Symphony of Destruction (The Spindown Saga, #1) Page 8

  Colin continued, “Look at these sharp gradients here.” He had switched the view to show internal stress patterns within the substructure. “I don’t know how much longer these bulkheads will hold out. I think we better get up there and take a look. Maybe see if there’s any way we could rig up some kind of bracing system.”

  “I concur.”

  Silently both knew the futility of such a gesture. A bracing system of the required magnitude would require stripping away all non-structural components and cross bracing the existing lattice. Aside from the vast amount of work and time that would take, it would require a huge amount of steel. Steel they simply did not have.

  Grabbing a standard tool belt on the way out, the two made their way toward the ship’s foresection. Colin still admired the ship’s design. Her sturdy yet shapely hexagonal lattice was hidden behind corridor walls, but he detected hints of this internal shape in the angles of each corridor, their intersections, and even each hatch cover. They passed fairly quickly through the zig-zagging corridors of sector F and the long straight main corridor of E, pausing only briefly now and then, as Colin listened intently, placing his hand on a bulkhead. When they reached deck E-9, Colin poked his head in. This had been his quarters. It still was his quarters. It seemed strange to think of it. It had been months since he had been here, but it felt like yesterday. Everything was as he had left it. The space was quite small, but was considered roomy compared to many cargo freighter barracks. There was a comfortable bunk, raised above a decent sized desk with a good quality chair. All the walls were compartmentalized into shallow closet space, holding his few possessions. He could go inside and sit at his desk, and it would be as if nothing had happened. But of course that was not possible. He shook his head as if to physically rid himself of such wasteful thinking, and continued along the corridor.

  “All good, chief?” asked Brother Anderson.

  “Yeah, fine. Solid,” replied Colin as if he understood the doctor to be asking about the structural integrity of his quarters. He knew full well that he had truly been referring to his own internal structural integrity - his feelings of safety and confidence. Of course he was worried. There was a very good chance they would all end up as space dust before long. All the more reason to focus on the task at hand.

  Brother Anderson knew too that Colin’s answer was part bluff. It was why he had worded his question just so, to give Colin that slim opportunity, that double entendre, to at once both reveal and protect his inner universe. The subtle vagaries of language could be sharp instruments of healing. They were both the scalpel and the suture, getting at the root of issues and tying up ugly wounds. This was an area where Brother Anderson excelled, and it was as much a result of his chaplaincy training as his medically based psychological studies.

  Brother Anderson’s original programming had been purely medical. He was a doctor first and foremost. He always would be. The medical programming was base level. It had become a lens that influenced all subsequent learning, and even re-programming. He tended to think of everything as an issue of optimal health, even now as CSO, he thought of, and acted for the sake of, the “health” of the ship. The chaplaincy programming had dovetailed well into this paradigm, as it had been focused primarily on the spiritual well-being of the crew. In fact, large portions of the programming were nearly parallel to his previously installed counselling programming, just with a lot of the language changed for some of the same concepts. He had found that in practical usage, much of the jargon was interchangeable. He was able to implement concepts from either discipline with the lingo of the other, tailoring a conversation to utilize a finely nuanced lexiconic mix of spiritual and physically based words, customized to each client depending on their background and receptivity to certain conceptual leanings. This allowed him to minimize discomfort, even when discussing difficult and painful subjects. Intentional language could at once both anesthetize and cure the wounded psyche. And all psyches had wounds. Some were fresh and on the surface. A recent traumatic experience needed to be grappled with psychologically or it could expand. Oftentimes it may tear rifts between people - families, crew. More often it could fracture a man - part of him withdrawing into a dark corner in search of shelter from further injury. Patterns of unresolved pain built up a shell around a person to keep others away - to keep out the risk.

  “This is the spot, Chief.” Brother Anderson stopped moving. They were half-way down corridor D-1, the central thoroughfare of sector D, a wide hallway designed to accommodate easy passage in both directions for crew and equipment. There was nothing visibly present to indicate anything particular about this spot. The wall panels were identical in appearance all the way down the corridor, and pretty much the same throughout the ship. Colin habitually glanced at his wrist. Normally, his comm band would have confirmed the correct position, but of course, he was not wearing it now. It didn’t matter. He knew the doctor was right. He looked behind and ahead down the corridor, eyeballing its length. This was the spot for sure, halfway down the main corridor would coincide with halfway down the support structure, the spot of maximum concentration for the mechanical stresses they had seen on-screen.

  Deftly removing a wall panel, Colin revealed a diagonal section of strut work. He removed three more panels, opening up a large section of wall. After pulling out several layers of insul-matt, it was now clear that the struts formed a ‘W’ shape, with cabling snaking through several access tubes built into each strut at regular intervals. Behind them was more insul-matt and, presumably, the backside of another wall panel. If he recalled correctly, the space behind it was occupied by a few small office cubicles, for admin staff that were “annexed” after the main admin workspace was completely occupied. At the top of the wall Colin could make out the bottom flange of the corner beam. These larger beams were what they really needed to be dealing with. The forces were transferred along their length by the vibrational patterns. He removed a ceiling panel, then glanced around stupidly.

  “Forgot to bring a ladder,” he mumbled. “Um, I don’t suppose you could boost me up, Doc?”

  Brother Anderson complied wordlessly, taking a wide based kneeling stance, and held out a hand as a step. The other arm he held out and up in half of an old-fashioned “field-goal” position. Colin placed a foot on Brother Anderson’s hand, gripped his other arm, and deftly hoisted himself up, his head now almost reaching the ceiling.

  “OK - a little higher please.” Colin’s head slowly poked up into the ceiling cavity as Brother Anderson easily lifted Colin’s weight in one hand. Colin’s cry of “Whoa! - good there!” indicated when it was high enough. He took a lamp from his tool belt and spent about a minute squirming around, trying to get a decent look from a few angles, then swung himself down.

  “Yeah. Well, there’s not much room up there.”

  “It doesn’t appear to be very conducive to additional bracing,” agreed Brother Anderson.

  “Still, let’s leave these panels off for now. Maybe we’ll think of something.”

  They both doubted it.

  “Well, let’s take a look at B and C sectors. See where we’re at with that.” Colin started off slowly. He choked down a strong feeling of disappointment. This was really bad. The obvious conclusion was somehow more real to him, now that he had seen with his own eyes the impossibility of their hopeful idea.

  The far bow end of sector D contained the assembly room on the starboard side, and, to port, the mess hall, whose entrance they now approached. As they neared the hatch a quiet whistling sound could be heard, which upon inspection, was caused by airflow through a small crack in the floor.

  They both stared.

  “Shit,” said Colin.

  “Both this corridor and the mess hall appear to have normal air pressures, but there is a slight gradient between the two. I believe this air is coming from the mess hall Chief. Shall we go inside?”

  “Open it” responded Colin, gesturing with his head toward the hatch. It slid open normally, wit
h no sudden bursts of air, fire, explosions, or anything. They entered the mess hall.

  Sure enough, the crack in the floor continued in the mess hall for another three meters or so. Colin stared at it with a feeling that was a mix of terror and amazement. He didn’t even notice the blackened epoxy carapaces. Until he did.

  “What the fuck!” He jumped backward, startled, tripping over his own legs and stumbling to the cracked floor. “What the hell are those? Are those BODIES?” he stammered.

  “Oh! - I’m sorry! I forgot to warn you!” Brother Anderson stammered back. Yes, it would have been a good idea to give him a heads up about this. Colin only stared, but his stare alternated every few seconds between the rows of his deceased crewmates left to rot out in the open with nothing but a clear plexi-coating, and this idiot robot standing over him, now in charge of the ruined ship.

  “This is insane!” he finally sputtered, “What have you done? Why are these here?” He was more than a little perplexed as to what had prompted the decision to treat these bodies this way, but his curiosity was easily eclipsed by his anger. The dead should not be dishonored like this. In space, there’s always the problem of burial, of course, but a respectful “float” was fine, as long as there was a bit of ceremony to it. A few honoring words, some sentiment, and a clean goodbye. But this? This was just - wrong. And for God’s sake, the chaplain of all people should know as much.

  “Colin. I understand you are upset.”

  Colin glared, ready to argue if necessary, but resigned to at least give the robot a chance to answer his question. He was a practical man. He figured a question deserved an answer, even if it was intended rhetorically.

  “The initial casualties were given a proper Christian funeral service, then were sealed and launched as per standard protocols.”

  Colin nodded involuntarily, and relaxed a little.

  “Your co-workers, Scranton and Tommy were very well spoken of by the rest of the engineering team. You had a fine department there. A good team, and a good chief”

  Colin responded well to the compliment, calming visibly. He was the sort of man who took his work and his team personally even as a common member of ordinary rank. A compliment to one of his team-mates or their processes, equipment, or the ship herself, was considered a compliment to him as well.

  “Later on, once it was determined that a large-scale infection was in play, our options become limited. You may not know that quarantine protocols demand that bodies are to be sealed and kept on board.”

  Colin had not known that fact. He nodded again slowly.

  “As I was focusing on medical procedures and trying to save the lives of the crew, I had volunteers assisting with some of the other protocol procedures, including cadaver processing. Soon though, they could not keep up with the demand, and also ran out of stowage space, so I instructed them to switch to these cruder methods of sealing that you see now. This was necessary to contain the foreign microbes. And it is a standard fallback protocol.”

  “And then your volunteers got sick too.”

  “Yes, but ultimately, the ship is now safe. Completely free of contamination.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Well. The contagion spread very quickly. Much faster than anything I’ve seen, so it outpaced the atmospheric scrubbing that kicked in as part of the protocols. But later, when it had run its course and consumed the available host pool, the germination rate slowed, and eventually the scrubbers caught up and cleaned up the air. Also there’s the fact that Hannah survives, as do you.”

  “She’s in an oxygen mask, though.”

  “But she wasn’t yesterday.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I suppose not technically yesterday. I placed Hannah under oxygen approximately thirty-three hours ago. Until then, she had been breathing quite freely.”

  “What?! But how?”

  “As you may have noticed, Hannah has always had a rather reclusive nature, and often sequestered herself in her studio for days at a time, working on her musical projects. This was the case during the calamities of hull breach and subsequent viral outbreak. She was completely oblivious to any of the events onboard. Once quarantine protocols began, her airlock was disabled and she was trapped in her quarters, but she still did not realize it until almost a week later, when her local food cache became depleted and she tried to go for a supply run. At that point I accompanied her here to the mess hall, where she has been residing ever since, as evidenced by her detritus.” he waved toward a large scattered collection of Omega Bar wrappers.

  Colin glanced around the mess hall. Sure enough, the wrappers, and a few bottles backed up the doctor’s story. They were roughly piled up in one corner, in front of him to the left. There was a space of about fifteen feet between that spot and the nearest corpse. The food dispenser and the restrooms were across on the other side of the room. Between them lay a veritable minefield of corpses. She would have had to traverse this chilling scene every day. Colin found it hard to imagine the horror Hannah must have felt each day, every moment - living in this inescapable graveyard, surrounded always by death - decay always present, always visible.

  Brother Anderson noticed Colin’s gaze, his facial expression and the sudden tension in his body. “It’s quite safe, I assure you. The epoxy is quite strong and completely impervious.”

  Colin turned his gaze to the robot. “That’s not what I was worried about. Although, now that you bring that up, it may be safe for now, but it won’t last long. Look at this.” He pointed at the crack in the floor near his feet, then swept his arm in the direction of its line, continuing his sweeping gesture past its end and right toward the carapaces. They were right in line with the crack. Actually, it was worse. Even if the crack altered course and did not continue in a relatively straight line, it was almost certain to run into one of the carapaces, given the way they were spread practically all across the room.

  “Come now,” Brother Anderson countered the implication, “the crack is really nowhere near them. Why it would have to triple in size to become a danger!”

  “Yes,” agreed Colin, “and hasn’t it already tripled in size? Hasn’t it already millioned in size since it started out with length equals zero?”

  “Well...”

  “It could easily triple again in... when? In a day? In an hour?”

  The two looked at each other, the realization sinking in. Surely the remains were still infectious. The doctor knew it for a fact, but even the engineer knew it instinctively. If the crack did reach one of the carapaces, the seal would be broken, the quarantine would be breached, the air would be contaminated, and the last two humans on board would be infected and killed.

  Chapter 29

  Hannah awoke feeling better than she had in a long time. Her head was clear, she was not tired or angry, but her stomach was growling fiercely. She looked around and recognized the med bay, then had a foggy recollection of how she had come to be here. “Stupid!” she accused herself.

  She got up and took a quick survey of the surroundings in the hopes of finding an Omega Bar, but, finding none, she retrieved her clothing from a drawer and got dressed. That was actually fairly depressing, since her clothes were disgustingly dirty. They had a certain stiff gritty feel, which seemed to transfer to her body as she put them on, and she was overcome with a strong desire to bathe. There was a shower in med bay, but she really needed clean clothes. She had not thought earlier to pursue the idea. Depression tends to drain a person of the will to bother trying anything. Her own unwillingness to acknowledge her emotions had led her into a downward spiral, but waking up today felt like a fresh start. She needed to do this. She needed clean clothes. For the sake of her health. Brother Anderson would have to help her. But that meant she would have to ask him to.

  “Crap!”

  She hated the thought. Her mother had said that she was “unable to hold a civil conversation”. She had not said it accusingly. It was a matter of fact. Hannah actually was incap
able of having a civil conversation. At least, that’s what the evidence of historical conversation seemed to indicate. Other than Suzzanne, and Cherise before her, Hannah could not think of anyone who she had really ever talked to. Well, technically, that was not true. She had had many discussions with her childhood oboe instructors and her record producers, but those conversations had always been purely technical. The music needed to be a certain way, and that certain way needed to be discussed and refined, which required the exchange of details regarding those refinements. The muse was pragmatic. Hannah’s own opinion did not really enter into it. Those technical details seemed to be delivered to her mind, and the minds of her instructors and producers, through some immediate divine agency. Inspiration was not a matter of taste. It was a compulsive servitude. They were simply slaves of the music that somehow existed already in some immaterial state, like the mythical statue magically controlling the will of the sculptor to free its predestined shape from the raw stone.

  The “shoosh” sound of the med bay hatch pulled her from her thoughts as the robot doctor entered the room, accompanied by the gentle whirring of his wheels and whatever internal mechanisms fueled them. But another distinct sound unblended and came into focus two seconds later. Footsteps. Human footsteps. She whirled toward the door in time to see a male figure momentarily framed in stunning partial silhouette.

  Her mind raced. A flash of hazy memory saved roughly during stoned inebriation - a figure lying in a bed. Her head whipped around; yes, that bed was empty now - empty but unmade, the blanket and sheet hanging sloppily. Someone had been there. The memory had not lied. Yet, words echoed through her head belying a contradictory assumption - a robotic voice: “the crew is dead, everyone is dead, we are alone”.