oozed down the Decluvian’s blue skin.

Walker snatched the rifle away from the dazed guard and blasted away before the yellow guard could react.

A brilliant glowing blue projectile launched from the barrel like a tracer round. It was some type of ionized thermal plasma projectile. It smacked into the yellow guard, spraying chunks of yellow body parts everywhere. Green blood scattered the galley. The cook had a conniption fit and took cover.

Walker spun the weapon around and blasted the other guard. The blue bastard erupted into a sloppy mess. Walker was covered in green slimy Decluvian blood.

Then he took aim at the cook, unloading a torrent of bullets in his direction. It was pure chaos. Pots and pans and utensils were blasted to pieces. Appetizers, soups, and entrées splattered the walls.

A bullet ripped through the cook’s skull, scattering his brains. Other culinary specialists streaked from the galley in terror.

The Emperor wasn’t going to have his victory feast after all.

“
W
e’ve got a little problem
,” Violet said. She hunched over the display on the command station.

“What is it?” Zoey asked.

“Our orbit is decaying faster than I thought. We’re going to spiral into the planet within the next 6 hours. We need to either find a way off the ship, or get it operational.” Violet surveyed the grim faces of Zoey and 8-Ball.

“We’ll head down to the reactor room. See if we can figure anything out,” Zoey said.

“I’m going to find Declan,” Violet said. “I think I know what’s causing this.”

In the captain’s quarters, Declan was mesmerized by the glass of scotch. It looked so inviting. He picked it up and brought it to his lips once again. But he couldn’t bring himself to slug it down. He moved to the sink and poured it out. He grabbed the bottle and poured the rest of it down the drain.

He felt nauseous. It was a priceless bottle of scotch. There were maybe a handful left in the galaxy, if any at all.

He reached into his pocket and thumbed his recovery chip. He felt the raised lettering that read
one moment at a time
. This was certainly a moment.

A knock on the hatch shattered the silence.

“Come in.”

Declan waited a moment, but no one entered.

“I said, come in.”

Still nothing.

He marched to the hatch and opened it—there was no one there.

He peered down the hallway, first to the left, and then to the right. He caught a glimpse of someone turning the corner. It looked a lot like…

“Brody?”

The figure was gone in an instant.

Declan stepped into the corridor and called out for his brother again. “Brody, is that you?”

Declan jogged to the end of the hallway.

He knew Brody had been on the
Zephyr
when it was destroyed. But maybe he’d come back to the
Revenant
before the explosion?

Declan turned the corner and caught a glimpse of Brody again at the end of the hallway. There he was, plain as day, staring back at him.

Brody disappeared down another passageway.

Declan ran after him.

He kept chasing the ghostly figure through the maze of passageways, until he found himself standing on the precipice of a hundred foot drop. He was in the cooling tower over the primary heat exchanger.

Brody was on the other side of the chasm. There is no way he could have gotten over there. It wasn’t humanly possible.

Declan was about to take a mindless step forward when Violet called his name. He caught his balance just in time, clinging on to a protrusion on the bulkhead.

“What are you doing?”

Declan was dazed. “Nothing. I thought I saw… Brody.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I’m telling you, he was right here.” Declan looked back across the cooling tower. The apparition was gone.

“It wasn’t Brody. I’ve seen visions too. Impossible things.”

“What if Brody wasn’t on the
Zephyr
when it was destroyed?” Declan was clinging on to hope.

“You and I both know he was.”

“You’re not going to start in on me with that Numarian curse crap, are you?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous. But I’m telling you, as long as that treasure is on the ship, we’re doomed.”

“I think you’re letting your imagination get carried away.”

“You were about to step off a cliff chasing your nonexistent brother.” Her eyes burned into him.

Declan grimaced, not wanting to admit she was right.

“You know me. I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe in hokey religions, or magic, or any of that supernatural nonsense.”

“You’re not really suggesting we flush 3 trillion credits worth of trilontium out into space, are you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

Declan’s face tensed.

“You know something’s not right here.”

He sighed. He had to agree with her. “That wasn’t the first time I’ve hallucinated on this ship.”

“I think we all have.”

“Let’s get everybody together,” Declan said. “We need to make this decision as a team.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Make a command decision.”

“You really think the ship is going to magically start working once you get rid of the treasure?”

“Anyone in possession of the treasure will meet with their doom.”

“Folklore and legend.”

“Well, when we all end up in a pile of twisted debris on the planet, you tell me how much of a myth it was.”

Declan looked back across the cooling tower one more time. There was still no sign of Brody. He peered over the edge at the machinery below. He’d be a grease spot on the deck if it weren’t for Violet. Maybe he should listen to her?

“Where’s Jaxon and Mitch?” Declan asked.

“They’re working on the hull.”

“They’re not going to be happy about this.”

“Tough shit.”

“Find them,” Declan said. “I’m going to go up to the airlock.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Toss out the trilontium, I guess.”

Violet smiled at him. “You know, you might be a decent human being after all.” Her doe-eyes gleamed at him.

He chuckled. “Careful. Don’t go ruining my reputation.”

M
itch was still trapped
in the passageway between section 167 and 174. Both of the hatches remained shut. It was clear Jaxon wasn’t coming back to release him.

The oxygen meter on his heads-up display read 22 minutes. If he had to guess, it was probably more like 15.

Mitch tried to squeeze his head through the gaping wound in the exterior hull. Despite its size, he could only fit his head and shoulders through. There wasn’t enough room to get the center locking ring of his suit through the opening. It didn’t matter how he twisted or contorted. He just wasn’t going to fit. And he didn’t want to get too aggressive about trying. One of the jagged edges could easily catch and rip the material of the suit. Then he’d be in a whole new world of trouble.

He wiggled his head and shoulders back into the corridor. Then he marched to the toolbox at the opposite end of the hallway. He rummaged through the container and found a laser cutter.

For a moment, he thought about cutting his way through one of the sealed hatches. But that could compromise the integrity of the entire ship.

Mitch walked back along the damaged bulkhead until he found the widest gap. He pressed the tip of the laser torch against the bulkhead and began cutting a wide arc. Sparks showered out into space. The beam melted the thick composite alloy with ease. Droplets of molten metal wafted out into space and cooled almost instantly.

After a few minutes, he had carved out a nice sized opening. The semicircular piece of metal was hanging by a thread. He kicked it loose, and it tumbled off into space.

Mitch activated his magnetic boots, then shimmied through the opening in the hull. He took the laser cutter with him, just in case.

He held on for dear life until he could affix his boots to the outer hull. If he lost his grip, he’d be tumbling into space for the rest of eternity.

His boots clamped tight against the outer hull, and he stood tall. He took in the wondrous view once again. It was quite a sight. He started marching forward toward the next airlock. He would try them all until one of them opened.

The metallic boots made his feet feel like they weighed 50 pounds each. It was like walking through knee-deep mud. You’d lift your feet and they’d clanked right back down again. It was better than drifting away into space. But it didn’t take long for your legs to start burning.

Mitch was heaving for breath. He wasn’t exactly in the best shape. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He was down to 17 minutes of oxygen left.

He kept plodding toward the next airlock, stepping over the ridges and valleys in the ship’s design.

Mitch had made it about 20 yards when another meteor shower hit. Small golf ball sized rocks pelted the hull. They were hard to see coming through the foggy haze of the nebula. They would appear at the last minute, and Mitch would try to dodge out of the way. They clinked and clamored against the hull.

The magnetic boots kept him from being as nimble as he could’ve been. He did his best impression of a run, zigging and zagging and dodging and weaving.

His heart was about to punch through his chest. He swore if he made it out of this alive he was going to get back into the gym. Hit the treadmill, ride the bike, do the elliptical. Whatever it took to get himself back into shape. He had let himself go and he wasn’t happy about it.

He took shelter behind a ridge.

Meteors were pouring down now.

He crammed into the enclave, hoping the shower of rocks would pass soon. The ridge just barely gave him enough cover.

The space rocks slammed into the hull, pulverizing into dust and tiny pebbles. Even a small one could kill you, traveling faster than a bullet.

Mitch started to contemplate where the best place to get hit would be. A shot to the head would kill you instantly. That would probably be best. If you were going to die, might as well get it over with quick. A shot to the chest might prolong things, unless you were lucky enough to get hit directly in the heart. A shot in the arms and legs would drag things out too much. You’d probably live for another 10 or 15 minutes while you bled out.

The gonads!

That would be the worst place to get hit by a meteor, Mitch thought. Excruciatingly painful and embarrassing. He’d be the butt of endless jokes if he went out that way.
Did you hear about old Mitch? Yeah, he took one in the nads.

Yup,
Old Meteor Mitch
, they’d call him.

He glanced at his HUD. 15 minutes of oxygen left—which probably meant 10.