Tempered, page 13
part #1 of Space Chef Series
“If you would pay attention to me the first time, you wouldn’t have these issues,” Sarah commented as I slid through half a tube of sewage. Part of my instructions were to miss this bit of damage I’d caused. At least I knew I was on the right track. The long way, not the shortcut we’d found. Karma is like that. I just knew it was from cursing the Goddess too many times. “Take the next left turn then down.”
“Ouch! Fuck a duck, that hurt!” Taking Sarah’s advice, I’d grabbed the handle for the left tube and promptly slammed my head into the wall as momentum swung me around. Not wanting to cause another spill or something, I grasped only the handles this time. “Where am I?”
“Twenty meters to the right and open the next hatch. You should be above hangar bay one. The freight lift is located one hundred meters directly in front of you. Ship’s schematics detail the control panel as being to the right, inside a small guard station.”
Tripping the switch on the inside, I peered out the hole as the hatch cover receded. Everything looked to be where Sarah said they were, except I wasn’t level with the floor. “What the fuck? You couldn’t pick an entrance half a level down?”
“Negative. There is a high-density gravimetric transmitter in that section of the hull. Where you are located is the only way without crossing to bay two,” Sarah replied.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was just doing this to fuck with me. But if I die, so does she. We were in this together, win or lose. Bending forward, I scanned the hangar deck. Not a soul in sight. Two assault shuttles sat on the left-hand side of the mostly empty bay. When this ship went into service for real, it would really kick ass in battle. The specs on it said it could hold thirty snub fighters and four shuttles. I assumed the others were in bay two.
Pushing myself out of the hold, I did a layout with a half twist on the landing. If my old gymnastics coach had seen it, he would’ve applauded. If the drillmaster had been there, I’d be running laps until the universe died. Don’t fuck around on a mission, was one of his most famous mottos. Both reactions would’ve made me smile though. Ten years on, and I’ve still got it.
“Sarah, tap into the lift system and open it up. I want for us to be off this tub ASAP.” With a whine and a clang I hoped no one heard, the floor opened up and started going down. Humming an ancient battle hymn, I hopped on. Love in an elevator. Not something I’d done on a battleship. Too bad it was the navy and I was on duty.
“Should we try for the shuttle bays? They’re right up there. We could use the Jeffries tubes?” Tomas, one of the sous chefs, suggested.
“This section doesn’t have or need them,” No-Neck explained. Reaching out, the pudgy cook patted the bulkhead. “This area here and through that wall is the ship’s ammunition storage. Shells for the big guns topside, as well as missiles for the snub fighters.” He pointed upward at the ceiling and walls. “This is the most armored section of the ship, not counting engineering or the bridge. If an enemy shell or rocket were to penetrate to here… it would be a very big boom. We might survive. The cargo doors on either side of us cannot be opened unless in port or a construction bay. The Dunce, what many of you call Dumbo or Dummy, has them hard wired to not open unless in those areas. There is no manual control, either. This wall moves, but is only controlled by the bridge.”
“How the hell are we supposed to get out of here, then?” one of the cooks asked.
Chef Johnson nodded to himself before speaking. “I’m starting to get the idea now, Mr. Smith. Unlike many of you, I’ve been down here during restocking. You forget that I have to sign for all of this down here per records and regulations. If you look up, you might see the outline of a really big circle. That’s how we get out, isn’t it?”
No-Neck Smith nodded. “Yes, sir. The only problem with the cargo lift is the controls are up there, on the flight deck. It was decided there were too many ways for sabotage, having them down here. If someone missed the lift and got trapped, they could exit through the kitchen or if on the other side, the marine section. Those doors have internal handles. Chef Lewis knows all this. I doubt she’ll come back down the tubes.”
“Yes, then we should get things ready. Prepare. Did she give you any idea of her plans?” Johnson asked.
“No, sir. Not really. She did ask how many shuttles were up there. Remember they only half loaded us. We were supposed to be coordinating with fleet engineering for engine tests. Wanna bet those folks are freaking out somewhere? How do you lose a battleship?” Smith replied, shaking his head.
Chef Johnson looked his cook in the eye. Pursing his lips and cocking his head he asked a question that had been bugging him. “Why exactly are you here in my department?”
No-Neck snorted, “Short answer, I got really lazy and screwed the pooch on the job.”
Johnson leaned back against a pallet of crates, trying to get comfortable. Waving his hands, he made a come on motion. "Okay, I'll bite. Long answer?"
“Truthfully, I was bored,” No-Neck said. “I joined up to see the universe and maybe actually use my education. My grandfather’s part of the Council, the ruling council. Senator Remo. He and the rest of my family think I'm a worthless layabout who won’t amount to anything. So I went off to school to prove them wrong. Studied math, science, alien tech, and mechanical engineering before the money ran out. Nobody gets to be the eternal student in my family. Get a job, they said. So I joined up. I was way overqualified for most of the tech positions, and I almost failed OCS. BuShips stuck me in deep down in engineering to serve out my four. But I got them, too. I reenlisted. They didn’t like that one bit and cut me off completely. I’m the black sheep now. The reason I’m here with you guys is I like food too much. Growing up rich sucks. Your every desire can be soothed if you know the right person or agency. Pick a girl, any girl, and she’s yours. Fancy aircars, fine suits, hotels, casinos, they’re all for the taking. But none of that mess gives you any sort of purpose in life. It’s so boring.”
Chef Johnson goggled at him. “All the pussy and beer I could handle forever, are you nuts?”
“Maybe, but I’ve had society’s finest throw themselves at me for the tiniest piece of the pie. After a month of that sort of treatment, one of them will either catch you, come up pregnant, or you’ll drink yourself to death. It’s a planet full of Leets, all trying to consume you,” Smith said with a sad smile. “I’m in your area because I gave up and got fat. Too much of your fine food. They told me to transfer out, pick something. I chose to stay on big George. The food’s still the best in the fleet.”
“That’s actually not the craziest thing I’ve heard. Good for you. So I take it you’re broke?” Chef Johnson asked him.
“Pretty much. There’s a trust fund, but only if I get married and contribute to the family in some way. Not completely ready to do that right now. First, we have to survive this mess,” Smith answered.
“That we do. Let’s get moving, then. Round up all the portable food we can find, and get it ready to move it upstairs. We have to trust that Casey is coming for us,” Johnson ordered.
“And if she’s not? What then?” Smith asked.
Johnson turned and gave him a grin. “Big ass food orgy?”
Land?
The sight of me coming down via the freight lift elevated me to Goddess status among the ship’s culinary staff. Twenty cooks, the chef, and a very small assortment of mixed sailors actually cheered once they saw it was me.
“Hello, boys! Need a leg up?” I taunted, lifting my pants leg up a bit. Everything was all fun and games until they were trying to shoot you. The rescue was my plan all along. So was attempting to fly out on one of the assault shuttles. They were designed for ship-to-ship and ground operations and could hold at least thirty-five men plus cargo. If we piled it high and sucked in our guts, we might get a bit more.
Getting off the ship and down to a planet was the hard part. The Washington, the Sylphs, and this mysterious third party the captain was meeting with were all in our way. Surprisingly, I was least worried about the aliens.
But I had another crazy plan.
“You want us to do what?” Chef Johnson yelled.
“We’re where?” No-Neck Smith spat out, almost at the same time.
I let out a little squeak of a laugh at that. “We don’t have a lot of options. At some point they will come for us, and I don’t have enough guns to go around. Not even close.” I held up three fingers and gave them the options I could see. “One, we run. Load up a shuttle and boogie down to the best life-bearing world we can find in the system. Two, we fight. Obviously, I haven’t always been a cook. I guess all this blood on me is a dead giveaway. Even with me backing you up, though, we die. If I take them on myself, I die, then you die. Not a good idea. Especially for me.
“And three, we stay here and do nothing. If the captain and his marines don’t get us, whoever they are selling this ship to will. One of the false marines, a Rudy Buckley, and I had a nice long conversation about their plans for us down here. If they catch us, you have lots of digging and dying to look forward to. Apparently, mining corporations like slave labor. So no. Not happening. Choose now or forever hold your peace.”
Everyone started talking at once. Including Chef Johnson. I let them jibber jabber for all of two minutes before stopping it. Sticking two fingers in my mouth, I let out a sharp whistle. “Get this shit, put it on the fucking lift and let’s get out of here. Did you think this was a fucking democracy or something? When in the hell has that ever worked?”
“Sir, my men have swept half the ship so far. Other than three more dead bodies, we’ve found nothing. If there is a strike team on the Washington, they’re better than us. Does the Navy have man portable cloaking tech?” MST Draven reported to the captain.
“Where did you find the bodies? Show me on the map,” Vaslov demanded, pulling up a large schematic of the ship.
While the marine force swept the ship for intruders, the officers scanned hours of security footage.
“Starting with the galley area, there was a guard at the lift, here. We all saw my man lose his head at the guest quarters. That’s two decks down from us, here. Our search discovered a blood trail and a very mutilated man in this conference room. We’re pretty sure he was drained of information. There were signs of torture.” Draven pointed at spots all over the map.
“If she’s alone, how did that bitch get from the dining areas way down there, to all the way the fuck up here by us? She didn’t fly. The lift system is monitored. We would have seen her,” Vaslov said. “And in answer to your earlier question, the portable cloaking tech, or whatever, I don’t know. That kind of tech isn’t something I’ve ever heard of. Not even speculated upon.”
Thomas Watson, the executive officer, started laughing. Pushed aside since the security station fuck up, they’d pretty much ignored him until now. “You don’t get it, do you? The answer is right in front of you, and you’re ignoring it.”
Captain Vaslov looked over his shoulder at the XO and snarled, “Shut your pie hole, you lazy bastard. It’s your fault we’re even in this damn mess.”
“Pride goeth before the fall. Riddle me this, Captain…” Watson asked, with as much disdain as he could put in his voice. “Why did you have all the chiefs from the goat locker arrested first? Eh? Do you remember, or has all that alcohol burned out your brain by now?”
They sat in silence while Vaslov searched his memory. “Fuck! I’m an idiot. He’s right,” Vaslov cursed at himself. “Too blind to see it.”
“See what?” Draven yelled.
“Jeffries tubes. The Washington didn’t have them, originally. At least not to the extent they are now. They needed them for the refit for all the new systems and shit. I didn’t want the chiefs using them to fight us. They’re the ones that know the tubes the best.” Vaslov pounded on the table. “She could be anywhere!”
“Tubes? You mean the maintenance tunnels? Show me,” Draven ordered.
Third helmsman Tony Orlando pulled them up on the screen. “Fore to aft, port to starboard with interconnecting passages at each intersection.”
“Fuck. We don’t have a choice, now. I’m ordering my men to stay aft in the engine room here. They’ll barricade the passages, setting up traps in every tube they can find. Up here, we’ll have to do the same thing, but we’ll post double guards both inside and out on the main doors. It will mean you’re stuck up here for however long it takes until these Brotherhood pirates show up, but if you like living, that's the way it has to be,” Draven directed. “Once we leave, she’s their problem.”
“But the deal I had with the slavers…” Vaslov started to say even as Draven glared at him, his gun loose in his hand. Vaslov eyed the gun, sighed in resignation, and said, “Fine, whatever. We’ll all be rich enough. Do it.”
“Sir, I’m showing movement in hangar bay one. Did you authorize the outer door to be opened?” the helmsman asked.
“What now? Put it on the screen.” The big screen in front of the ship lit up. “Stop that shuttlecraft! Get that fucking door closed.”
The hangar bay door was open, and the force shield down. Everything not secured to the deck was being sucked out of the ship. Including one of the armored shuttlecrafts.
Jones started hitting every button on the console, but nothing worked. “I’m locked out. That ship has power!”
“This system can’t be locked out! It would take computers twenty generations more advanced than Dummy to freeze anything. That was one of the reasons for the refit in the first place. Stop that ship, blast it out of the sky if you have to!” Captain Vaslov ordered. The shuttles were part of the deal he had worked, and now all that expensive equipment was flying away.
“Sir?” Another of the officers caught the captain’s attention. “Found her.” With the screen angled so everyone could see, they were able to watch the cooks emerge from the cargo hold and board the shuttle.
“And we missed it. How many of the crew did you see? Any commandos or security troops?” Draven asked.
“No, all I see are cooks and boxes.” The officer put the video up on the main screen alongside the hangar bay.
“Shoot it down and all will be forgiven. Shoot it the fuck down!” Draven cursed.
“We’re locked out of weapons as well! That’s got to be why she was at the emergency bridge. Fuck!” Captain Vaslov exclaimed. “Maybe the Brotherhood won’t notice.”
“Prelate Yakov, we have separation from the battleship!” one of the cloaked officers cried out.
Alter Yakov was a religious man and did not curse in public. His position as Prelate of the ship was earned, not assigned. Rising from his seat at the top of the pyramid of officers, he started giving orders. “Track it. Send a stealth scout to follow on, as well. I want to know everything about that ship. Deacon Paul, excellent work. Has there been any other movement?”
Being singled out by one in charge brought a smile to the Deacon. Rising up within the Army of God was difficult without the pushes a higher up could give. Scanning deeper into the distant battleship, he reported, “Sir, I’m detecting oxygen outgassing as well as debris coming from the ship.”
“On screen, let us all see this debris for ourselves,” Prelate Yakov ordered.
Unlike on Confed ships, the entire wall was a screen for the Brotherhood. Multiple windows with different vid feeds opened up on the wall. The Washington could be seen from six different angles at once.
Scanning and identifying the small objects floating in space, the ship’s artificial intelligence sent the information to officers.
“Was there an explosion? Those are all from the hangar deck,” Yakov asked.
“No, sir. Scout five reports the doors opened moments before the shuttle departed. For unknown reasons, the Washington didn’t reengage the shielding on the bay and have allowed the door to remain open,” Deacon Paul reported.
“Navigation, where did the shuttle go?” the Prelate asked.
“Toward the planet sir. Scout eight is in pursuit. The ship is not, I repeat not, headed for the Sylph outpost near the equator,” Deacon Carson replied.
“Interesting,” Prelate Yakov breathed. Turning, he looked back toward the Ancient Elder Smith. “Your thoughts?”
Elder Smith shook his head. “Not political. The Sylphs in this system are subservient to us, an offshoot from the main hive. They would not attempt a hijack or assumption of materials here. This is something else. Agent Bolton perhaps?”
“No. We received his report, did we not? The unbelievers may have seen through our ruse. Alert the fleet and uncloak. It is time to end this and seize the ship,” the Prelate ordered. “Bring the fleet about and engage.”
Twenty-five ships uncloaking at the same time set off every alarm on the Washington’s bridge. Lights began to flash as the collision alarm blared. “Collision alert! Collision alert! All hands to stations!”
“…the hell is that!” Captain Vaslov slid into his chair and started yelling orders. “Shut that thing up and scan the system.”
“Sir, seven small ships have just appeared all around us. Two within twenty meters of our hull. Scans are inconclusive of their origin,” Lt. Jones reported from navigation.
“Are they Sylph ships? Activate weapons grid and switch the ship to condition three,” Captain Vaslov ordered. “Battle stations.”
