2010-03-20, 08:00
Bren was lying on the lower mattress of a bunk bed and staring at the far wall of the room. Two by four metres – if someone was to lock the door from the outside, it would make for a nice prison cell. It wasn't the first time that thought crossed his mind as he was trying to fall asleep after a twelve hour shift in the kitchen.
When he had left his home planetside to find work among the stars, he had imagined a golden future, at least by the meagre standards of the slums he grew up in. Enough money to live comfortably, with food stored away to last a week, and some extra cash to send some home to his family and afford them the luxury of a proper flat, perhaps even medical treatment. So far they had managed to make do without, but there was not a day his mother was not worried sick. He'd been able to tell by the look on her face when he and his younger siblings went to play on the street, and by the force of the beatings that awaited them when they came home with torn clothes and scratches, because some of the older kids had pushed them to the ground.
Despite the hope of being able to afford them a better future, he had not really wanted to leave. His home was built on “dirt”, as the people who had grown up on stations called it, and he was deeply rooted in it. A feeling they probably could not understand; but he missed the smell of air that had not been chemically reprocessed a thousand times over. Even the stench of the sewer running through their quarter – at least it was real. Not trying to pretend it was anything other than a toxic, reeking, venomous broth. While the light emitters on stations were trying to pretend they were the sun, and the climate controls were trying to pretend they were the seasons, and everyone living there was trying to pretend it was the way it was meant to be. It wasn't.
Whatever it was he had imagined – and it became harder to remember that with each day he spent in the crew's kitchen, performing the same monotonous tasks over and over again – he was sure it'd had little in common with this tiny room and its drab grey-blue metal walls.
The only times he felt so much as alive, were the rare occasions when the kitchen helps from the crew canteen were needed to arrange a gala dinner for the pleasure cruiser's guests. It happened once or twice a month, and then he got to cook. He got to arrange real food on china plates, instead of pouring flavour enhancers over instant meals; saw the sous-chefs using spices valuable enough that they were kept in lockable cupboards, to which only the Maître de Cuisine had a key – and if he did his job well, he sometimes got a pat on the arm and one of the delicacies a guest had been too full to eat and thus sent back to the kitchen.
Those were the good days. Today wasn't one of them.
The alarm was not meant to come as a shock. It was, on the contrary, designed to catch the attention of the crew members, and their attention only. Congruously, open display was limited to the crew's sections of the ship.
The agreeable warm, yellow light from overhead turned uncomfortably bright and blue; all channels and speakers linked to the cruiser's CPU circuits were instantly cleared for messages from the Commanding Officers. The Captain's voice was tense, but the words simple: “Stations. Everyone!”
Bren rose automatically, and put on the uniform jacket hanging on a hook at the bed-head. He only ever got to wear it when the crewmen were lined up on the balustrade of the ship's main deck to greet new guests, and during alarm practices. They had done those at least a dozen times since he came aboard, but usually these “unscheduled drills” didn't come entirely unexpected. Someone always caught a glimpse of the preparations, and rumours seemingly travelled faster than light on this ship.
He had not heard a word about this one, so he was in a hurry to get to his post. Deck 14, starboard section 31 – in front of one of the jewellery stores in the ship's shopping district, which was spanning two entire floors.
The purpose of putting a kitchen help, or any of the other unlearned workers, into a uniform jacket and placing them in populated areas around the ship was simple: Uniforms inspired confidence, and uniforms needed someone to wear them. He was little more than a display dummy for a piece of fabric that helped avoiding panic among the passengers in the case of an emergency. The XO had said as much during his speech, when the new crewmen came aboard. There had been jokes and laughter from some of the recruits afterwards, but Bren knew the man had been serious.
When the Chief of Security came around a corner, accompanied by two of his men carrying a case, Bren straightened up and wondered. When the Chief opened the case and handed him a blaster gun with the words: “Safety's in the trigger. Just pull it. And keep it out of view, man.”, he had no reason to wonder anymore. This wasn't a drill.
He put the hand with the gun behind his back and held on to it as the three men hurried on to the next post. The weapon was light – surprisingly light – and perfect for someone who had never fired a gun: Devastating at short ranges, where hitting your target was not much of an issue, and should you miss it anyway, the superheated plasma would quickly dissolve, without causing much damage further off in its trajectory. He knew as much. He had seen the advertisements. The only thing he could think was that the sorry thing ought be a bit heavier, to keep his hand from trembling.
This was not what he had signed up for. He had done his job, every single day during the last month, twelve hour shifts. He had done his job, and this... the first time the lights cut out for a split second, he thought he had imagined it. He was sure he had imagined it, and ran his free hand over his eyes. When he opened them again, there was no way to discuss the jittering away, and a middle-aged man in an expensive suit approached him. He stared at the clean-shaven face, watched the lips move, saw the expression shift from polite to confused to angered. Then he looked up towards the ceiling; the light emitters now cut out for seconds at a time, before flickering back to life unsteadily, dissecting the scene into single images of frightened people, and an angry, clean-shaven face right in front of his own.
He turned around and took a few steps, slowly, his heart beating up to his throat, and then he heard the man yelling behind him, heard mothers calling for their children, heard his comrades shouting those meaningless phrases they had been told themselves:
“Please stay calm. The issues will be resolved shortly. It's going to be alright, if you just keep your calm, please.”
And started to run.
Nothing would be alright. He had heard the stories in the canteen, told to frighten the recruits. There had been laughter and mocking, but he had listened. If the ship's power core had already been drained, they would be here soon.
He ran into something, about waist-high, almost lost his balance and heard a high-pitched scream, then a chorus of cussing behind his back. He didn't turn around to see what he had bumped into.
Now, left, away from the people slowing him down, away from the shopping district and towards the ship's outer hull. He rounded a corner into a different corridor, a second one, and almost clashed with another uniform. Tall. Grim face.
The Chief of Security shouted, shook him, shouted more.
“What are you doing here? I said: What the hell are you doing here!? Get the back on your post, now, or I will..”
Bren stepped back. One step. Two steps. The man looked so surprised when the blaster came up, pointed at his chest.
Safety's in the trigger. Just pull it.
He crooked his index finger. A flash of light, and the Chief of Security fell back with an ugly, gurgling noise, a gaping hole the size of a fist where his sternum had been. Bren didn't look as he stepped over the man's legs, took the first strides as if in trance, with wobbly knees. Two more corners, and he would be sitting in an escape capsule. All it took was a little bit of luck. Someone would come searching for these people. If they were able to afford passage on a ship like this, someone would come looking for them.
The hallways were strangely empty. Silent. At least he wouldn't have a problem to find a capsule. One all for himself, even. Oxygen and water would last longer, that way. Maybe he wasn't completely out of luck, after all.
As he rounded the last corner into the rescue section of the ship, he saw another security uniform, at the far end of the room. The man wearing it was sprawled against the airlock of an escape pod, and hunched over him was a uniform of a very different kind. Body armour, with golden inlays, the colour of blood.. glistening in places, dripping. As the raider rose to wrench his sword free, Bren fired blindly. He didn't wait to see whether he had hit anything, turned around to run, somewhere, anywhere, so long as it wasn't here.
Even as he turned, something bit him in the stomach, twisted, stopped his steps and will to move with blinding agony. He didn't want to look. If he were to see it, it would be real. When he opened his eyes, they fell on the jagged blade of a Sani Sabik sword.
This wasn't what he had signed up for.
When he had left his home planetside to find work among the stars, he had imagined a golden future, at least by the meagre standards of the slums he grew up in. Enough money to live comfortably, with food stored away to last a week, and some extra cash to send some home to his family and afford them the luxury of a proper flat, perhaps even medical treatment. So far they had managed to make do without, but there was not a day his mother was not worried sick. He'd been able to tell by the look on her face when he and his younger siblings went to play on the street, and by the force of the beatings that awaited them when they came home with torn clothes and scratches, because some of the older kids had pushed them to the ground.
Despite the hope of being able to afford them a better future, he had not really wanted to leave. His home was built on “dirt”, as the people who had grown up on stations called it, and he was deeply rooted in it. A feeling they probably could not understand; but he missed the smell of air that had not been chemically reprocessed a thousand times over. Even the stench of the sewer running through their quarter – at least it was real. Not trying to pretend it was anything other than a toxic, reeking, venomous broth. While the light emitters on stations were trying to pretend they were the sun, and the climate controls were trying to pretend they were the seasons, and everyone living there was trying to pretend it was the way it was meant to be. It wasn't.
Whatever it was he had imagined – and it became harder to remember that with each day he spent in the crew's kitchen, performing the same monotonous tasks over and over again – he was sure it'd had little in common with this tiny room and its drab grey-blue metal walls.
The only times he felt so much as alive, were the rare occasions when the kitchen helps from the crew canteen were needed to arrange a gala dinner for the pleasure cruiser's guests. It happened once or twice a month, and then he got to cook. He got to arrange real food on china plates, instead of pouring flavour enhancers over instant meals; saw the sous-chefs using spices valuable enough that they were kept in lockable cupboards, to which only the Maître de Cuisine had a key – and if he did his job well, he sometimes got a pat on the arm and one of the delicacies a guest had been too full to eat and thus sent back to the kitchen.
Those were the good days. Today wasn't one of them.
The alarm was not meant to come as a shock. It was, on the contrary, designed to catch the attention of the crew members, and their attention only. Congruously, open display was limited to the crew's sections of the ship.
The agreeable warm, yellow light from overhead turned uncomfortably bright and blue; all channels and speakers linked to the cruiser's CPU circuits were instantly cleared for messages from the Commanding Officers. The Captain's voice was tense, but the words simple: “Stations. Everyone!”
Bren rose automatically, and put on the uniform jacket hanging on a hook at the bed-head. He only ever got to wear it when the crewmen were lined up on the balustrade of the ship's main deck to greet new guests, and during alarm practices. They had done those at least a dozen times since he came aboard, but usually these “unscheduled drills” didn't come entirely unexpected. Someone always caught a glimpse of the preparations, and rumours seemingly travelled faster than light on this ship.
He had not heard a word about this one, so he was in a hurry to get to his post. Deck 14, starboard section 31 – in front of one of the jewellery stores in the ship's shopping district, which was spanning two entire floors.
The purpose of putting a kitchen help, or any of the other unlearned workers, into a uniform jacket and placing them in populated areas around the ship was simple: Uniforms inspired confidence, and uniforms needed someone to wear them. He was little more than a display dummy for a piece of fabric that helped avoiding panic among the passengers in the case of an emergency. The XO had said as much during his speech, when the new crewmen came aboard. There had been jokes and laughter from some of the recruits afterwards, but Bren knew the man had been serious.
When the Chief of Security came around a corner, accompanied by two of his men carrying a case, Bren straightened up and wondered. When the Chief opened the case and handed him a blaster gun with the words: “Safety's in the trigger. Just pull it. And keep it out of view, man.”, he had no reason to wonder anymore. This wasn't a drill.
He put the hand with the gun behind his back and held on to it as the three men hurried on to the next post. The weapon was light – surprisingly light – and perfect for someone who had never fired a gun: Devastating at short ranges, where hitting your target was not much of an issue, and should you miss it anyway, the superheated plasma would quickly dissolve, without causing much damage further off in its trajectory. He knew as much. He had seen the advertisements. The only thing he could think was that the sorry thing ought be a bit heavier, to keep his hand from trembling.
This was not what he had signed up for. He had done his job, every single day during the last month, twelve hour shifts. He had done his job, and this... the first time the lights cut out for a split second, he thought he had imagined it. He was sure he had imagined it, and ran his free hand over his eyes. When he opened them again, there was no way to discuss the jittering away, and a middle-aged man in an expensive suit approached him. He stared at the clean-shaven face, watched the lips move, saw the expression shift from polite to confused to angered. Then he looked up towards the ceiling; the light emitters now cut out for seconds at a time, before flickering back to life unsteadily, dissecting the scene into single images of frightened people, and an angry, clean-shaven face right in front of his own.
He turned around and took a few steps, slowly, his heart beating up to his throat, and then he heard the man yelling behind him, heard mothers calling for their children, heard his comrades shouting those meaningless phrases they had been told themselves:
“Please stay calm. The issues will be resolved shortly. It's going to be alright, if you just keep your calm, please.”
And started to run.
Nothing would be alright. He had heard the stories in the canteen, told to frighten the recruits. There had been laughter and mocking, but he had listened. If the ship's power core had already been drained, they would be here soon.
He ran into something, about waist-high, almost lost his balance and heard a high-pitched scream, then a chorus of cussing behind his back. He didn't turn around to see what he had bumped into.
Now, left, away from the people slowing him down, away from the shopping district and towards the ship's outer hull. He rounded a corner into a different corridor, a second one, and almost clashed with another uniform. Tall. Grim face.
The Chief of Security shouted, shook him, shouted more.
“What are you doing here? I said: What the hell are you doing here!? Get the back on your post, now, or I will..”
Bren stepped back. One step. Two steps. The man looked so surprised when the blaster came up, pointed at his chest.
Safety's in the trigger. Just pull it.
He crooked his index finger. A flash of light, and the Chief of Security fell back with an ugly, gurgling noise, a gaping hole the size of a fist where his sternum had been. Bren didn't look as he stepped over the man's legs, took the first strides as if in trance, with wobbly knees. Two more corners, and he would be sitting in an escape capsule. All it took was a little bit of luck. Someone would come searching for these people. If they were able to afford passage on a ship like this, someone would come looking for them.
The hallways were strangely empty. Silent. At least he wouldn't have a problem to find a capsule. One all for himself, even. Oxygen and water would last longer, that way. Maybe he wasn't completely out of luck, after all.
As he rounded the last corner into the rescue section of the ship, he saw another security uniform, at the far end of the room. The man wearing it was sprawled against the airlock of an escape pod, and hunched over him was a uniform of a very different kind. Body armour, with golden inlays, the colour of blood.. glistening in places, dripping. As the raider rose to wrench his sword free, Bren fired blindly. He didn't wait to see whether he had hit anything, turned around to run, somewhere, anywhere, so long as it wasn't here.
Even as he turned, something bit him in the stomach, twisted, stopped his steps and will to move with blinding agony. He didn't want to look. If he were to see it, it would be real. When he opened his eyes, they fell on the jagged blade of a Sani Sabik sword.
This wasn't what he had signed up for.