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= NEBULA EXPRESS =

a DarkSF novel

by John Argo

Page 6.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." A face appeared on the view screen, that of Captain Venable in his command module far away on the other side of the ship. The captain had a classic face, filled with a mix of severity and understanding. The colors were bad, and he looked a bit washed out. Ridge always thought it was the low sunlight this far out, but they had batteries charged up to the point of smelling and foaming, so it had to be just a few bad wires someplace. He'd thought about putting in a work order, just as a mercy thing, because the imperfect reception annoyed his engineering nature, but then he always dismissed the thought. Why volunteer for things, when it could only lead to complications and unexpected consequences?

"Good morning," the Captain said. He appeared to glance at a wall clock near his desk. "Still early." He smiled, like a friend who knew each of them personally, and each of the crew had met Venable at least once or twice. "I'm sure you are ready for a long, hard work day," the Captain said, "and I want to be sure to thank you for your great work in saving and restoring the ship thus far, and to tell you how much I look forward to our being completely back on line and in good shape as we approach our target planetary system."

Ridge nodded to himself, picturing: elevator-style, a dark blob amid lengthy dark and copper-colored shadows, the entire workpod would be moving toward the next trouble spot. On its upper side (up and down being artificial but necessary concepts here) WorkPod01 was a rather luxurious living area for eight. On its lower side, it contained a complete workshop. In a few hours, the entire pod could traverse huge industrial segments of the yawning interior of the ship. It was good this way. You could drive your home to your work, unlike uncomfortably commuting for hours between home and a job in the teeming and smoky industrial centers of Earth.

"Again," the Captain said, as he sat with his big, gnarled hands folded on his glass desktop, "thank you for your heroic and decisive action in saving the ship a few weeks back, and for staying on top of things so that we can make it safely to Triton for repairs. In the meantime, we have new secondary explosive damage in the outer cargo pods in Level..." (he paused, put on reading lenses, and consulted the gleaming readouts in his desk surface) "...61. That's where you will need to apply your next set of workarounds. I'm expecting..." (again he paused and waited while his desk computed data and spat out results) "...that you will need just two days to restore power and then splice together the cabling on 61A through 61L. It does get a little trickier. The shaft you're on is impacted all the way up to Ring 98, where we had a major blowout. WorkPod07 and WorkPod10 were unable to get close enough to make repairs..."

Ridge spoke up, helping the Old Man. "Sir, I believe those pods are more chemostatically oriented. We have the complete systech kit on our station for the repairs I think we'll need to make."

"Thank you, Senior Lead. You are absolutely right." The Old Man grinned feebly. "At least, I feel reassured to hear you say so."

Laughter rumbled through WorkPod01.

"We'll make you proud of us," Ridge boomed. He winked at Lantz and Mughali.

"Set your chronometers," the Captain said. "Thirty-six hours max, and I expect you'll return for an equal rest period. Insurance regulations, you understand."

Ridge spoke for everyone else. "That sounds good to all of us, Sir. Let someone else carry the load while we rest."

"That's right. Division of labor." The Captain looked pleased. "Thanks again, and best of luck. See you all back here safely at the end of your shift." Captain Venable signed off.

Tomson gave his usual supercilious look, and Lantz regarded Tomson with faint displeasure. Yun gave a thumbs-up sign demonstrating his equanimity, while the pragmatic Jerez quietly helped herself to a slice of bread, which she started buttering.

"All right," Ridge said as he carried his cereal dish to the sink, and tucked his Homeric classic on a shelf under the table for later reference. "Let's clean up so we return to a clean home." It seemed childish, but they had to be reminded sometimes not to act like a bunch of toddlers. It was all part of the human condition.

Just then there was a pounding on the door.

"What's that?" Tomson said, frowning. As EMT and sergeant at arms, as well as Bones or Doc, whatever epithet best clung to his strong shoulders at that moment, he was the first to push the others aside and stride to the portal. The gate was not quite ready to open, but he pulled aside the stiff canvas drapes covering a wide, narrow window in one door, and several persons cried out in shock and anguish.

A nightmarish and violent scene-a desperate scene without rhyme or explanation-was taking place before their eyes.

A man was outside the door, pounding on the glass window with the palms of his hands so that the door shook. The man was screaming, but his words sounded muffled and incoherent. His eyes were wide with terror and pain, and he seemed to be throwing himself against the door repeatedly.

"My God," a woman cried out-Jerez.

"We have to help him," someone said, but another person said: "No, don't open the door, he looks crazy." Another person said: "He looks berserk. He's scaring the shazzam out of me."

Ridge and Tomson exchanged glances. Tomson reached up in a small box above the door and pulled out a handgun. He looked at Ridge and shook his head. "Keep the door closed until we know what's going on."

"Anyone know that guy?" Tomson said.

There was a murmur of negation, a collective gasp of horror.

"I'm for that," Ridge said. Tomson tossed him a gun, and he caught it deftly while picking up a hand-phone from the wall. Pressing the buttons 3-3-3, he attempted to connect directly to Venable's CP while crew shrieked and nervously laughed all around him. The desperate man kept pounding on the window, but more feebly. He was leaving bloody palm prints now. It was getting hard to see through the reddish gore. "Hello, Captain?" Ridge was puzzled. "Sir? We are having an emergency of some sort." Instead of the Captain, he only heard static as if the line had been severed. "Sir, we need to know if something is going on out there."

There was a general shriek, and the techs inside fell back as the man suddenly appeared to be attacked from behind. He looked over his shoulder and made a face of sheer terror. Just one more time he looked into the window through the haze of his own dripping blood and gore. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open as if he were yelling-a warning of some kind, Ridge thought-and then gray shapes flashed by, tearing him away. It was all over in a second or two. Ridge did not get a good look at the man's attackers, and he was sure nobody else had. The window was just that gory and dirty by now. They had a single fleeting glimpse of the man being torn away backward, his eyes rolling up in his head, his arms twisted behind him. Grayish shapes, maybe men in pressure suits, briefly appeared on either side of his receding figure, and then he was gone.

The techs and engineers stood frozen in shock and disbelief, looking at the smeared window. Ridge hung the phone back up. "Nobody home," he told Tomson.

"What do you want to do, Ridge?" Tomson asked.

Ridge stepped forward. "We will go out as an armed work party. The work has to get done. There is no choice. The ship needs to be repaired, and we are on a tight schedule."

"That's pretty scary," several people protested.

Lantz asked in a kind of lamely hopeful tone: "Do you suppose the man lost his mind, and the ship's constables came to take him away?" Nobody answered her, and Ridge thought her scenario might have some faint grain of hope, but then again he'd never heard of an arrest going down in quite this manner. Wouldn't they leave one guy to knock politely on the door and tell everyone it was okay to come out? Ridge shrugged. "We'll carry guns and watch our backs. We cannot afford to slip schedule. Everyone okay with that?"

He received only pale, scared looks, but nobody refused. He thought grimly, as Tomson handed out the rest of the side arms, they wouldn't dare-they get paid too much. "The show goes on as scheduled," he told them. Nobody made a sound in reply. Armed and uncertain, they all fell back as Tomson rolled open the door. Ridge felt the blast of stale, oily, almost decaying air from outside. He felt goose bumps on his arms, and prickles of fear up and down his spine. There was not a sound to be heard, except for the distant dripping of water, and all the faint little noises that a huge ship naturally made, like wind rushing through tunnels, and metal popping as ambient temperatures changed.

"Door's open," Tomson said as if they needed to be reminded to step outside.

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