Icarus (19 page)

   The contents of the room came spilling out. In a
blur of motion, a metallic form rushed toward Shawn, who was taken almost
completely by surprise. In the instant it took him to realize he was being
lunged at, Melissa had fired off a round—which Shawn was convinced he felt fly
past his right ear—and the concussive blow threw the ill-defined shape back
into the darkened space it had leapt from.

   “Sorry,” she offered unapologetically. “Reflexes.”

   Shawn was still processing what had happened when he
stood back to his feet. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you missed me by a good
solid inch.”

   “I’d say at least two.”

   “Is it dead?” he asked worriedly, staring in to
the darkened space beyond.

   “No,” Melissa shook her head. “I set my pistol to
immobilize.”

   Shawn nodded. “So it’s either asleep…or really
pissed off.”

   “More than likely the former, but I don’t discount
the latter,” she said, her weapon still leveled at the opened doorway. “One of
us is going to have to go check.”

   “The choice is pretty obvious. You shot it, you go
check.”

   “Don’t be ridiculous, Commander. I’m too important
to risk on this mission.”

   “And I’m not?”

   “I’m sure I can fly your ship out of here if I
need to. You, however, cannot get the intelligence information I need.”

   “There’s no way I’m letting you take my ship if I’m
dead.”

   “Can you really hear yourself, Commander? What
will it matter if you’re
dead
?”

   Although he had to agree, he didn’t need to give
her the satisfaction. “It matters, okay? It matters.”

   “Stop acting like a little girl and go check it
out, Commander.” She raised a tentative eyebrow in his direction. “That’s an
order.”

   “I don’t believe this! You’re pulling rank on me?”

   “I don’t want to, but I
am
in charge of
this mission.”

   “So no matter what I say, you always get the last word?
That is so—”

   “Damn it, Shawn! Stop arguing with me and go see
what I shot. I’ve got you covered and you’ve got your own weapon. For all we
know, it could be an empty container that was propped up against the door.
However, if it’s the life form, and it’s alive, it might be able to tell us
what happened here.”

   “What about Adams?” Shawn snapped.

   “Who do you think is going to cover me?” she
replied rationally.

   Shawn knew on multiple levels she was correct.
They needed to figure out what happened here, and whatever was lying just
beyond the doorway might be able to shed some light on the missing crewmen and
the damage to the
Icarus
. Regardless, he scowled in her direction before
moving slowly toward the open door. He reached into the pocket of his
environmental suit and withdrew his flashlight, placing it between the palm of
his left hand and the pommel of his gun. His right hand held fast to the grip
of his weapon, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

   As he neared the edge of the door, he shined his
light around the frame, checking to see if anything was hiding just behind the
thick sill edge. Satisfied that no surprises would come from that area, he
began to slowly sweep the floor with the bright white beam.

   At first, he noticed a stack of half-empty crates that
were piled up near the door. The label on the first crate read “Computer
Conduit,” but the missing lid allowed Shawn to see that the case, in fact, held
a small stack of canned food and water. Beyond the crate, Shawn saw a few empty
cans strewn across the deck, then saw an overturned crate that had spilled its
contents of emergency rations, probably when whatever Melissa had shot was
flung back into the void.

   That was when his light fell on it. It was a boot,
silvery and metallic. It looked as if it had seen better days. The sole was
cracked in several places, and there was a hole near where the big toe of a
human would be. He followed the boot up until he saw that it was attached to a
leg, clad in the same material, which likewise looked the worse for wear. Shawn
recognized it as a standard-issue Sector Command space suit, not entirely
dissimilar to the ones he and Melissa were currently wearing. Shawn moved
closer into the compartment to give the body a more detailed inspection. On the
shoulder of the suit was a patch indicating that it was from the
Icarus
,
and over the right breast was a name tag sewn into the shimmering material.

   “Garcia,” he said to himself.

   “What was that?” Melissa called to him.

   Shawn shined the light toward the helmet of the
suit, not trusting that the occupant was actually a member of the doomed crew
of the ill-fated cruiser. He saw that the person inside was a human male,
perhaps in his mid-twenties. Most of the details of his face were obscured by
dark smudges on the transparent face shield, both inside and out. Shawn gave
the man a light nudge with his foot, checking to see if he was actually
unconscious. The groan that escaped his lips told Shawn what he needed to know.

   “What is it, Shawn?”

   He didn’t turn to face Melissa. “It’s a man.”

   She cautiously crept into the space behind him.
“Is he alive?”

   “It seems so,” Shawn kept his weapon trained at
the nearly unconscious figure on the floor. “Go get my tool bag and bring it in
here. There’s a basic med-scanner in there. Something tells me he’s going to
need some help.”

   “Garcia,” Melissa softly read the name tag aloud.

   The man on the deck groaned softly again, then
slowly raised a limp arm and placed it over the visor of his helmet, blocking
out the united beams of Shawn and Melissa’s handheld lights.

  
M
elissa
reached into the tool pouch and withdrew the small, metallic container holding
the medical supplies. If she hadn’t noticed the small Red Cross that Shawn had
taken the liberty of painting on the top, she might have mistaken the container
for one that held ammunition.

  Since he rarely needed anything from the kit, Shawn was glad that Trent
had taken the liberty of restocking it back on Darus Station. With a flip of
the single latch that held it closed, he opened the box and pulled out the
small, finger-shaped cardioscope, along with the variable aspirator. Shawn
turned on the cardioscope with a twist of the unit’s handle, then waved it over
the conscious body of the wounded man. After a few passes, Shawn let the
scanner slip to his side. He then stretched the aspirator over Garcia’s mouth
and the unit immediately began pushing freshly scrubbed air into the groaning
man’s lungs.

   Melissa watched as Shawn moved with the skill of a practiced surgeon,
amazed at how well he handled the basic medical instruments. “I think you
missed your calling,
Doctor
Kestrel.”

   Shawn smiled. “It wasn’t meant to be. Besides, I have a crappy bedside
manner.” He once more reached into the kit, this time withdrawing a cellular
hydrobrace. He gently propped Garcia’s head onto his knee, then waved the hose-like
device over the throat, lips, and eyes of the fallen man.

   “Why do I find that hard to believe?” she asked under her breath.

   Shawn, his full attention given to Garcia, didn’t fully hear what
she’d said. “What’s that?”

   “Oh, it was nothing. Is there anything wrong with him?” Melissa asked,
concern tinting the edges of her voice.

   “He’ll live, if that’s what you want to know.”

   “I want to know if anything is wrong with him, serious or not.”

   Shawn continued to regard the young man lying prone on the deck.
“Well, he’s suffering from mild malnutrition, dehydration, and a little
frostbite. All things considered, other than the slight concussion he received
when he hit the deck after you shot him, he’s sound as a pound.” Shawn then
turned to Sergeant Adams. “Adams, take a look around this compartment and
whatever else connects to it. There seem to be a lot of hiding spaces. See if
you can locate any other survivors.”

   “Yes, sir,” the Marine snapped, then went about his task, leaving
Shawn and Melissa to tend to the fallen man.

   Melissa knelt down to look into the young man’s face. His black, unkempt
beard had grown long, and his cheeks were slightly sunken. The dark rings
around his eyes betrayed his emaciation and the lack of sleep he must have
endured. As the supine man neared consciousness, he began to shiver in the cold
and damp compartment.

   “His suit probably hasn’t been functional in a while,” Melissa said as
she regarded the tattered remains of a government-issue pressure suit.

   Shawn looked around the room once more before returning his gaze to
the young man. “From the looks of this place, he’s probably been living in this
compartment for some time.”

   Melissa nodded sorrowfully. “Then he must have blankets or something
here to keep him warm. Can you go and find them while I try to get him to
talk?”

   Shawn nodded, and then lifted Garcia’s head from his knee before
standing up. “I’ll see what I can do.”

   Once Shawn had hurried from her side, she turned her full attention to
the young man. “Mr. Garcia?” she asked, barely above a whisper. She repeated it
three more times, each one increasing in volume until the young man finally
responded.

   “Y…yes?”

   “Welcome back to the land of the living,” she smiled. “Mr. Garcia, my
name is—”

   “Th…the shhh…the ship…” His words were labored, as if he were trying
to speak from a mile away.

   “Try to relax, Mr. Garcia. You’re going to be all right.”

   “The shh…the ship. In…da…danger.”

   She looked around the compartment, relieved that the groaning and
creaking noises had temporality subsided. “I think we’re out of danger for now,
Mister Garcia.”

   “Lieu…lieutenant…”

   “Lieutenant Garcia?”

   He nodded his head slowly.

   “That’s your rank?”

   He nodded again, this time with more force.

   Not wanting to confuse him, she decided to stick to her
military-assigned rank for the time being. “Lieutenant, my name is Lieutenant
Commander Melissa Graves. We’re from the USCS
Rhea
. We’ve come to
render—”

   “The…the
Rhea
?”

   “Yes, we’re here to help you.”

   “The
Rhea
…she’s…sss a good ship.”

   Melissa smiled, knowing from experience that holding a conversation
such as this—with someone who had obviously experienced as much trauma as the
lieutenant had—was a very good sign that his mental faculties were still in
order.

   “How…how many more?”

   “How many what, Lieutenant?”

   “Sur…surv…”

   “Survivors?”

   He erupted in a short spasm of nods.

   “Honestly, Lieutenant…you’re the first one we’ve found.”

   With a tear-jerking moan of agony, Garcia tried to sit up, but Melissa
placed a gentle hand against his chest and lowered him back to the deck with little
force. She tried to keep her voice steady and clam. “Try to relax, Lieutenant.
That’s an order.”

   “Yes…yes, ma’am.”

   “What can you tell me about what happened here?”

   Just as she asked the question, Shawn arrived with a small pile of
uniforms, a pair of pitifully thin bed sheets, and a relatively new-looking
pillow. “This is all I could find.”

   Melissa took the heap from his outstretched arms and draped everything
she could over the young man, then positioned the pillow beneath his head.
“Commander Kestrel, meet Lieutenant Garcia. Mister Garcia, this is Lieutenant
Commander Shawn Kestrel.”

   Garcia brought a hand to his forehead in a very sluggish salute, but
then let the hand fall above his head. “Sss…sorry for n…not standing at
attention, ss…sir.”

   Shawn smiled and leaned over the young man’s scraggly face. “I think
we’ll skip the court-martial for now, Lieutenant.”

   Garcia smiled, but it seemed to pain him to do so. He winced in agony
as his left hand clutched at his chest where Melissa’s concussive blast had
landed. Shawn reached into his medical pouch and withdrew a mild stimulant and
vitamin shot. Engineered for wounded Marines in the combat zones, it went to
work fast and helped get otherwise fatally wounded men back home. As Shawn pressed
the pneumatic syringe to Garcia’s neck, injecting his veins with the
concoction, the Lieutenant’s reaction was no different.

   “Ouch, man. That’s smarts,” the lieutenant said after a moment with
only the slightest hint of his former stammer.

   “Just a standard issue shot, Lieutenant.” Using the sleeve of a
discarded and soiled uniform, Melissa carefully wiped a bead of sweat from
Garcia’s forehead.

   “Not that, ma’am. I’m talking about that blast to my chest,” Garcia
said, then absently rubbed the location where Melissa’s concussive round had
bounced off his ribcage. “I haven’t felt like that since the homecoming game at
the fleet academy.”

   “The after-game party?” Shawn asked comically.

   Garcia shook his head in the negative. “Hell no, sir. I was a wide
receiver. Got blindsided by one of those speed demons from Markus Colony. Son
of a bitch cost us the game.”

   Melissa cradled his head in her hand. “Think you can sit up now,
Lieutenant?” she asked with all the sweetness of a well-practiced nun.

   “Yeah…yes, ma’am,” Garcia placed his hands at his side and slowly,
painfully slowly, brought himself to an upright seated position. He let out a
labored breath and shook his head, as if he were clearing the cobwebs left by a
long night’s sleep. Shawn reached into his satchel and withdrew a liter of
water, which Garcia guzzled completely in an instant. “Thanks. I needed that.”
He then jerked his head in the direction of the water generator. “That stuff
over there is awful.”

   “So,” Melissa said, squatting next to Garcia on the floor and looking
him in the eyes, “what happened here, Lieutenant?”

   “Well, ma’am. It’s really hard to say. I was…I was down in engineering
during most of the action.”

   “You didn’t see anything?”

   Garcia looked from her eyes to a distant point on the far bulkhead.
“Oh, no. I saw…plenty.”

   “Please, Lieutenant. Tell me everything you remember in as much detail
as possible.”

   “What are you, Unified Security?”

   She chuckled, recalling what some of her old colleagues would have
thought if they were ever asked that question. “No, Lieutenant. I’m with the
OSI.” She reached into the pocket of her environmental suit and withdrew a
small, finger-sized recorder. Capable of recording over six hours of
three-dimensional visual images with multi-phasic sound, it would be an
invaluable tool when she reviewed it later as part of her official report.

   “OSI, you say?” He looked to Shawn pensively. “You, too, sir?”

   “Oh, no,” Shawn replied emphatically. “Not me. I’m just the driver.”

   Garcia gave him a puzzled look, then shrugged. “Well, one
is
preferable to two when it comes to the OSI.”

   Melissa smiled reactively. “I guess you’re right about that. So tell
me what you can.” She flipped on the recorder and placed it onto the deck in
front of the lieutenant.

   Garcia leaned back on his elbows as he contemplated his words, making
sure to get everything in its proper order. “It started out simple enough. We
set out from the planet Concordia to link up with the rest of our strike group.
They were sitting just outside the system, waiting for us, you know? So anyway,
we linked up with the
Valley Forge
and the rest of the group and set out
for Corvan on a search and rescue mission.”

   Corvan. The name had echoed in her mind ever since she’d heard Toyo
speak it on Persephone, and even before that, when she’d received the last
letter from her father, addressed from there.  This was the last place her
father had checked in before vanishing.

   “Did you know who or what you were looking for?” she asked.

   “No, not me personally. Above my pay grade, I guess.”

   “Still, didn’t you think it was odd?” Melissa asked. “I mean, sending
out an entire battle squadron for a search and rescue mission?”

   “Yeah, sure I did. So did a lot of the other guys. Talk about
overkill. But, you know how it is, Commander.” He looked to Shawn for
understanding before continuing. “When Sector Command tells you to go, you go,
and you don’t ask why. Am I right?”

   Shawn nodded briskly. “Yep.”

   Garcia smiled and his eyes darted back to Melissa. “So after about two
weeks, we made it to Corvan, only it wasn’t Corvan we were at.”

   Melissa furrowed her brow. “I don’t follow.”

   Garcia lowered his voice and leaned off his elbows toward Melissa, his
eyes full of mischief. “We were at Second Earth. At least, that’s where
I
thought we were.”

   “How did you come to that conclusion?” she asked in disbelief.

   “I know what Corvan looks like, and we weren’t in orbit of that place.
You ever been there, ma’am? Corvan, I mean.”

   Melissa shook her head slowly.

   Garcia scrunched up one of the soiled uniforms and placed it under his
head as a makeshift pillow. He looked to the poorly defined overhead as if he
were dreaming of a far distant and beautiful place. “You should, you know. You
should go there sometime. The sky is a brilliant blue-green. The sands on the
beaches are like…are like a field of miniature diamonds, but not hard or
uncomfortable to walk on. It’s like…it’s like walking on cotton. And those pink
and yellow clouds…you’ve never seen such long stretches of—”

   Melissa cut him off with a hand to his chest. “Okay, Lieutenant. I get
the picture. So if you weren’t at Corvan, then how did you come to the
conclusion you were at Second Earth?”

   Garcia’s facial expression changed as his mental picture shifted from
the serenity of Corvan to the other planet he’d actually seen that day. “For
one thing, the planet we were in orbit around was all wrong. It was green, but
in all the wrong places. There was snow on the caps…and there’s no snow on
Corvan. And the clouds…they were dark. Ominous.”

   “You could be describing Rugor,” Shawn injected.

   “No way, sir. You see, I took a walk into sensor control the day
before we got there, and I saw that our course heading was still in the general
direction of Corvan, only it was just a little off.”

   “How far off?” Melissa asked.

   “Far enough for a wise lieutenant to know we were heading somewhere
close to Corvan, but not Corvan itself. When the battle group came to a halt, I
had a pretty good feeling where we were.”

   “Everyone else must have known, too,” Shawn said suspiciously. “One
look out the window and everyone on the
Icarus
would be wondering the
same thing.”

   “Commander Taggart, the ship’s CO, came over the squawk box and put us
in a blackout. All exterior view ports were sealed and made dark well before we
arrived.”

   “How much earlier?” Shawn asked.

   “At least three days. Regardless, it was long before we had visual
contact.”

   Shawn and Melissa both knew the significance of that. Normally, ports
were sealed only when the commander of the vessel thought he would come under
direct enemy attack. Metal curtains would slide over all external hatches and
ports to minimize the possibility of structural decompression in those areas,
and most—if not all—exterior lights would be set to minimal power.