Penance (RN: Book 2) (10 page)

“But commander, I ...the men haven’t eaten –“

“The men are on a four hour relief shift, lieutenant-commander. Unlike my first officer they’re not going hungry. Now: oh five thirty. I insist.” Denz’s stern gaze and raised eye brows defeated any further protest.

“Yes, sir,” Canthouse said with a shallow smile of acceptance.

“Good. Until then I’ll be walking the ship. Comm me if you find anything.” With that, Denz walked to the rear of the bridge and exited through the door.

Petty officer Linda Cryer unzipped her work soiled grey overalls and let them fall to the floor, and stepped out of them as she reached behind to work on the pins and clips that held her long brunette hair in a tight ball flattened against her head.

“Well?” she said, her blue eyes directed at Esta Brula expectantly.

“Well what!” Brula said zipping up her own overalls.

Cryer pulled the final pin and shook her hair loose. She began working it with forked fingers. “What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything because I never asked him,” Brula’s surreptitious smile was smothered by a cascade of long dark brown hair as she ducked forward flicking it over her face and back again before she began brushing it.

“You said you might ask him.” Cryer slipped out of her bra and panties. She indicated Brula should turn around, so she could help in setting her trademark ponytail.

“No, I said he might ask me. And he didn’t as he’s been busy with the repair work since. And we’ve been on cross shifts, so we haven’t had time to see each other.”

“Well maybe you’ll see him later during the quick break.”

“I doubt it as only the repair teams are on quick breaks, the regular teams have the full eight hour shifts, and my team are pulling double shifts until the magazines are stocked. Oww! Linda!” Brula winced as Cryer set her pony tail with a tug.

“There.” Cryer said giving the pony tail a final stroke. “So anyone interesting on your shift?”

“No, not really. Maybe Avery will come by and stare at my ass some more. My tech lead swears he’s only there to monitor the store loading, but it’s funny how it’s always my position he’s monitoring from behind.”

“Better him than that other lanky streak of piss grinning at your tits.” Cryer said, her tongue peeking past a lecherous smile.

“Ugh!” Brula faked a shiver as she checked herself in the mirror. “Don’t mention that creepy shit to me. I told you what he said to me in the officer sleeping area, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did, and you should have reported him officially,” Cryer rooted through her locker sniffing at various towels until locating a clean one. “It’ll only get worse if you don’t.” She gathered her things and moved to the shower stalls.

“Maybe,”

“OK. I’m gonna have a shower and spend the evening with the D cell brothers.” Cryer flicked her eye brows in a saucy manner.

“Ugh! Cryer ...” Brula raised her hands as if to shield her ears from a harsh sound, “too much information!”

Cryer grinned. “See you tomorrow, babe,” she said with a cheeky grin as the door slapped shut behind her.

Still grinning from her friend’s crude comments, Brula pushed the door open and walked down the corridor toward the central stairwell, and exchanging smiles and greetings with those she passed.

The stairway terminated on G deck, or the bilges as it was known, and she continued down the long curving corridor toward the munitions storage area. The various doors she passed hid a multitude of small to medium store rooms that contained everything from medical supplies to tooth picks, and were some of the less frequented parts of the ship.

Since her encounter with Levre, she disliked being alone in the remote areas and sped her step, determined not to slow until reaching the stairwell to the magazine. On nearing the apex of the corridor, she thought she heard a shuffle on the carpeted floor ahead of her, and imagined she saw a shadow disappear around the curve ahead. Brula slowed her step, her body tingling as the air took on a sinister haunted house menace. The fingers of her left hand trailed the wall and skipped across door frames as she leaned to the left so as to increase her view around the curve, but she could see nothing.

Brula continued in a slow vigilant step, her wide unblinking eyes fixed on the extreme of the curving corridor with her athletic body taught and cautious, ready to sprint in the opposite direction should something appear. The end of the corridor came into view with the door sliding open as she approached, and Brula quickened her pace with her relieved sigh turning to a surprised choke when the tattooed arm hooked her neck from behind, and she was dragged struggling into the last of the store rooms with the door sliding shut after her.

Denz turned the tablet over and about before placing it flat on the table and staring at it as he drank his coffee. He disliked these new gesture controlled devices, much preferring the older models that required a pen stylus to use and were much more of a subdued device to operate. He glanced around the mess tables where other officers were catching up on work as they ate, each with one hand gesticulating over a tablet screen as if using an abacus or trying to pick up invisible sand. They looked ridiculous, and frankly he didn’t care to be seen shooing an imaginary fly as he checked his messages. He again tapped the screen only for the ‘make a gesture’ prompt to flash at him. He sighed as he pushed it away and picked up the half finished breakfast sandwich.

It was five twenty two and he had arrived to the mess earlier than expected after a tour of the ship that confirmed everything was in hand, with what repairs could be affected well under way, and those that couldn’t fully catalogued for when they arrived at the next quarter station.

The ship had taken a hell of a beating for what was a short but lively encounter with a ...with a? He didn’t even know what the hell it was. A finger tapped the table as he pondered what to put in his report.
The ship was attacked by a space dinosaur that almost bit us in half
! Denz grunted into his coffee at the preposterousness off it. He could see the admiral at Trent quarter station sharing disbelieving stares with his adjutant, as they then scribbled notes and stamped papers before a summoning finger requested the file be sped to the nearest board of psychiatrists. Yet he always had the recorded data and a group of solid officers behind him, so there could be no denying what had occurred.

Denz listened to the chatter about the busy mess as he sipped his coffee. Every man and woman here knew what they were doing, knew their place and how secure they were in it. Yet there were still the favour seekers who snatched glances at him over their tablets, hoping to catch his eye and have him make an acknowledgement of their presence. Maybe he would even invite them to join him for breakfast. He despised such toadying as it was but a short step from bona fide sycophantry and favoured protections. So he sat alone with a spare seat reserved for Mr Canthouse who would arrive on the stroke to eat a hurried breakfast, before inventing some plausible excuse to depart and continue his monitoring of the repairs.

A very capable officer that Malcolm Canthouse. A little liable to assume too much responsibility, a trait confirmed by his moving from console to console on the bridge to double interrogate any data. All he was lacking was a little more faith in his offices abilities to do their jobs without his intervention. Yet this was something that would come with time and more command experience. At least Denz hoped it would, because If it didn’t Canthouse was liable to burn himself out before he gained his own center chair. He’d seen it before in other promising officers, so an eye had to be kept on him to ensure he got the required rest, food and appropriate merits to enable his career progression.

For some reason, Denz suddenly became convinced that Canthouse would soon be moving on, and it was with ill consideration that he passed the thought of breaking in a new first officer through his mind. He quashed the idea and chastised himself for the nonsensicality of it. However, even if Canthouse did move on there were other officers that could step up to fill the void. Mr Avery, the second officer, was another capable man, just not as capable as Canthouse.

Denz stewed on such thoughts and considered officers he’d known as he finished his breakfast. He had known officers, some of them the finest men and women indeed. Officers who had served with him on this very ship. Officers who had placed their trust in him. Officers who had died because of their trust in him.

Images of smiling faces snapped from his subconscious to superimpose on his reality like flash photography. He looked about the mess hall at the companionable beings as they chatted and laughed to distract himself, but the images continued.

Lowering his head, he closed his eyes to will the faces away, only for the single frames to become a deluge of dark imagery from the last fateful voyage of the Bristol coursing through his mind.

They had met The Koll fleet with more than fourteen hundred ships, which was every flight worthy vessel the EDP possessed. But the fleet had paled against the five thousand strong Koll forces that flashed into existence in front of them. It was to be the final battle for Earth, and with the two fleets closing on each other they had received the message from the TWC – Capitulate unconditionally. It couldn’t be true! There was no way The World Council would submit to the will of an alien force, no matter how belligerent without a fight. There was dissent amongst the fleet. Many claimed it was a Koll trick; a subterfuge to lull the EDP forces into lowering their guard, but it was no bluff. They were to yield unconditionally.

Many ships revolted and the Bristol had fled the EDP fleet with the intention of continuing the war on her own terms, and vowing to find a way to free Earth from the grip of The Koll. The crusade soon became little more than a desperate flight to stay ahead of the pursuing Koll forces, and they lasted a little more than three months before the gate drive failed and they were discovered.

The Koll arrived in force; the Bristol besieged and her engines destroyed. Yet still The Koll kept firing. Eight strike ships fired volley after volley into her, each shot striking like a sledgehammer, resonating the hull and killing his people, his loyal people. Their corpses were everywhere, but she held together and they fought back until reduced to spitting into the eye of those who would see them dead.

The Koll would learn at what cost Royal Navy crew men sold their lives, but pay The Koll did. Reducing the Bristol to a tumbling smoking hulk, with half her crew dead and a screaming commander who met the borders with pistol and knife.

Denz found himself weak and unable to move, his face pressed against the table as if a boot were on his neck. His body felt heavy and sodden as if he’d crawled from water after near drowning, with his breaths coming in short stabbing gasps. He could hear the laughter and hum of voices from nearby tables and tried to call out, but the words were little more than low panting moans.

He did not want to relive what he knew was coming and he tried move, tried to escape but his body was wet sand, a cold dumb mass upon the table with his spirit broke beyond the ability to resist reliving the benevolent Koll’s fair and just treatment of those who deserted the fleet.

First came the word: Admiral Quincen. Promises of mercy and absolution should they surrender the Bristol and lay down their arms, which they did. Then The Koll foremen came. Hoods and bound hands, needles and dreams to wake to nightmares. Their cell an underground chamber, the misty swap air lit by primitive torches and alive with the sounds of things that chirped and creaked, hissed and roared. Flickering flames cast shadows of terrible things that uncoiled to tower cobra like over goading keepers. The great round heads splitting open to reveal dagger teeth as they roared like cage whipped beasts and snapped closed.

Then the foremen took their arms. Chopping and slashing, sawing and hacking with blood spraying as limbs were torn from bodies. And the screams! Oh Lord how his crew screamed as the blades rose and fell, rose and fell. Then in they went. The glistening eyeless heads opening wide, happy to receive his kicking writhing crew who were cast in and
chomp chomp chomp
. He had tried not to see, tried to look away but they held his head. They held his head so he saw it all.
Saw it all!
Every bite! Every kicking leg and snapping bone as his writhing screaming crew paid for his disloyalties. Oh God in heaven he never thought there could be such torment. Have mercies and end their sufferings,
please!

An age passed before the struggling ceased and cries faded as they succumbed to digestive juices.

My poor tasty crew, gone at last. Into the pot for The Koll monster’s supper. I hope you enjoyed your disloyalty stew, monsters.
His unhinged chuckles became the only sound as the last of the creatures coiled into its nest, chirping contentedly, its stomachs full.

Then the truth found him. That this banquet of the macabre was the result of his actions. His crew only partial payment for his decision to run. The anguish wracked his frame as he cried into his palms until his chest burned as if molten lead were poured down his throat. His crew were gone, all gone. Chopped then chewed then finally stewed, to slide down some foul creature’s gullet. Except for what they saved for him. He struggled against the hands that held his head, but they were too many. No commander should know how his crew tastes.

Something seized his leg and he screamed the pitiful wail of a being once strong in mind and body, now reduced to formless writhing mass by a mind closing in on itself. He kicked and swiped, his legs pistoning in short spasmodic jerks to break free from the vice like hands that spread from his legs, to his arms, to his chest. Pressing him down and pinning his arms from his sides ready for the blades to descend. He could see them now. Vague shadowy silhouettes, their whispering voices, telling him he had to stop fighting, he should not resist. That everything would be alright if he just gave into them. Denz remained defiant. He told them he’d never submit to their savageries. He’d never surrender. Never give in. They’d have to tear his soul from his wretched body before they could have him. And it was with teeth bared and tears in his eyes that Denz lifted his head to roar his defiance into the clearing image of Malcolm Canthouse.