Born of Ash and Iron — Chapter 8
TWO WORLDS REPUBLIC SHIP ‘Hound’ REAR COMPARTMENTS
/ / SO8_v-udw · Somari Eight / /
“Give it to me straight,” Volm said, ducking past the low-hanging coolant lines as he followed Jea through the damaged corridors.
“Busted supports everywhere, as you can see,” She replied, motioning at the corridor. “Dazzy has his thumb in the leaking reactor, which is the only reason we’re still outrunning that oncoming torp’.”
A groan escaped Volm’s lips as he pinched at his cranial ridge. “I don’t know what has-his-thumb-in-the-reactor means, but it doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not.”
“Okay,” Volm replied slowly. “So, best estimate until you have us repaired?”
“Call it three weeks after you get us to a dockyard,” Jea responded so matter-of-factly that Volm honestly couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic.
“The rings are your dockyard,” Volm replied with a questioning shift in his voice, feeling out his engineer's response. “Green is positive, we'll shake the torpedo in the rings. For now, that’s the best yard you’re going to get.”
Jea shook her head, her braided hair coming loose, “Then the best we can do is keep the reactors from hitting critical mass and give you as much power as we have.”
“The Hound survived a duel over Somari Six, a fuel-air blast, and raking by Tomcat missiles,” Volm grunted, feeling a deep sense of pride with the crew he’d taken aboard. “What's a few mystery torpedoes we can’t figure out how to blow up?”
“And here I thought you were some great thinker with clever words.”
Volm let out a chuckle, “I’m a writer, you never publish the first draft.”
COMMONWEALTH CRUISER ‘Snow’ EMBARKATION DECK
/ / SO8.iv_o-sply · Somari Eight / /
“What’s your name, fish?” Fisker asked, feeling the slight watering at the back of his throat. He could almost taste the thick, fatty slabs of white meat that clung to Cartolingus' flanks.
“Shadow,” he replied through the translation box at his hip.
The Cartolingus was one of only six survivors Fisker’s team had pulled off the ship and station following the subspace bombardment by the Jorys.
There had been nineteen total damage control techs left on board – according to the Pantheran, they’d just finished questioning. The stringy hair and matted blood still clung to Fisker’s sidearm where he’d struck the rebel feline.
“You have no rights left to you, fish,” Fisker said after a long pause. “Not only are your kind sub-residents of the Commonwealth, but you’re a rebel.”
“I’m a prisoner of war,” Shadow replied quickly, earning himself a strike across his ventral band with the side of Fisker’s sidearm.
“A rubbing tidal wave,” Shadow’s vocal box mistranslated the deep howl of pain, as he dropped to his knees.
“Speak for yourself,” Fisker hissed as he struck Shadow again. “You lazy beasts can make our words, I’ve heard it!”
Fisker reached down, ripping the translator box from Shadow’s hip. The long air tube that ran from the box to Shadow’s gills jolted suddenly as the sudden tension ripped at the membrane installed under his skin.
Grunting, Fisker pulled again. The tubing popped out, with a semi-inflated bulb at the end. The sudden removal left a trail of blood down Shadow’s side, leaving him to howl in pain with no translation.
Dropping the box to the deck, Fisker raised his booted foot and crushed it against the cold metal floor.
“Admiral,” Prime Lieutenant Obo spoke softly at Fisker’s side. “I believe this Cartolingui is of the Getty breed, the only sub-species that can form our words is the Dolfi breed, I believe.”
Fisker looked down at the deck where he’d torn out and smashed their only way to communicate with Shadow. He clenched his jaw, tonguing his sharp teeth. He clapped his hands together, trying to remove the traces of blood and wire. He looked at Obo. “Well, off to the galley with him then.”
“Terror sours the meat,” Obo said, under his breath to Fisker. “Should we keep him on ice until he calms down?”
Fisker bit his lip; he’d not expected to come across a Cartolingus amongst the rebels. This was easier than picking them off his crew; he didn’t want to wait.
“Fine,” Fisker sighed; he’d rather savor the meal than rush it. “Put him in detention, fatten him up some more, then we’ll have a banquet after we crush his comrades out in the rings.”
“Might I recommend a senior officers-only mess, then, sir?”
Fisker grinned at his Prime Lieutenant, “You’re learning well the perks of command.”
COMMONWEALTH CRUISER ‘Snow’ LOWER DECKS
/ / SO8.iv_o-sply · Somari Eight / /
Hammer rarely left Officer Country anymore, and he had a good reason: The Admiral’s anti-Cartolingus mentality had started to infect the crew, and he was finding his position increasingly in jeopardy.
Twice today, his orders were countermanded by his executive officer, and he’d just learned the marine detachment took a Cartolingus rebel prisoner. Perhaps he would be the first meal, but Fisker would not be sated for long.
“Cap’n,” a shipfitter said, as he knuckled at his cap in a half salute. “Wha’re yuin in ta lew’r deks?” The Eukary asked, moving backwards slightly into the darker recess of the maintenance shaft.
Hammer knew the Snow like his own child, and he knew the maintenance corridors better than most of the crew. “You do not sneak up on an officer, sir,” He snapped.
Hammer could feel his face warming, beads of sweat bristling his agitated hide. This was his ship to command, and he could traverse it at will. The anxious thoughts racing in his mind were souring into anger. An uneducated enlisted shipfitter wasn’t going to spook him –
“Ding’r time fer yer kind, neh?” He asked, his vernacular further giving away his low breeding.
“It’s a dangerous time for insubordination in general, wouldn’t you agree… shipfitter?”
From the shadows, the Eukary’s broken teeth flashed, yellow and gnarled. “W’d be wat’chn ye,” he said, as he dropped in a quick motion and skittered into a nearby vent.
Hammer felt a cold shiver roll down his spine. “Great Teeth, I hate Eukary,” he groaned in his native tongue. Holding his communication box, the translation was cut short.
However, Hammer didn’t have time to chase down a racist little rat right now; he had a mission. Releasing a steel-reinforced air seal, Hammer cut into the rear supply depot for the detention area. Separate from the brig, which was used to discipline unruly crew, the detention area was meant for prisoners of war, recovered from enemy escape pods.
INSTAR courts had made it illegal to leave lifeboats behind after a battle, so most prime nations had put some kind of holding facility on all ships of cruiser size and larger. Hammer had spent time in a Rew detention deck early in the civil war, but that was another lifetime ago.
Now he feared being herded into his detention deck like cattle, waiting to be killed, cleaned, and cooked. Using a small tool, Hammer gripped the handle on the supply access door and twisted.
The metallic snap broke the silence like a shattered pane of glass. Hammer stayed still – deathly still. Waiting for even the quietest of movements could represent an alarm, a security guard, or an inbred Eukary. If anyone caught him sabotaging the holding area, he wouldn't need to wait for his turn at Fisker’s table.
“Hɛnɪsɛri” A natural tonal pattern said, drawing Hammer’s attention away from the broken door. “Hɛnəsɛri kæptən?” The same natural call broke the silence.
“Who is it?” Hammer asked in return, keeping to his natural language.
“Gɪliɛt,” the sweet tones replied. She was known as Gunner by non-Cartolingus. Most species would describe the soprano's carrying notes as feminine. In Cartolingus biology, she, as it were, was an egg layer so that many non-Cartolingus would identify Gɪliɛt as a woman.
Holding his arms out, Hammer embraced Gunner. She was one of the operation planners for the shipboard marines, but even still, Hammer questioned, “Why are you on the detention deck?”
“The same reason as you, I presume,” Gunner replied, keeping her response short and without translation.
The Cartolingus tactical prowess had led them both to the same conclusion: escape. “When they collect us here,” Hammer said, inferring their shared assumption. “I have a path of rigged doors that lead to the auxiliary docking hanger.”
“May the Eleven Teeth guide you,” she said, gripping Hammer’s arm. “I have a more direct response.” Gunner pulled at the sides of her vest, and two grey blocks clung to a string.
Hammer took a step back. He could recognize the explosive Compound W, despite having never used it himself.
“Greɪt Tiːθ ɡaɪd ʌs tu ðaɪ ˈmeɪkə…”
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