The Icarus Void Page 6

  Laguardia glanced around the medical bay: there were seven medbeds with instruments and glowing displays surrounding them, and a surgical ward that had never been used on the opposite side of the bay. If needed, an opaque shield would swivel around the surgical ward and hermetically seal whoever was inside, something Laguardia only knew because she'd been in one on the Hyperion. Her knee had felt just fine after the riot, but sometimes she swore that she still felt the pins and screws in there moving about on their own, independently. It was fucking stupid, she knew, but she also knew that the mind has a way of playing tricks on itself. Kind of like with Captain Udeh. Laguardia had noticed the captain patting his left pocket frequently over the course of the last few hours as he generously helped Captain Markov get things in order. Udeh seemed nice enough, but also seemed a little off. It wasn't just the pocket patting, either. The way he glanced about sometimes, checking the walls, the size of the room he was in. Laguardia had asked Gaines to look up Udeh's medical record since he'd served on the Icarus once before: claustrophobia had come up, although he hadn’t had an attack or a need to take his medication in years. Maybe now he did. Who could tell? It was something, at least, and in tight situations Laguardia did well to know the strengths and weaknesses of everything and everyone around her.

  She stood next to the doctor and read over his shoulder. ″Anything to report on, Doctor?″

  Gaines casually turned to look over his shoulder and met her gaze. ″Actually, no. Nothing new that you haven't already asked of me three times in the last four hours. All the same reports. My nurses are currently on call as I see no need for them here with me at the moment. And to be honest, I see no need for your presence either, Sergeant. Really, don't you have anything better to do than to poke your nose amongst the crew during such a critically tense time?″

  ″It's my job. You know that.″

  ″It's not your job. It's your paranoia.″

  Laguardia frowned. This was a new pair of balls Gaines was trying on for size. ″I beg your pardon?″ she asked. Salty language was something she'd learned to convey in situations where she needed to assert control; diplomatic conversations with men on the brink of requiring salty language was a skill she'd managed to retain. Every weapon in an arsenal had its uses.

  Gaines blinked, turned around, started to say something, and then removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. His eyes were sunken and layers of purple curled beneath them. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. ″What I mean to say is that I wonder if your continued presence stalking the decks during a dive countdown with a loaded sidearm on your belt does any actual good towards suppressing quarrelsome natures, or if it only serves to exacerbate them. Ever given it a thought?″

  ″No,″ she replied with confidence. ″It's not the quarrels I'm worried about, Doctor. It's the means to put them down quickly.″

  ″I see. And if I told you that most of the men on the crew don't approve of your methods?″

  You mean they just see me as some short butch dyke prowling the corridors to bust their cocks, she thought. ″I have the captain's approval. Beyond that I'm only interested in doing what's necessary to ensure the safety of the crew.″ She gave a cursory glance about the medical bay. Everything seemed to be in order for once, and the doctor seemed to be under enough of his own stress. Besides, what he'd said found a slight chink in her armor, so she decided that there was plenty more to see on her route and little time to do so. ″If that's all,″ she said, and strode towards the exit.

  ″Headaches,″ Gaines called out.

  She stopped and turned around. ″Headaches?″

  ″Headaches. Dizziness. Excessive sweating. Paranoid delusions. Those are the most common symptoms I've been receiving from the crew in the past six hours, or at least from those with enough time to come in and see me. If they're not here, they're on the engineering deck or the bridge.″ He turned away from her and returned to tapping his hooked fingers on the datapad. I've chalked it all up to stress. There's far too much stress on this dive. I think the psychological strain of pulling the crew out of their mob mentality when it comes to these dive preps was favorable to this ungodly strain upon the men this time around, but I'm only the only physician on the ship, and my voice is drowned out or unheard. This tension. My request, if you'll honor it, is that you'll refrain from contributing.″

  Laguardia nodded. ″Thank you, Doctor.″

  As she left medical, she thought of the common symptoms: headaches, dizziness, excessive sweating. Something to look for. Paranoid delusions, though. Maybe in Captain Udeh? What if his claustrophobia was finally getting the better of him, so unexpectedly after all these years without worry? It would certainly be something. And the doctor had mentioned the fucking excessive strain this dive was having on the crew. It would make sense if Udeh might be susceptible to it. It had been a while since his last dive on any ship, let alone the confined space of the Icarus. She sighed as she thought of whether or not her methods were acceptable, wondering to herself if the crew actually did think she was a strong-armed butch dyke because she maintained a former-regulation haircut and a rigid training routine. This was just another in a long line of missions that made her wish that she could just put in her papers and head back to Earth and grow her hair, be outwardly feminine again, and not worry about whether or not those fucking screws in her knee were turning on their own, loosening her knee with each step. Maybe after this dive.

  She made her way towards the bridge.

  ***

  Mac nudged himself just a little further forward in the tightly compact crawlspace betweendecks and raised his multitool wand in the direction of the power couplings exposed on the wall next to him. The crawlway was just large enough for a man of average height to crouch in if he doubled over and nearly stuck his nose in his asshole, but Mac was larger than average size. He'd spent long days and nights working hard with his hands, legs, full body muscularity, and besides, his momma hadn't had small framed children. So he had to stay on his belly. When the multitool wand's glowing tip flashed off, he rolled over and consulted his datapad. No one else was in the crawlway with him, so when the readings came back without any abnormalities, he let loose a hearty, deep-throated, "FUCK!" that hurt his ears in the close quarters but he didn't care. All he cared about was that he was at his wit's end and the fucking communication systems were still down.

  He'd checked literally every single power relay, energy coupling, communications output and connection center. There was nothing fucking wrong with the goddamn ship. Communications should be readily operable. He'd gone in search of multiple factors. Possible interference from the Sun's proximity, which had turned up absolutely nothing. Then he'd tried interference from the artifact itself, which was something that he'd at first not considered but upon further thought had become only too plausible. If what the men were saying was true, then the object was made up of some kind of material that actually absorbed all the thermal radiation out there, and so fuck, who knew what that shit could do to a comm signal? But nothing. Nothing so much as a single underline of static. Now, crawling through the ship's intestines like some fucking parasite, Mac was finally at a loss for results and possible answers. The answer was that there was no answer. Communications were just not working.

  He had run multiple systems checks in the forty-five minutes leading up to the communications blackout, notably on the comm systems themselves, all diagnostics showing the all-clear and operational greenlights. He remembered doing each check; it was SOP. Standard Operational Pro-fucking-cedure. Everything had come back gravy, but it sure as hell didn't look that way now. He thought again of the relay on the outside of the ship that he could spacewalk to investigate if they were so close to the goddamn Sun, but that initial thought had become far less likely with the inter comm blackout as well. Now it was all but completely dismissed. Mac laid on his back and rubbed his eyes wearily. He was exhausted. This was far too fucking insane for his current mental and physi
cal state, and he still needed to check in with Lieutenant Engineer Clarke and re-check dive diagnostics.

  But, as long as he was on his back, he might as well make a call. He retrieved his personal communicator from his magbelt and sent a ping to Captain Udeh's comm.

  Udeh's voice came back clear and crystal, as if to enunciate the fact that shipwide systems were still very fucked. ″Udeh.″

  ″MacConnel. I have an update on our communication systems, sir: there is no update. Comm systems are all functioning normally but not functioning at all.″

  ″Wonderful.″ His voice was laced thick with sarcasm and worry. ″Anything else, Chief?″

  ″No, sir, just about to go over final systems re-checks for solar dive, sir.″

  ″Acknowledged. Captain Markov should be back on shift here shortly, and when he is I'll have him contact you for confirmation, Chief. I have a feeling he'll want to be keeping a firm connection with the bridge and engineering.″

  ″Aye, sir. Mac, out.″

  Mac returned the comm to his magbelt, then replaced the plate that had been covering the relay over the opening. He thought about turning around, but there was a junction up ahead that would cut across medical and then back down to engineering without losing more than two minutes time. It would save him from manipulating his bulk and give him a moment extra to breathe.

  He'd say this for Captain Udeh: the man might not be the ship's captain, but he was a damn fine captain for sure. Udeh had been in almost constant contact with Mac, and Udeh was as confident in his running of things as if he were the Icarus's honest to god master and commander. It was about the only thing that had kept everyone and everything together as well as they had during the last four hours. Udeh's arrival via the Prometheus Boat had been a godsend.

  Mac snapped his fingers. The Captain's Boat. Both the Icarus's and Prometheus's. At this proximity to the dive, those comm systems wouldn't be able to cut a thin damn line through the chromospheric static, but maybe they could be boosted for inter comm usage.

  He bit his lower lip. Clarke could manage the next half-hour without him.

  Mac took a left at the junction instead of a right and retrieved his personal comm to give Clarke a head's-up.

  ***

  As the undulating alarm over his bunk sounded, Captain Markov opened his eyes and inhaled sharply. Christ, that was a nightmare.

  He rose into a sitting position, slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The alarm was a cacophonous scraping noise on the inside of his skull, exactly what he needed to be awake for the dive, but he wished he didn't have this fucking headache to give it fuel. Nausea swam in his gut and left his thighs cold as he stood, and he crossed his quarters to his desk where the alarm sat impatiently waiting. Markov slapped the alarm a little harder than he meant to, then held himself over the desk, supporting his weight on his arms. This was not good. He felt like he was going to puke, or shit, and the waves of cold feeling going all up and down his body were a stark contrast to the sweltering heat he'd felt just before finally laying down to rest an hour after meaning to do so. He looked at his personal comm sitting on the desk, reached for it and nearly fell over. He put his hand down on the desk quickly to keep himself up and breathed slowly through his teeth, not his nose. His mustache smelled bad.

  Markov turned and eased himself to the floor, holding his head between his legs until the nausea passed. Some fucking captain he was. Markov tried to remember the last time he'd felt this awful, then tried to remember the last time he'd had anything to eat or drink. He couldn't recall an answer to either question. The crew might be able to fast for six hours while in dive prep mode, but Markov was clearly too old for such an endeavor. Old and nearly worthless. As the threat of vomit dissipated and he stood again, feeling a little more himself, Markov wondered if perhaps he should let Udeh and Tybalt run the ship during the dive and camp out in his quarters, citing regulation twenty-five-eighteen, Captain unfit for duty. Then he remembered Udeh's ″joke″ in the corridor, frowned, and decided to hell with it. He wasn't going to hide away in his quarters on his final fucking mission and let his friend, who'd lobbied hard for command of the Icarus a few years ago, fly his ship and make any detours. Markov knew that Udeh had been lusting over the Icarus for a long time, ever since he'd served a tour, and he also knew that Udeh's requests had been requested over the confidential chain-of-command line of communications. Then again, a few years ago Markov had been seriously considering early retirement. Three years ago as of last week to be precise, after that mishap with the shuttle in the cargo bay. It had been at Outpost 7, during shore leave. There had been a long investigation, one that amounted to little more than machinery error and navigation systems malfunction, but Markov had taken it personally. A member of his crew had taken flight and crashed into the side of a research outpost. Every single person on board his ship was his ward, his steward. And that, directly or indirectly, made him responsible for his charges. Ultimately, after much deliberation, he'd decided not to retire but to serve his term. Word about Udeh's requests had gotten back around to him, and whether or not he liked to admit it, it had damaged their friendship. Markov hated that his so-called ″friend″ had tried to pull the rug out from under him while he'd been going through that emotional current. Or maybe he hated more that he'd allowed himself to take the loss of life so personally in the first place to let slip the chain of command in such a radical way. Regardless of the hows and whys, Udeh was Acting Captain of the Icarus now, and Markov had no intention of allowing that station to be filled any longer. He willed himself to stand and reached for his comm.

  The voice on the other end came back almost instantaneously after the ping. ″Udeh.″

  ″Captain Markov.″ He surprised himself with how firm and steady his voice sounded. By god, he still had it in him. He was going to see this ship through the storm, hell or high water. ″Sitrep, Captain.″

  ″Sitrep is all-systems-go, green lights across the board at tee minus fifty-five minutes. Glad to hear your voice, Captain.″

  I'll bet, Markov thought. ″Any word on inter comm?″

  ″No updates. Chief Engineer MacConnel has been crawling through the ductwork for hours looking for a solution, but no dice. We're still facing total communications blackout.″

  Markov grunted. ″Understood. I'll radio his comm. Inform Commander Collins that I'll be returning to the bridge shortly, Captain.″

  ″Aye, sir.″ Then Udeh's voice lowered; in the background, Markov could hear the movement of the crew on the bridge. ″You sound a lot better, Gordon. You feeling better?″

  Markov bristled, but heard genuine concern in his friend's voice. He tried to remind himself that Udeh had served and laughed and drank with him over the course of three good years in service together, was a good man and a good captain. He tried to push away those damned lingering traces of betrayal. He sighed, and said, ″Yes. Much. Thanks for stepping in, Okwu. This ship can be a pain.″

  ″I don't know how you do it, Gordon. This dive business is a pain in the ass to manage.″ There was a smile in Udeh's voice. ″Collins is glaring at me again. Like I don't know what I'm doing. Hurry up and get up here for god's sake before she shoots me with her eye beams.″

  Now Markov had to smile; Collins was hard as nails, a real stern bitch when pushed. Even in her short term here she'd proven herself to take no quarter. He actually felt a little sorry for Udeh. A little, but not much. He hated that he felt that way. ″I'm en route. I'll speak with Mac on the way. Markov, out.″

  He'd barely put down his comm when it chirruped again. Fumbling, unprepared, he tried to grab it, nearly dropped it, then held it fast and close to his mouth. ″Markov.″

  ″Fleur.″

  Markov's eyebrows rose. This was unexpected, but not unpleasant. Still, he needed to be moving. He took the comm with him as he went to the closet for a fresh uniform. ″Doctor Fleur, a lovely surprise. I'm not entirely sure how you retrieved this frequency.″

  ″I requested it
from Captain Udeh after speaking to him last. He mentioned that you'd be up and about at least an hour before dive time.″

  ″Your timing is impeccable. What can I do for – ″

  ″I need a word, Captain. In my office.″

  Markov stopped. Was she joking? His place was on the bridge. As much as he cared for Doctor Fleur, running about the ship on a personal errand was miles away from where he ought to be headed. ″Doctor, as much as I would like to indulge your request, I must insist on attending my duties as ship's captain. Everything is high pressure right now – ″

  ″Captain – ″

  ″ – and the crew needs their captain at the – ″

  ″Gordon.″

  His name. Had she ever called him by name before? If so he couldn't remember it. The way she spoke the two syllables, the way her tongue made the N sound, made him stop in his tracks. He wished she would call him that more. He wished he could take her from the ship with him when he retired. God, I'm in love with her. This flashed through his brain quickly and was then replaced with another thought: Something is wrong.

  ″I'm listening,″ he said.