Ships of My Fathers Read online

  “Then what’s your backup plan?”

  He took another sip of his coffee and scowled. “I’m not sure I have one yet, but we have another five and a half days. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Other than throttling him when we find him? No, I don’t.” She pushed her own tray away. “But I guess I should start thinking.”

  Michael stepped out of his quarters and stood for a moment, counting silently. After twelve seconds, he heard footsteps. Maya Zoland rounded the corner and spotted him. “Hey Michael, what’s up?”

  He shrugged. “I was thinking about getting a snack from the galley.”

  Maya grinned at him. “That’s a capital idea. I’m pining for one of those brownies myself. Let’s go.”

  Michael repressed a sigh and followed along. As if the restricted liberty had not been bad enough, after Deshmon he had been denied access to the bridge for monitoring navigation. Anders had explained that he had been causing too many distractions for the crew and suggested that he simply enjoy the rest of the trip as a passenger. “Get some rack time,” he had said. “Catch up on the latest vids.”

  So for two days he had been stuck in his room, a virtual prisoner. Every time he went out into the corridor, another crewmate just happened by and was eager to accompany him on whatever he wanted to do. Last night had been Leo Perez for dinner. This morning had been Chester Walsh for breakfast and then Vince Weston for a trip to the gym. They were all either cargo handlers or mechanical specialists. The Blue Jaguar seemed to have an endless supply of them, all with sharp stares and strong arms. He had thought Karen had been muscular, but this Maya put her to shame.

  Maya led him to the mess with frequent over the shoulder looks, chatting with him about the most inane topics. Michael followed obediently. Upon their arrival, he looked at the brownies but settled for a muffin instead. He headed back immediately, hearing Maya follow him all the way to the final corridor intersection. “See you around, Michael,” she said.

  Michael closed his door behind him and tossed the muffin onto his bed. He leaned against the door, pressing his ear hard against the surface. He listened. Eventually, he heard a pair of departing footsteps. He waited another minute, still listening. Nothing.

  So he waited another minute more, and then five more. After ten minutes, there had still been no sound.

  He went back into his bathroom and turned on the exhaust fan and then went back out to his door. He opened it but did not go out. He simply stood there by the door and counted. By the time he got to fifteen, he heard footsteps.

  This time it was Leo walking by. He stopped outside his door and nodded to him. “You okay, Fletcher?”

  “Yeah, I’m airing out the bathroom.”

  He sniffed at the air and peered past him. “Ah, I see you’ve been having some of Cookie’s notorious muffins. That’ll stink up any bathroom. I’d stick with the brownies if I were you.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Leo nodded and started down the hall. “Holler if you need anything,” he said.

  Like a straitjacket? Michael shook his head and closed the door. He went back into the bathroom and turned off the fan. He stood before the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.

  A fucking prisoner! He kicked the wall beneath the sink. It felt good, so he did it again, and a third time for good measure. That last one had made a lot of noise, so he gave up on it and returned to his bed.

  “Catch up on the vids,” he said to the empty room. “How about Forty Days in the Pit or maybe Mariner’s Escape? Yeah, that would be a good one right now. Practical, plus lots and lots of Paula Stone’s cleavage.”

  He shook his head and sat up. That was when he saw it. The wall panel beneath his sink was hanging loose. He got up slowly, stepped over, and knelt before it. It was not riveted onto the structural frame like the panels on Heinrich had been. It was clipped into tabs in the wall’s metal frame. In his kicking, he had knocked two of the tabs out of their brackets.

  He pulled at the loose end while pushing at the fixed end, and before long, the fixed end popped loose as well. The sink pipes came in through a gap between the panels, but the opening from there to the floor was largely clear. He laid down and cautiously put his head through. It was a collection of pipes, vents, and electrical conduits, almost exactly like the spaces he had worked in back on the Heinrich.

  There were two exceptions, though, two very critical exceptions. First, all the wall panels he could see were attached using the same flimsy tab and bracket, even the panel out to the corridor. On the Heinrich, these would have been riveted into place or bolted down tight, making it impossible for him to open them from the cabin side of the wall. And second, the pipes did not go up or down through custom cuts in the solid deck. On Heinrich, the decks had been as thick as structural bulkheads, and the seals around the pipes and ducts had been air tight. But here, both above and below were simple grates with gaps every half-meter to allow access. The grates, at least, were screwed in, but both nut and bolt were wing nuts. He played with one to test it, turning it easily with his fingers.

  On the Heinrich, he would have been trapped without a full toolset and a welding torch. But here... he smiled to himself. No tools required.

  Chapter 22

  “I agree. You are indeed well and truly fucked. So what are you going to do about it?” — Malcolm Fletcher

  COLLINS STEPPED INTO THE GYM. At least, that is what the hatch was labeled. It was a tiny compartment, three meters square, with a treadmill on one side and a resistance machine on the other. Hans Schneider was on the treadmill, watching a recorded news report on the screen before him. He muted it as soon as he saw Collins.

  “Commander,” he said, huffing a surprising amount for the speed he was walking at.

  “Mr. Schneider,” he replied. In most other settings, he would have referred to him by his merchant rank of captain, but by long naval tradition, only the master of a ship was referred to by that rank, even if in this case, their “captain” was a lowly lieutenant like Morris. Naval commands, no matter how small, came with certain privileges. “Is that your exercise of choice back home?”

  He shook his head. “Rowing machine, but I like to walk the ship.” He lowered the speed to a more leisurely pace. “And you?”

  “Weights are fine,” he replied, and set the lower grips for a hundred twenty newton bicep curl. He took them firmly in his hands and started the slow pull. “I go for a ladder climber when I get the chance.”

  Hans nodded. “Used to, but my shoulder can’t take it anymore.”

  Collins watched the counter increment until it reached eight. He paused, resting for a moment. “I do have some news.”

  “Good news?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say. I got a report on the way out of Tortisia. The Blue Jaguar was sighted coming in to Deshmon three days ago.”

  Hans stepped hard and lost his balance for a moment. He grabbed hold of the handrails and kept going. “Then we’re on the right track.”

  Collins started his next set. “Maybe. Arvin could be next.” His voice strained as he worked through each pull. “But if Taschin is the goal… easily four other layovers instead. Backwater worlds like Deshmon.”

  Hans sighed. “But if it is Arvin, can we catch them?”

  “Depends,” Collins grunted, finishing off his second set. “The report didn’t say when they left Deshmon. If they stayed a day or more, then we’re good.” He started setting up for a triceps push.

  “And if not?”

  He started the push, keeping it at a hundred twenty newtons. “I’ve already asked Captain Morris to see if he can get a little more out of the sails. I can’t order him to emergency speeds, but he’s sympathetic to your plight.”

  Hans nodded. “I’ll be sure to thank him, one way or the other. I’m glad to hear he understands about family.”

  Collins paused, halfway through his set. “Is that what this really is about for you, family?”

  “Of course it
is!” he replied, his steps accelerating until the treadmill checked him. “What else would it be?”

  Collins resumed his set. Four more. “I don’t know. You seem… intent on proving Malcolm Fletcher… to be the bad guy.”

  Hans laughed. “And you believe otherwise, I gather. Did you owe him some favor? Is that why you’re in this?”

  “No,” he said, finishing out the set. “But I had an interest in Malcolm, and I suppose that interest extends to his, um, to Michael. I don’t have any particular interest in proving Malcolm’s guilt or innocence. Why do you?”

  “It’s not just that,” Hans replied, finally hitting the cooldown mode on the treadmill. “Have you ever lost family?”

  “No, I haven’t,” he replied. Mom and Dad were still working away on Callista Prime, and Callie was getting her doctorate on Latera.

  “Shipmates then?”

  “Yes.” He had been commissioned a year after the end of the Caspian rebellion, but he had been in two nasty fights with the zealots of the Shiantic Ribbon. He had earned a Silver Shield for distinguished service in one of them, but he never wore it. His survival had been his only distinguishing action. The man who had saved him had only gotten a letter written to his family. “Yes, I have, but if it’s revenge you’re after—”

  “No,” Hans cut him off. He shook his head as his pace slowed further. “Michael is my last link to Peter. My little brother Pete… he’s been gone seventeen years now, almost eighteen since I last saw him.” The treadmill finally came to a stop, and Hans leaned forward against the rail. “I wasn’t there for him, Commander, not for him, not for Sophia, and not for Michael. I was off chasing profits instead. It doesn’t matter anymore whether or not I’m right about Malcolm. This time,” he paused to face Collins, “at least I’m going to be there.”

  Collins opened his mouth to reply, but Hans walked out before he could think of what to say.

  If he was going to get off the ship at the next port, the cargo path was Michael’s best chance. The main airlock would have watch standers around the clock, and even if he could get one of the other maintenance airlocks to open without faking some kind of emergency, he did not have a proper EVA suit for maneuvering around on the hull. For that matter, he did not even have a survival bag in his quarters — a serious safety oversight in his book.

  It was also a serious setback, since going through the cargo path would mean exposure to vacuum. His plan was to hide in one of the cargo containers, but they were rarely airtight, and the trip from cargo bay to dockside cargo lock was typically zero gravity and zero atmosphere. He could try to hold out for a groundside port, but the next stop was supposed to be Arvin station. Given how his passenger status had been steadily declining, he did not want to risk waiting any more. So, if he was getting off, he needed that survival bag, and that was precisely what he was going to get.

  It was three hours after dinner, and beta shift had already settled in. Like the Heinrich, most people worked first shift, called “alpha” on the Jaguar. All the maintenance was done then. The other shifts were little more than bored watch standers, doing their best to stay awake while watching the monitors, though he knew at least one watch stander would be watching his door. He had found the security camera in his previous night’s exploration. Tonight, he intended to give them nothing to see.

  He popped the sink panel off with ease using a makeshift tool. It was ostensibly a bottle opener Karen had given him for their vacation on Latera. It only gave him a hands-length of leverage, but it was made of titanium and did not bend under the heaviest loads he could manage. He slipped it back into a sleeve pocket, but kept it tied to his wrist with a bit of string. He did not want to risk losing it crawling through the walls tonight.

  He began by slipping through the hole and into the plumbing access space behind his bathroom. It was a tight fit, but he could curl around to the side and then tuck his legs in and roll onto his back. He wiggled around some more, trying not to make enough noise to be heard in the bathroom next to him, until he could finally stand up.

  The quartermaster was up on deck one, where the bridge would have been for the Heinrich. He could climb up the two decks from where he was, but his one trip up to the quartermaster before had been under escort, and not simply by one of his cargo-handling tag-alongs. There had been a legitimate guard, a Mr. Bishop, armed with a menacing shock stick. That would not be so much of a problem, except that the quartermaster storage had been on the port side of the ship. He was on the middle hall, starboard-side, deck three. While he was pretty confident in being able to pop open one of the hallway panels quickly, he could not think of a safe place to do it. Clearly, his hallway on deck three was being watched. Deck two would have been right between the Captain’s quarters and the bridge. And finally, deck one had the formidable Mr. Bishop with his shock stick.

  No, the only way was down, and down was a simple drop into environmental. As best as Michael could see, it was an out-of-the-way corner behind an algae tank. In the brief exploration he had done the night before, he had never seen anyone step under him, let alone look up. From what he remembered of his few shifts in environmental, crew did not like to stand around the algae tanks. No matter how tight the seals, you always wanted a shower afterwards.

  So after waiting a few minutes to confirm no one was nearby, or at least no one was making noise nearby, he unscrewed the mounts for one of the floor grates. He wedged it between two pipes as quietly as he could and stuck his head through the hole to look around. No one was near, and he could fairly easily step down onto the nearest tank and get down to the floor from there.

  He pulled his head back in, repositioned to hold tightly onto a couple of the wall frame struts, and lowered himself down onto the tank. Part of him wanted to simply drop as fast as he could, but he also did not want to make a noisy landing. Remembering Karen’s overnight detection of the bad air gaps in Heinrich’s plumbing, he knew that a lot of environmental problems were found by nose and ears rather than by simply watching the monitors. If this overnight watch officer was as diligent as Karen had been, he would have to be very quiet.

  With his feet lowered onto the tank, he then knelt with his hands still braced against the ceiling. He did not see or hear anyone. Carefully, he slipped his legs over the side of the tank and eased himself down to the deck below. It was another collection of metal grates covering other pipes and vents, so he stepped gingerly, testing each one for wobbles or creaks before putting his full weight on.

  Here in environmental, the layout was entirely different than the upper decks. There was no central corridor, only pipes, tanks, and filters. The wet wall that would have been directly across the corridor from him was covered by an array of air ducts moving aft towards filters. That did not matter much, because that was still too far forward for the quartermaster’s storage.

  So he moved aft, but not in a straight line. First he had to go to port to get around two more tanks and an air scrubber. Then he made his way aft about twelve meters, passing by more scrubbers, a somewhat noisy pump, and a water heater. He grew even more cautious because even though he had the pump’s noise to mask his movements, he could see that he was getting closer to some control systems. Even if it was not the main watch station, you could never know when the watch stander would make a trip past to check something on the equipment itself.

  He shifted back towards the center of the ship, squeezing between a couple of reserve water tanks and stopped to take his bearings. By looking through the maze of pipes and equipment, he could see the pale green algae tank that he had originally come down on. It was about nine meters forward and three to starboard. He should be in about the right position, and when he looked up, sure enough, he saw the floor grates of the cabin utilities access space above him.

  He braced himself between one of the reserve tanks and a pipe and wiggled his way up until he could reach the wing nuts holding the grate in place. He knew this was the most dangerous part of his path. He was stuck there
, with his head and shoulders above most of the machinery for over a minute, very visible to anyone who just happened to look. But he also knew that worrying about it would not make him any less visible, so he hastily undid the nuts and dropped them into his pocket. He shifted the grate aside and grabbed hold of the wall frame above it.

  He was most of the way up when he heard the voice.

  “Is that you, Case?”

  He pulled his feet up and promptly stepped to the side, but the gap in the grate was wide open.

  “Case? Buddy?”

  He did not recognize the voice, but at least it was not one of his usual watchers. Then he heard the clomp-clang of boots on the deck grates below him. A leg came into view, and then a hand. It ran over the pipe he had used to climb up, but then it left. He heard more steps, another pause, and then finally a more casual clomp-clang of boots receding into the distance. Thankfully, whoever it had been had never looked up.

  Michael thought about putting the grate back in place, but he thought better of it. He would be coming back through here soon enough. He turned his attention upwards, and bracing himself between wall frames and pipes, he started his climb. The grate to deck two came off easily enough, and so he made his way up to there without incident.

  Very few pipes rose up to this level. From the looks of it, it was a single sink. He was not sure if it was part of the captain’s quarters, or if it was perhaps the officers’ wardroom. Either way, he was very careful to move slowly and quietly. The last thing he wanted was to slip and bang against the captain’s bedroom wall.

  Only air ducts and electrical conduits went up to deck one. That made sense. After all, the quartermaster’s storage room had no sink. He carefully wedged himself higher up between the wall frames, unbolted the grating above him, and slid it aside. The access space above him was different, but he was still able to climb up into it.

  When he got there, he saw just how different. The walls to the aft were the standard partition walls he had been dealing with all along. The forward wall, however, was solid metal. Whatever that nasty Mr. Bishop had been guarding was put together more securely than the rest of the ship. He wondered what it could be but did not let it distract him long. The aft wall was the wall to quartermaster’s storage, and that was his goal.