Little Tyrants
By Matthew Shepherd
Ricker’s voice whined through the air like a dentist’s drill. A tear welled in his bulging eye.
“I can’t believe you’d say that,” he said, looking around the table.
Some of the marines stopped eating to glare at Ricker, a gaunt man balding to a black widow’s peak, nose sharp above popping eyes.
Ricker was pointing a long finger at Auberge, the only other man at the table dressed in technician’s grey instead of drab olive. His fork was poised over a food tray, waiting to spear a gelatinous grey blob rumored to taste like turkey.
Ricker looked down at his tray, then carefully set the fork beside his plate. “I just can’t believe it,” he said again, a catch in his voice. “That sort of accusation, among comrades-in-arms…”
Auberge’s face was turning a slow crimson. He was shorter than Ricker and heavyset, with soft brown eyes in a mild face. Ricker kept pointing at Auberge, glancing around to see what sort of attention he was drawing. “All I said,” Auberge protested, “was that you’re wrong about the shield factor on the IPF-5600.” Years of coping with Ricker’s histrionics had given him a look of infinite gentility coupled with a certain weariness.
“Exactly!” Ricker snapped. “Implying that I’m incompetent.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Auberge said, looking back down at his food. He stabbed idly at the grey blob with his fork. It rippled at the touch.
“Am I wrong?” Ricker prodded the man next to him, a brutish Marine with “YENN” stitched onto his coveralls. “Is he implying incompetence, or am I wrong?”
Yenn slowly looked up at Ricker. The look on his face made it obvious that he had been stationed on the Catamaran for a long, long time. “I listen to you every night,” Yenn said, his voice thick with a slow guttural accent. “On ship two months. No women. No vids. Just you, talking and talking and talking.” A row of perfect teeth became visible as Yenn’s lip curled. “Shut up. Now.” The marine paused for a moment to savor his options, “Or I twist your head off shoulders and shoot it out torpedo tube.”
The table fell silent. Auberge snickered. “Double for you,” Yenn said. Auberge put his head down.
Ricker looked up at the marine, then back down at his plate. He giggled, a long wriggling noise that ended in a nasal snort. “Tough guy,” Ricker said, just loud enough for all to hear. “Moron.” He tittered again.
Yenn eyebrows knitted into a solid line. His fork twisted between his fingers.
Ricker looked up again, shoving his face close to Yenn’s, a sneer on his lips. “You’d like to fight me, wouldn’t you?” Ricker said. “You could beat the crap out of me with both arms tied. No question. But guess what?” Ricker slowly uncurled a long finger and jabbed Yenn in the chest. “You can’t. You can’t touch me. Look at this uniform.” Ricker touched his grey coveralls. “See that? Grey? Or are you color-blind as well as stupid? Auberge and I are the only technicians on this ship.”
Ricker poked Yenn in the chest again. “The only people smart enough to fix anything that goes wrong. If you hurt me, there’ll be nobody on this ship who can maintain the shields. You’ll be dead in two hours.” Ricker slumped in his chair, grinning. “So do your worst. Tough guy.”
The curled fork clattered to the table as Yenn balled his hand into a fist and drew his arm back. “You fix shield with broken nose,” Yenn said.
Ricker’s eyes grew wide in terror. “You – you can’t – ” he stammered. Yenn’s grin was ugly. “YENN!” A voice thundered across the mess hall, buoyed by two hundred scattered speakers. “DON’T YOU DARE!” Yenn grimaced and lowered his arm. From his table, Captain Ioma Kenner stood, glared at Yenn, and exuded waves of authority. “THAT’S MORE LIKE IT,” Kenner boomed. The command mic implanted near his vocal cords picked up every nuance of his voice, pumping it through the hall’s speakers. “REPORT TO THE BRIG.”
Yenn stood and sullenly marched out of the mess hall. Kenner glared down at Ricker. “YOU’RE MORE TROUBLE THAN YOU’RE WORTH, RICKER,” he boomed. Ricker smiled insolently. “More trouble than your life, Cap’n?” Kenner stared at him. “WE’RE GOING TO DOCK SOME DAY, LAB RAT,” he thundered. “YOU BAIT MY MEN AGAIN AND I WILL HAVE YOU THROWN IN A DEEP DARK HOLE,” The Captain paused to look around the room. “COUNT ON IT.” Ricker lowered his head and slowly raised a forkful of grey goo to his mouth. “NOT ANOTHER PEEP,” Kenner said. He sat back down.
“Jerk,” Ricker muttered through the silence.
“THAT DOES IT!” Kenner yelled. He stood up again and glared at Ricker. “AS OF NOW, YOU ARE ON REDUCED RATIONS. AFTER THIS MEAL IS OVER, I’M GOING TO –” A burst of static, and Kenner was overridden in the speakers by the dulcet female tones of the ship’s emergency systems voice. Somebody on a planet somewhere had thought that a throaty, husky woman’s voice would be ‘pacifying’ in times of crisis. Unfortunately, on an all-male ship all it did was make everyone more horny and irritable than ever. “SHIELD FLUX IN SECTION SEVEN-L,” it said, ridiculously sexy. “IMMEDIATE ATTENTION REQUIRED FOR SHIELD FLUX IN SECTION SEVEN-L.”
Auberge and Ricker jumped to their feet, Auberge’s chair flying backwards as Ricker buckled his tool belt. Ricker smiled at the Captain. “Sorry, Cap’n,” he said, “but duty beckons.”
“IMMEDIATE ATTENTION REQUIRED FOR SHIELD FLUX IN SECTION SEVEN-L,” the voice repeated.
“Yeah, yeah” Ricker yelled back as he and Auberge ran out of the room. He paused in the door and half-turned, speaking loudly and slowly for the benefit of the room. “Here I go to maintain the shields.”
Kenner clicked his tongue three times to switch his mic off and sat back down, shaking his head. His First Mate watched the technicians exit. “Why don’t you just toss them in the brig, Captain?”
“Because Ricker’s right,” Kenner said. “He’s the only person on this ship who can repair our shield system. He’s an insubordinate weasel, but he’s the only thing keeping us alive.” Kenner stabbed a vegetable savagely and stuffed it in his mouth.
“So get rid of Ricker,” the Mate said. “Let Auberge fix the shields.”
Kenner grimaced. “Auberge is a gravity and systems maintenance man,” he said. “Ricker is the shield specialist. Auberge assists him on shield repair, but doesn’t know how to actually fix the damn things. We’re stuck with Ricker.”
“You can’t implant a command chip?” Kenner glowered at the Mate, who lowered his head.
“Kenner – what an ass,” Ricker snorted as he and Auberge jogged down the halls to Shield Section Seven. “He’d shove a command chip in me and turn me into one of his zombies if he got half a chance.”
Auberge puffed slightly as he tried to keep up. “He…can’t,” he huffed. Life aboard the Catamaran involved a lot of running, and Auberge had never managed to fully adjust. The ship was a leviathan, containing quarters for thousands of crew members, extensive laboratory facilities, fuel stores for eighteen-month forays into deep space, and massive engines.
The Catamaran was an exploration vessel, which meant it would warp out to the cusp of navigated space, cruise into the Big Black on manual, and warp back after six or seven months. The last few missions had involved belts of shrapnel-like rock, putting an unnatural strain on the ship’s shield stations. Normally, the shield generators would have repelled the shards with no trouble, but the generators kept breaking down, requiring tuning several times a day. There were elevators on board, but these were eschewed. If one broke and trapped the two technicians inside, it would spell doom. Every repair trip involved a jog of at least a kilometer along long white corridors and up and down grey steel stairwells. Ricker thrived on the almost-hourly run. Auberge still found himself gasping for breath after every trip.
“He…can’t…put the command chip…in us,” Auberge said, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. “He can’t risk the loss of autonomy. We’re not grunts, Ricker. He needs our intuition every second of every day.”
“He called us lab rats,” Ricker said. “Imagine.”
“He called you a lab rat,” Auberge said, wheezing.
“As soon as we fix this shield problem, we’re taking a detour,” Ricker said. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
* * *
Auberge had never been to the medical testing facilities before. They were terrifyingly sterile rooms secreted in the belly of the ship, expanses of bleached-white walls with gleaming steel tables and caged squealing animals. The med crew ate in their own mess hall, and never mingled. The marines thought the med staff were ‘creepy,’ and the med crew considered the marines brutes.
Ricker strolled in like he owned the place, Auberge fidgeting behind him.
Ricker walked directly up to a short man wearing goggles and a breathing mask, fumbling at a scale with thick gloves on. “Heya, Toomling,” Ricker said.
The little man looked up. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, a nasal voice muffled by the mask. “You’re not sterilized.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ricker said, picking a test tube up off the table, peering at the contents and shaking it. “I’m here for the favour.” Toomling looked around to see who was paying attention. Nobody seemed to be watching them.
“Okay,” he said in a furtive whisper. “But I need it back by tomorrow noon.”
“Sure,” Ricker said. “No sweat.”
“I mean it. These are experimental animals, Ricker.” Toomling glanced around again and leaned in closer. “Highly experimental. Worth millions of creds in research.”
“You should have thought of that before you called on two pair,” Ricker said. “Pay me the two thousand you owe me or haul the little monster out.”
Toomling pulled a cage out from under the table. Inside it, a black rat huddled, baring its teeth. “This is Gibson,” Toomling said.
“Now that’s a lab rat,” Ricker said to Auberge.
“Ricker, what’s going on?” Auberge was staring at the cages on the wall holding animals in various stages of a number of experiments. “What’s with the rat?”
“It’s not just a rat,” Toomling said. The rat was apparently unaware of its non-rat status; it was now hurling itself at the bars of the cage, which shuddered under the impact. Its fur was darker than any hair Auberge had ever seen, and its eyes glowed obsidian. It was like somebody had taken a white rat and inverted it. “It’s the last remaining rat of the K-935 series,” Toomling said, pride creeping into his voice. “Bred for intelligence, genetically engineered with human brain cells, and injected regularly with a mental stimulant. As a matter of fact…” Toomling opened a small drawer and pulled out a syringe filled with a thick green fluid. He opened the cage door, and the rat recoiled and hissed savagely.
“That thing’s supposed to be smart?” Ricker said.
“Have you ever heard of ‘hypertext?’,” Toomling asked. “It was an old literary conceit. Had to do with computer-based books with nearly infinite linkage. Any word led its definition, or other text, or a picture, which in turn led to another word, or script –”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ricker said. “What’s your point? It’s got a huge brain?”
Toomling flipped Gibson over and examined his belly. “We didn’t make its brain bigger,” he said abstractly. “We improved the linkages. We – ” He looked at the technicians and sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “Suffice it to say that we altered its brain to allow it to access information faster and more efficiently than most any animal in the world.”
“So it’s smart, is what you’re saying,” Ricker persisted.
“Smarter than the average rat,” Toomling said, flipping open the cage and grabbing the rat with a gloved hand. “Almost as smart as a a six-year-old child, but in an entirely different way. We think.” He jabbed the syringe into its hindquarters with his other hand. The rat squealed in rage and terror. “Gibson hasn’t been cooperative with our testing methods.” Auberge stared at the furious rat, which Toomling released as he closed the cage door, then looked at the cages lining the walls.
“What about these other animals?” he asked.
Toomling blinked. “Experiments,” he said. Auberge took a step towards the cages, and Toomling put a restraining hand on his shoulder. He pointed at a thick yellow line painted on the floor six feet in front of the cages. “Safety line,” Toomling said. “Some of those animals are extremely virulent. Very…” His voice trailed off. A tic jumped next to his right eye. “You’d better not get close to them.”
“Oh,” Auberge said. “What happens if they get loose?” Toomling pointed up at a long gap in the panels above their heads. “In the event of a cage breach, an airtight plexiglass shield drops from the ceiling. It seals off the cage section of the room.”
“If something gets past the shield?” Auberge asked.
“There are, ah, generators in the ceiling,” Toomling said. “They can fill the room with electricity, kill everything in it. The energy gets absorbed by dampers in the insulation. Should one of the more contagious animals somehow get free. A last resort, of course.”
Auberge looked at Toomling. “Isn’t that, you know, scary?” The right side of Toomling’s face jerked. “You, ah, try not to think about it,” Toomling said. “The constant threat of electrocution.” His eye convulsed again. “It’s a safety measure,” he repeated. He turned back to his weighing, fumbling with the scales and muttering to himself.
Ricker picked the cage up. “Yeah, well, thanks for the smart rat,” he said. “We’ll bring it back in one piece.”
“Be careful,” Toomling called after them. “That’s a very expensive animal.” Ricker said nothing during the long walk back to the work room. Auberge strained to control himself.
“Okay,” he said, as soon as the door was closed, “why the hell did you borrow a rat from med lab?”
Ricker raised one long finger in the air. “Consider,” he said pointedly, “that only one man on this ship has the power to make our lives difficult when we return to base.” He walked over to his work table, put the cage on it, and started rummaging around in a large crate. Ricker’s side of the shop was a mess of wires, panels, circuits, and every other nut, bolt and chip imaginable – it was always a mad scramble to shove everything into the appropriate boxes before the ship went into zero-G. He began extracting small parts from the crate, laying them aside deftly. Auberge looked at his immaculate side of the lab and pulled a broken Nutrimat console out of a ‘to do’ box. He selected a screwdriver from a meticulously arranged selection of tools on the wall and began to fiddle with it.
“The captain,” Auberge said.
“Right,” Ricker nodded. “He’s the only person on board with the authority to detain us or punish us or – well, do anything, really. And he hates us.”
“He hates you,” Auberge said.
“Us,” Ricker continued. “As soon as we get back, Kenner’s gonna throw both of us in a brig for the rest of our natural lives. Unless,” he jabbed the air again, “we can get something on him. Some leverage. That’s where the rat comes in,” Ricker said. He lifted an apparatus out of the crate under the table; a small metal exo-skeleton.
Auberge glanced over his shoulder. “What the hell is that?”
Ricker slid work gloves over his hands and reached into the cage. The rat hissed at him, and Ricker grabbed him roughly and pulled him out of the cage. The exoskeleton was rigged on the inside with suckers, some with tiny needles sticking out of their centres. Ricker started strapping the rat into the exoskeleton, ignoring its squeals of protest. The suit fit perfectly over its tiny limbs, probes being inserted into its body at every joint. “It’s an exoskeleton,” he said.
“No kidding.” Auberge found himself walking over despite himself. “When did you make it?”
“While you were deadening your mind with those stupid historical novels during Rec Period,” Ricker said, adjusting a screw. Gibson squealed in protest. “I was doing something productive while you and the zombies lounged.”
“It’s good work,” Auberge said, a little grudgingly. “Looks like you’ve got him rigged with a camera.”
“That and more.” Ricker kept wiring the rat into the suit. “There’s a camera and microphone, some strength-enhancing servos, and a breathing apparatus.” He picked the rat up and put him on the floor. The rat took a few tentative steps inside the exoskeleton, looking around in confusion. It bounced a little with every step. Ricker reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote-control. “I was working on something that would let us send an animal out of the ship, but now I have other ideas – or, should I say, applications.” The rat was now bounding around the room, leaping about a foot into the air with every step. Ricker pushed a button on the remote and the rat crashed to the floor, twitching. “The remote is wired to the cranial probes on the exoskeleton,” Ricker said. “I can steer Gibson through applied pain impulses. The camera broadcasts to a recorder I’ve got set up.” He flicked the power button on a monitor hanging from the ceiling. A black-and-white image appeared on the screen – the room from a rat’s perspective, Ricker and Auberge looming giants.
“What does all of this have to do with Captain Kenner?” Auberge asked. Ricker smiled.
“Rats can move through the vents,” he said, “and spy on anybody in this vessel.”
“Oh, no.” Auberge said.
Ricker shrugged. “I figure anybody that straightlaced must have some rather…exotic habits.” He fiddled with a small button on the remote, and the rat’s hind leg kicked. “I have it on dubious authority that Kenner has a predilection towards younger, blonder crew members. If we can get Captain Kenner doing something unsavory on video, our futures beyond the Catamaran will be assured.” He grinned and punched another button on the remote. The rat scrambled to its feet, squeaking angrily. “Even if we don’t,” he said, “Gibson might record Kenner changing the command codes for his throat mic. If we can get those, I’m sure I could dummy up some sort of substitute. I could run every marine on this ship through their command chip,” he said. “My orders overriding Kenner’s. It would be beautiful.”
Auberge turned back to the Nutrimat panel. “I didn’t hear any of this,” he said. “I certainly didn’t hear anything that sounded like a plan to mutiny.”
Ricker picked the rat up and put it in an air vent. “Off to the Captain’s quarters,” he said softly. The rat clinked off into the depths of the vents. Ricker sat down and put his feet up on his desk. “Another few hours, and our problems will be solved,” he said, grinning broadly. The speaker mounted by the door’s keypad hummed for a second. The sound made the hair on the back of Auberge’s neck stand straight up. “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD TROUBLE! REPORT TO SHIELD STATION FIVE-C IMMEDIATELY!”
Both men jumped up as the woman’s voice sparked through the workroom.
“I hate my life,” Auberge muttered.
“Let’s go,” Ricker said, tossing his jacket on.
Auberge looked up at the vent. “Shouldn’t you stop the rat?”
Ricker looked blankly at him. “I can find him with the remote later,” he said. “How much trouble can it get into?”
* * *
Five-C was one of the most remote of the shield stations, and it was over an hour before Ricker and Auberge returned; Ricker with a slight flush in his cheeks and Auberge bent over and gasping for breath. Ricker picked up his remote and looked at the monitor. He winced, then tapped the buttons a few times. “Crap,” he moaned.
Auberge looked over his shoulder. The picture was frozen on a vent grill, slightly lopsided. “Isn’t that just typical?” Ricker said, “you inject a rat with intelligence-enhancing drugs, build it an exoskeleton, and it dies in the damn vents.”
Auberge looked at the picture. “You gonna try to get the exoskeleton back?”
“How? There are miles of ducts in this place.”
“I guess you’re right.” Auberge picked up his Nutrimat component, turned it over thoughtfully, then dropped it in the garbage. “Tough break.”
“Don’t worry.” Ricker slumped into a chair. “I’ll think of something.”
Days assumed a sameness on the Catamaran, wake-work-eat-sleep becoming a lulling rhythm but for sporadic, frantic calls to tend to the shields. Consequently, Auberge couldn’t remember how much time had passed before he noticed that something was seriously wrong. Two days, at least; maybe three or even four.
The first sign was Kenner’s conspicuous absence at breakfast. The Captain was a notorious breakfast booster, bawling out marines who were late for “THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY.” It was obvious from dark glares and murmured comments that most of the marines wanted a piece of flesh for every hour Yenn was in the brig. When Kenner missed dinner as well, suspicion started muttering in Auberge’s brain. “This is weird,” he hissed to Ricker. “Kenner never misses a meal, let alone two in a row.”
Ricker just shrugged, apparently enjoying the hostility that filled the room. “The guy’s got the flu. He’s so uptight, he probably blew his colon.” Ricker stuffed the wriggling pink cube on his meal tray in his mouth and attempted to chew. “He’ll be back in our faces before you know it,” he predicted, goo oozing from the corner of his mouth.
The second major oddity made itself known as Auberge and Ricker returned to their workroom after dinner. Ricker, springing out of the stairwell, collided with a marine lugging a twenty-kilo pressurized protein spray keg. The marine looked down at Ricker with contempt as Ricker sprawled backwards onto the floor. Auberge helped his fellow technician up and stared at the line of marines stretching back down the hall, oting protein kegs and other concentrated food stores. “Put that down!” Ricker said to the marine he had collided with. The marine slowly put the keg down on Ricker’s foot. Ricker howled and kicked back, hauling his foot out from under the steel canister.
“What the hell is going on?” Ricker demanded, hopping in place. “Captain’s orders,” the marine grunted, re-shouldering the keg. His eyes had the haunted, glazed look of a soldier taking orders from the command chip, instructions planted direct and deep within his brain by the Captain. He hustled down the hall, followed by the next few dozen soldiers bearing food.
“Weird,” Auberge said, watching the marines ferry the food past the lab door. “Wonder why Kenner wants food moved to a different part of the ship?”
“Who cares?” Ricker asked waspishly, pulling his boot off to examine his throbbing foot. “Idiots.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Auberge concluded, turning to his project box and pulling out a circuit board. “It’s just funny, is all.”
At the next mess, Kenner was still gone, as was a good portion of the crew. “Where the heck is everybody?” Ricker said, looking around the room.
“Count your blessings,” Auberge said.
“Something’s up,” Ricker said, frowning. He got up and walked to the Captain’s table, where the First Mate sat surveying the near-empty hall. “Where is everybody?” Ricker demanded.
“Special work detail,” the First Mate said. “Captain’s orders.”
“How can Kenner give orders?” Ricker asked. “He’s been conspicuously absent lately.”
The First Mate raised an eyebrow. “The Captain has been sick in his quarters and has been delivering orders via compsynth,” he said. “Thank you for your concern, Technician Ricker.”
“Don’t you think what he’s doing is a little weird?” Ricker asked.
“Questioning orders is no way to get ahead in this man’s army,” the First Mate said, looking levelly at Ricker. “The Catamaran is an experimental vessel. Even I am not privy to every test that is being run aboard this vessel.”
“That’s because you’re a sycophant,” Ricker said. “Anybody sane would be looking for some reason for all this.”
“The Captain feels that your intuition is needed for your job,” the First Mate said. “Personally, I’d be more than happy to jam a command chip down your throat just to see you snap to.”
“I demand information,” Ricker insisted, “I am an important person on this ship, and -- ”
“RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD COLLAPSE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD STATION SEVEN-N IMMEDIATELY!”
“I believe,” the First Mate said, looking down at his dinner tray, “that your services are required elsewhere. Technician Ricker.”
Ricker turned on the First Mate. “Idiot,” he muttered. Auberge met him at the door, and they scrambled down the hall. Ricker reached the stairs first, and opened the door. Auberge burst through and ran smack into a steel barrier being erected across the stairs by a group of Marines. “What the hell are you doing?” Ricker demanded. “These are stairs, you idiot!”
“Captain’s orders,” the marine said, looking blankly at Ricker. Ricker snarled. He and Auberge, clutching his swelling nose, ran back the way they came, taking a different set of stairs. Halfway down the hallway to Shield Station Seven-N, they ran across another hastily welded steel barrier.
“RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD COLLAPSE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD STATION SEVEN-N IMMEDIATELY!” Ricker kicked the barrier, then yelped. “What is Kenner thinking?” he howled.
Auberge was already back at the stairs. “Down, then across,” he called to Ricker. “Let’s go!” By the time they got back to the lab, both Ricker and Auberge were slumping with exhaustion. As they had been repairing the shields, the marines on ‘special detail’ had been erecting barriers at seemingly random places throughout the Catamaran. The corridors, normally linear and simple to negotiate, had been turned into an obstacle course by the crew. Ricker and Auberge had run across a few work crews, sweating under the heat of the welding torches and the weight of the steel plates, but all they had been able to say was “Captain’s orders.”
“That does it,” Ricker said, punching the intercom button with his thumb. “I’m going to find out what the hell is going on.” He dialed the four-digit code for the Captain’s Quarters, only to be greeted by a ‘ding’ and a female voice, the same voice that apprised them of shield trouble, only milder. “Captain Ioma Kenner is currently unavailable. Please ring again. Thank you.”
“KENNER!” Ricker punched the extension again. “He’s there. I know it.”
“Captain Ioma Kenner is currently unavailable. Please ring again. Thank you.”
“Dammit!” Ricker threw his hands down in frustration. “What the hell is going on?”
Auberge shrugged. “Our is not to reason why,” he said.
Ricker looked at his watch. “Well,” he said, “I really should go down to the lab and tell Toomling his rat died. Come on.” It took over an hour for the two to get to the lab in the Catamaran’s belly, negotiating their way around barrier after barrier. The marines were still at work all over the ship, welding corridors shut. When they finally got to med lab, the doors were locked. As Ricker pounded on the door, Auberge’s attention was drawn to a flashing red light on the keypad.
“That’s odd,” he said. The display was flashing “BIOHAZARD CONTAMINANT PROCEDURE ACTIVE.”
As he watched, the flashing red light was replaced by a steady green. “BIOHAZARD CONTAINMENT PROCEDURE COMPLETED,” the display read. From inside the room, there was the brief violent hum. The door hissed open. Inside the lab, white-coated figures were slumped across tables and on the floor. Behind them, the plexiglass shield held the animals still in cages, gibbering and shrieking.
“Oh, my God,” Ricker whispered.
“The electricity,” Auberge said. He stepped into the room and sniffed the air tentatively. There was the smell of charring, and ozone.
“The biohazard system got activated. On the wrong side of the room.” Ricker looked at the animals, shrieking and gibbering in their cages. “But the animals are in their cages,” he said. “There was no breach. Why did the shield go down? Why did the power get activated?” He walked over to one of the bodies and rolled it over. It was Toomling, his face twisted in frozen agony. Ricker looked at him, then reached down and started patting the pockets of his lab coat. Auberge walked to the door.
“We have to tell Kenner,” he said. He punched the captain’s code. “Captain Ioma Kenner is currently unavailable. Please ring again. Thank you.”
“Forget it,” Ricker snapped, walking around the med lab and prodding various bodies. He returned to Toomling’s and knelt over it. “He owed me two thousand bucks,” Ricker said, rummaging through Toomling’s pants pockets. “Deadbeat.”
“And you owed him the universe’s smartest rat,” Auberge said. His hand drifted to cover his mouth. “Oh, no.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Ricker said, pulling Toomling’s watch off his wrist. Auberge sat down hard, revelation hitting him.
“It makes perfect sense, Ricker. Turning the ship into a giant maze. Hoarding food all over the place. That’s not something a human would do. This was no accident.”
Ricker looked at Auberge. “This wasn’t an accident? Then what was it?”
Auberge gulped. “Revenge.” Ricker’s jaw dropped. “No,” he said. “No way. Not possible.”
“The med staff are all dead…the animals safe…”
“The rat.” Ricker’s voice was hoarse. “The rat.”
“It’s not dead, it just took the camera off,” Auberge said. “And it took over the ship. Somehow.” Ricker buried his face in his hands. “The captain can run the entire ship from his quarters,” he said. “All you need is the appropriate command codes.”
“How would a rat get the command codes?” Auberge asked. “By doing what I told it to do,” Ricker moaned. “Spying on the captain.”
“That’s one smart rat,” Auberge said.
Ricker nudged Toomling with his toe. The body shuddered. “Yeah,” Ricker said. “Toomling would have been thrilled.”
“Do you hear something?” Auberge said, cocking his head. “Like a dynamo. Charging up.” Ricker and Auberge looked at each other, then ran for the lab door. They dove through it as it hissed shut, locking behind them. “BIOHAZARD CONTAMINANT PROCEDURE ACTIVE” flashed on the keypad as the red light began to blink again.
“The rat wants to kill us,” Auberge said. There was a tingle in the floor as residual electricity got absorbed by the wall insulation. “It killed Toomling and the rest of the medical crew, and now it wants to kill us. You.” He turned to Ricker, eyes flashing. “You and your stupid damn plans. If you hadn’t started scheming, Toomling would still be alive.”
“Okay, this could just be a coincidence,” Ricker said. “Let’s not overreact.”
“Not overreact?” Auberge quivered with rage.
“This is crazy,” Ricker said. He smacked his forehead. “I should have installed a self-destruct on that exoskeleton.”
“Well, next time you plan to give a hyper-intelligent psychotic rat a super suit and send it to spy on the captain, you’ll know better,” Auberge said.
Ricker started to walk towards the stairs. “We’ve got to get to the captain’s quarters and kill that thing,” he said, pulling a screwdriver from his belt. “Pronto.” “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD COLLAPSE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD STATION TWO-H IMMEDIATELY!” “Not now,” Auberge moaned, starting to jog. “Any time but now.” He stopped to look back at Ricker, who was standing motionless, staring up at the speaker. “Come on!” he called back. “Ricker!”
Ricker shook his head as if to clear it and joined Auberge on the stairs. “We can go kill the rat after this,” he said. After fixing the shields and wandering the ship for close to an hour, they found every route to Kenner’s chambers sealed off by the welded barriers. “The rat can use the vents,” Ricker said angrily, facing the last of the makeshift walls. “It doesn’t want anybody getting to it.”
“I might have a torch at the workshop,” Auberge said. “We can get through the barriers with some work.” But the work room was stripped; the shelves empty and desk devoid of materials. Eight marines were in the room, packing the technicians’ equipment into boxes. Ricker stood in the door, his mouth working silently.
“What’s going on?” Auberge asked, snatching a screwdriver kit away from one of the marines. “Why are you doing this?”
“Captain’s orders,” the marine said, his eyes glazed. “You don’t understand,” Auberge said. “The Captain – hoog!” Ricker elbowed him in the stomach.
“Put that equipment back right now or you’re in big trouble,” he said, stabbing the lead marine in the chest with a bony finger. The marine looked down at him with measured contempt. “Captain’s orders.” The marines filed out of the room. Ricker and Auberge stood in the empty room, looking around at the spaces in the dust where the tables had been. “Well, that was smart of it,” Auberge said once his breath had returned. “You son of a bitch.”
“I couldn’t let you tell them,” Ricker said. “They would have thought you were crazy.” Ricker jabbed the Captain’s Quarters code into the intercom again. “Captain Ioma Kenner is currently unavailable. Please ring again. Thank you.”
“This is bad,” Ricker said. “I guess it won’t kill us because we keep the shields on-line,” Auberge said. Ricker cleared his throat. “Yeah.” He coughed. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…” The speaker by the door hummed for a moment, then crackled. “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” Auberge walked to the door, stopping as Ricker grabbed him by the arm. He stood half in the hall, looking back at his companion. “Don’t go,” Ricker said. “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” Auberge tried to shrug him off, but Ricker held firm. “We have to go,” Auberge said petulantly. “If we don’t, the shields will collapse. We’ll all die.”
“It’s a trap,” Ricker said, eyes wild. He ran his free hand through his thinning hair. “The rat’s leading us into a trap.”
“Ricker…you’re being paranoid…”
“RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMANENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” Auberge hauled at his arm, pulling it free of Ricker’s grip. “Ricker, we have to go,” he said. “If we don’t fix the shield, the ship will be destroyed.”
Ricker swallowed. “No it won’t.”
“What?”
Ricker stepped back into the workroom. Auberge followed. “What did you say?” The door hissed shut. Ricker stepped over to the speaker above the keypad and covered it with his hand. He looked around the room, and stared up into the vent before speaking. “It won’t. The shields won’t fail.”
Auberge shook his head. “Ricker, you’re not making any sense.” Ricker’s voice was shaking, his words tumbling rapid-fire out of his mouth.
“I-rigged-the-ship’s-computers-to-report-shield-trouble-at-random-interval
s-less-than-three-hours-apart-to-ensure-that-I-was-considered-essential-
personnel-to-get-a-pay-raise-and-keep-the-crew-off-my-back.” He glanced around the room again. “There.”
Auberge blinked. Ricker wiped spittle from the corners of his mouth with his free hand, keeping the other one on the keypad speaker. Auberge blinked again. Ricker cleared his throat. “What did you just say?” Auberge asked.
Ricker looked down at the floor. “The shields are fine,” he mumbled. “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMANENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” the speaker said, muffled by Ricker’s hand.
Auberge looked for somewhere to sit, but the marines had taken the chairs. “You…” he stammered, clenching and unclenching his fists. His throat had suddenly seized up. “All that goddamn running…”
“Look,” Ricker said, smiling desperately, “you got the pay raise too! And the private quarters, and the priority placing in the meal line…”
“Getting up in the middle of the night every night for months on end,” Auberge said, something primal shining in his eyes. He reached for Ricker’s throat. Ricker swatted his hands away.
“That doesn’t matter now!” Ricker snapped. “The rat’s figured it out and he’s trying to murder us! It has everyone with a command chip under his control – and that’s most of the marines on this ship. The only people that aren’t following its orders are either asleep or off-duty!” Ricker’s voice cracked. “It’s going to kill us!”
“Ricker, professionalism obliges me to inform you that I am going to kill you first,” Auberge said, fishing through his pockets for a sharp object.
“RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMANENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” hissed under Ricker’s hand. “Auberge, listen to me,” Ricker said. “We can settle this later. Right now…” “SHIELD FAILURE AVERTED. SHIELDS NORMAL.” burbled from the speaker. Auberge stopped looking for a maiming tool. Ricker drew his hands back. “SHIELD FAILURE AVERTED. SHIELDS NORMAL.” the speaker repeated.
“That’s never happened before,” Auberge said.
“This is what I’m telling you,” Ricker said. “The rat knows. It –” “SECURITY: PLEASE CONVERGE ON ROOM TWELVE-J. THANK YOU.”
“Ricker, this is room Twelve-J.” Ricker punched the open command into the keypad. The door didn’t move. He punched the code again. Nothing. “The door has been turned off,” he said. “SECURITY: PLEASE CONVERGE ON ROOM TWELVE-J. THANK YOU.” Ricker pulled his screwdriver back out and began to unscrew the keypad. Within seconds, he had the housing off and was looking at the wires that connected the buttons to the hydraulic system.
“Let me,” Auberge said. He stepped in, found two wires, and pulled them free of their terminals. “The rat can turn panels on or off, but I don’t think he can run every electrical system in the ship.” Stripping the wires in his teeth and touching them together, he sighed in relief as the door hissed open.
“Okay,” Ricker said, bounding into the hall. “We have to get to the Captain’s quarters. If we can get there before –” He looked down the hall. There was a complement of security troopers trudging down the hall.
“Oh, crap.” Auberge stepped out into the hall and began to walk calmly away. “FREEZE!” barked a voice behind them. Auberge and Ricker froze. The Security captain paused for a moment, listening to something. The technicians could see the gloss in the Security officer’s eye.
“Confirmation acknowledged,” the officer said. Then, raising his pistol, “Captain’s orders.”
“RRRRUNNN!” screamed Ricker, diving headlong into the stairwell. Laser fire volleyed past the technicians as they ran down the stairs and into the next corridor. A steel wall greeted them to the left, so they veered right, scrambling down the hallway. The next few minutes were spent negotiating the semi-sealed hallways.
“It’s funny,” Auberge huffed, the clank of the officers’ boots fading behind them. “All that running back and forth to the shield stations – we know our way around this maze.”
“Yeah, well, this is only buying time,” Ricker snapped back. “Right now we’re the best rats on the ship, but soon every marine on the Catamaran will be hunting us down.” He sank to the floor. “We’re going to die.” He wiped one eye with his sleeve and snuffled. “We might as well just let them kill us,” he said.
“Oh, shut up,” Auberge said. “The brig is back here. Nobody’ll look for us in a brig cell. And it’ll only be a matter of time before somebody realizes that the Captain’s gone nuts and investigates.”
Ricker got up, frowning. “It’ll never work,” he said. “We’re doomed.” “I’m going to get myself out of this.” Auberge started to walk away.
“You can stay here and get shot if you want.” Ricker managed the tricky business of slouching and running simultaneously. “If we get killed, it’s your fault,” he said. “The brig is your idea.”
“God,” Auberge said, “you are such a weasel.” The brig door appeared in front of them, and Ricker punched it open. The echo of distant footsteps wound its way down the hall.
“Let’s get into a cell.” He moved to the nearest cell, punched the “open” button on the wall, and stepped in. The cell was pitch black. Auberge moved in after him, and the door hissed shut behind them. A titanium bolt clanked home.
“We’re locked in,” Auberge said. “Let me find the goddamn lights,” Ricker said. “There.” Fluorescence buzzed to life, and the room was awash in a lifeless glow. They were in a small brig cell, bare but for a voiding tube and a bunk. An occupied bunk. Yenn sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Bozhe -- ?” he began. Then saw the technicians. He smiled viciously, cracking his knuckles.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Ricker said. “Why don’t I just stab myself?”
“You would spoil fun,” Yenn said, getting up and flexing his hands.
“Wait a minute,” Auberge said. “You’re in the brig. That means you’re off-duty.”
“Captain can’t save you now,” Yenn said. “Command chip off-line.”
“Yenn,” Auberge said, “we need your help.”
Yenn grabbed Auberge by the shirtfront, pulling him close. “You crazy.”
“You don’t know crazy,” Auberge said. “Yet. Listen to this.” Ricker stood and fidgeted as Auberge talked. Yenn let him go. Auberge talked. Yenn sat down. Auberge talked. Yenn sat there, taking it in, nodding slowly.
“Fakers.” Yenn said after he was done. “You both fakers.” “One unwitting faker,” Auberge pointed out, “and one bona fide faker.” Yenn scratched his head. “And ship is run by rat. Smart rat sealed in Captain’s quarters.”
“Yes,” Auberge said.
“Huh,” Yenn said. Nobody spoke. “Is stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Yenn said finally.
“It’s true,” Auberge said.
Yenn looked at the cell door. “You can get me out of here?” he said.
“Probably,” Auberge said. “I helped fix a brig door once. The electrical conduits run over by the door.” He tapped a spot on the wall. “About here.”
“Let me out,” Yenn said, “and I solve your problem.”
“Give me your screwdriver,” Auberge said to Ricker, who was sitting on the floor rolling his eyes.
“No way.” “Ricker…” Ricker folded his arms. “If you let him out, he’s going to get Security and watch them shoot us.”
“He’s the only chance we have,” Auberge said. “Yenn isn’t subject to the command chip because he’s off the clock while he’s in the brig. The rat has no idea who he is, and he can just walk around with the rest of the marines.”
“If you don’t give him screwdriver,” Yenn said, “I pull teeth out one by one.” Scowling, Ricker handed over the screwdriver.
An hour later, the brig door hissed open. Yenn stepped out into the hall, stretched, and smiled. “Is good,” he said. “Stay here.” The door clanked shut behind him.
“We’re dead,” Ricker said.
“Well,” Auberge said, “you can’t say you don’t deserve it.” Ricker didn’t reply. An hour later, the cell door hissed open. Yenn was standing in the doorway, holding a black rat by the tail, hissing and squirming.
“This bad rat?” he asked. Ricker jumped to his feet. “How – how did you – ” Yenn smiled. “Went back down to Med Lab and got rat.” He cocked an eyebrow and grinned rakishly. “Lady rat. I put cage outside Captain’s quarters and wait. Ten minutes later, out comes smart rat. Game over.”
Auberge nodded slowly. “Right.”
Yenn shook his head. “You guys think you so smart with equipment and words.” He shook the rat. It squeaked angrily. “Smart rats. Huh. No understanding of important things in life.”
“I don’t believe it,” Ricker said. “Our problems are over.”
“HELL NO,” Captain Kenner’s voice boomed. “YOUR PROBLEMS HAVE ONLY JUST BEGUN, YOU SANDBAGGING PIECE OF PHLEGM.” Kenner stepped from out of the hallway and into the cell, a large bandage adorning his head.
“C-Captain K-Kenner,” Ricker stammered. “We thought you were…”
“EVER BEEN JUMPED BY AN ANGRY RAT IN AN EXOSKELETON?” Kenner thundered. “NO? WELL, MY PAIN AND EMBARRASSMENT IS ONLY ONE TENTH OF ONE THOUSANDTH OF THE PAIN YOU ARE GOING TO FEEL OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, YOU GOLD-BRICKING MAGGOT TESTICLE.”
Ricker smiled ingratiatingly. “But you need us, Captain. To fix the shields.”
“I AM NOT STUPID, RICKER,” the Captain said. “AT LEAST, NOT STUPID ENOUGH TO BE OUT-CAPTAINED BY A RAT.”
He pointed at Auberge. “COME WITH ME, AUBERGE. YOU’RE ON NUTRIMAT REPAIR DUTY.”
“I like Nutrimats,” Auberge said. Kenner looked at Ricker, small and balding in the cell.
“AND YOU, RICKER…YOU’RE GOING TO WAIT HERE. BEING A GOOD CAPTAIN, I AM NOT GOING TO DECIDE ON YOUR PUNISHMENT UNTIL I HAVE ACCEPTED SUGGESTIONS FROM THE CREW.” He smiled. It was the first time that Auberge had ever seen Captain Kenner smile. It was the most horrifying moment of a horrifying day.
“EVERY MEMBER OF THE CREW,” the Captain continued. “I THINK I MAY GO THROUGH THEM ALPHABETICALLY.” He hit the ‘close’ button and the brig door slid shut. Kenner motioned to a work crew standing by the brig entrance. “WELD THIS SHUT,” he said. Then paused. “HOLD ON A SECOND.” Kenner opened the door again.
“Captain, I beg of you – ” Ricker wheedled from within.
“I JUST WANT TO MAKE SURE YOU DON’T GET LONELY,” the Captain said. He took the rat from Yenn’s hand and tossed it into the cell, then hit the ‘close’ button again. “YOU TWO SHOULD GET ALONG,” he yelled. “YOU’RE THE TWO SMARTEST RATS ON THE SHIP.” He nodded curtly to the work crew, who started to weld the door shut.
“He’s not such a bad guy, Captain,” Auberge said as the Captain steered him towards the brig exit. “Just a little misguided.”
“I JUST HOPE HE DOESN’T HURT THE RAT,” Kenner said. “I MAY NEED IT TO FIX THE SHIELDS.”
Auberge glanced up at Yenn, who was absently rubbing at a nasty purple welt on his hand. “How’d you get that?” “Lady rat bit me,” Yenn said, shrugging. “It ran away.”
“Did you catch it?”
“No,” Yenn said. He was sweating a little, and flushed; Auberge assumed the excitement had gotten to him. “How much trouble can it get into?”
“You’re probably right,” Auberge said. Yenn scratched at the purple welt, which was spreading up his hand to his arm. “How much trouble can one animal cause?”
By Matthew Shepherd
Ricker’s voice whined through the air like a dentist’s drill. A tear welled in his bulging eye.
“I can’t believe you’d say that,” he said, looking around the table.
Some of the marines stopped eating to glare at Ricker, a gaunt man balding to a black widow’s peak, nose sharp above popping eyes.
Ricker was pointing a long finger at Auberge, the only other man at the table dressed in technician’s grey instead of drab olive. His fork was poised over a food tray, waiting to spear a gelatinous grey blob rumored to taste like turkey.
Ricker looked down at his tray, then carefully set the fork beside his plate. “I just can’t believe it,” he said again, a catch in his voice. “That sort of accusation, among comrades-in-arms…”
Auberge’s face was turning a slow crimson. He was shorter than Ricker and heavyset, with soft brown eyes in a mild face. Ricker kept pointing at Auberge, glancing around to see what sort of attention he was drawing. “All I said,” Auberge protested, “was that you’re wrong about the shield factor on the IPF-5600.” Years of coping with Ricker’s histrionics had given him a look of infinite gentility coupled with a certain weariness.
“Exactly!” Ricker snapped. “Implying that I’m incompetent.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Auberge said, looking back down at his food. He stabbed idly at the grey blob with his fork. It rippled at the touch.
“Am I wrong?” Ricker prodded the man next to him, a brutish Marine with “YENN” stitched onto his coveralls. “Is he implying incompetence, or am I wrong?”
Yenn slowly looked up at Ricker. The look on his face made it obvious that he had been stationed on the Catamaran for a long, long time. “I listen to you every night,” Yenn said, his voice thick with a slow guttural accent. “On ship two months. No women. No vids. Just you, talking and talking and talking.” A row of perfect teeth became visible as Yenn’s lip curled. “Shut up. Now.” The marine paused for a moment to savor his options, “Or I twist your head off shoulders and shoot it out torpedo tube.”
The table fell silent. Auberge snickered. “Double for you,” Yenn said. Auberge put his head down.
Ricker looked up at the marine, then back down at his plate. He giggled, a long wriggling noise that ended in a nasal snort. “Tough guy,” Ricker said, just loud enough for all to hear. “Moron.” He tittered again.
Yenn eyebrows knitted into a solid line. His fork twisted between his fingers.
Ricker looked up again, shoving his face close to Yenn’s, a sneer on his lips. “You’d like to fight me, wouldn’t you?” Ricker said. “You could beat the crap out of me with both arms tied. No question. But guess what?” Ricker slowly uncurled a long finger and jabbed Yenn in the chest. “You can’t. You can’t touch me. Look at this uniform.” Ricker touched his grey coveralls. “See that? Grey? Or are you color-blind as well as stupid? Auberge and I are the only technicians on this ship.”
Ricker poked Yenn in the chest again. “The only people smart enough to fix anything that goes wrong. If you hurt me, there’ll be nobody on this ship who can maintain the shields. You’ll be dead in two hours.” Ricker slumped in his chair, grinning. “So do your worst. Tough guy.”
The curled fork clattered to the table as Yenn balled his hand into a fist and drew his arm back. “You fix shield with broken nose,” Yenn said.
Ricker’s eyes grew wide in terror. “You – you can’t – ” he stammered. Yenn’s grin was ugly. “YENN!” A voice thundered across the mess hall, buoyed by two hundred scattered speakers. “DON’T YOU DARE!” Yenn grimaced and lowered his arm. From his table, Captain Ioma Kenner stood, glared at Yenn, and exuded waves of authority. “THAT’S MORE LIKE IT,” Kenner boomed. The command mic implanted near his vocal cords picked up every nuance of his voice, pumping it through the hall’s speakers. “REPORT TO THE BRIG.”
Yenn stood and sullenly marched out of the mess hall. Kenner glared down at Ricker. “YOU’RE MORE TROUBLE THAN YOU’RE WORTH, RICKER,” he boomed. Ricker smiled insolently. “More trouble than your life, Cap’n?” Kenner stared at him. “WE’RE GOING TO DOCK SOME DAY, LAB RAT,” he thundered. “YOU BAIT MY MEN AGAIN AND I WILL HAVE YOU THROWN IN A DEEP DARK HOLE,” The Captain paused to look around the room. “COUNT ON IT.” Ricker lowered his head and slowly raised a forkful of grey goo to his mouth. “NOT ANOTHER PEEP,” Kenner said. He sat back down.
“Jerk,” Ricker muttered through the silence.
“THAT DOES IT!” Kenner yelled. He stood up again and glared at Ricker. “AS OF NOW, YOU ARE ON REDUCED RATIONS. AFTER THIS MEAL IS OVER, I’M GOING TO –” A burst of static, and Kenner was overridden in the speakers by the dulcet female tones of the ship’s emergency systems voice. Somebody on a planet somewhere had thought that a throaty, husky woman’s voice would be ‘pacifying’ in times of crisis. Unfortunately, on an all-male ship all it did was make everyone more horny and irritable than ever. “SHIELD FLUX IN SECTION SEVEN-L,” it said, ridiculously sexy. “IMMEDIATE ATTENTION REQUIRED FOR SHIELD FLUX IN SECTION SEVEN-L.”
Auberge and Ricker jumped to their feet, Auberge’s chair flying backwards as Ricker buckled his tool belt. Ricker smiled at the Captain. “Sorry, Cap’n,” he said, “but duty beckons.”
“IMMEDIATE ATTENTION REQUIRED FOR SHIELD FLUX IN SECTION SEVEN-L,” the voice repeated.
“Yeah, yeah” Ricker yelled back as he and Auberge ran out of the room. He paused in the door and half-turned, speaking loudly and slowly for the benefit of the room. “Here I go to maintain the shields.”
Kenner clicked his tongue three times to switch his mic off and sat back down, shaking his head. His First Mate watched the technicians exit. “Why don’t you just toss them in the brig, Captain?”
“Because Ricker’s right,” Kenner said. “He’s the only person on this ship who can repair our shield system. He’s an insubordinate weasel, but he’s the only thing keeping us alive.” Kenner stabbed a vegetable savagely and stuffed it in his mouth.
“So get rid of Ricker,” the Mate said. “Let Auberge fix the shields.”
Kenner grimaced. “Auberge is a gravity and systems maintenance man,” he said. “Ricker is the shield specialist. Auberge assists him on shield repair, but doesn’t know how to actually fix the damn things. We’re stuck with Ricker.”
“You can’t implant a command chip?” Kenner glowered at the Mate, who lowered his head.
“Kenner – what an ass,” Ricker snorted as he and Auberge jogged down the halls to Shield Section Seven. “He’d shove a command chip in me and turn me into one of his zombies if he got half a chance.”
Auberge puffed slightly as he tried to keep up. “He…can’t,” he huffed. Life aboard the Catamaran involved a lot of running, and Auberge had never managed to fully adjust. The ship was a leviathan, containing quarters for thousands of crew members, extensive laboratory facilities, fuel stores for eighteen-month forays into deep space, and massive engines.
The Catamaran was an exploration vessel, which meant it would warp out to the cusp of navigated space, cruise into the Big Black on manual, and warp back after six or seven months. The last few missions had involved belts of shrapnel-like rock, putting an unnatural strain on the ship’s shield stations. Normally, the shield generators would have repelled the shards with no trouble, but the generators kept breaking down, requiring tuning several times a day. There were elevators on board, but these were eschewed. If one broke and trapped the two technicians inside, it would spell doom. Every repair trip involved a jog of at least a kilometer along long white corridors and up and down grey steel stairwells. Ricker thrived on the almost-hourly run. Auberge still found himself gasping for breath after every trip.
“He…can’t…put the command chip…in us,” Auberge said, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. “He can’t risk the loss of autonomy. We’re not grunts, Ricker. He needs our intuition every second of every day.”
“He called us lab rats,” Ricker said. “Imagine.”
“He called you a lab rat,” Auberge said, wheezing.
“As soon as we fix this shield problem, we’re taking a detour,” Ricker said. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
* * *
Auberge had never been to the medical testing facilities before. They were terrifyingly sterile rooms secreted in the belly of the ship, expanses of bleached-white walls with gleaming steel tables and caged squealing animals. The med crew ate in their own mess hall, and never mingled. The marines thought the med staff were ‘creepy,’ and the med crew considered the marines brutes.
Ricker strolled in like he owned the place, Auberge fidgeting behind him.
Ricker walked directly up to a short man wearing goggles and a breathing mask, fumbling at a scale with thick gloves on. “Heya, Toomling,” Ricker said.
The little man looked up. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, a nasal voice muffled by the mask. “You’re not sterilized.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ricker said, picking a test tube up off the table, peering at the contents and shaking it. “I’m here for the favour.” Toomling looked around to see who was paying attention. Nobody seemed to be watching them.
“Okay,” he said in a furtive whisper. “But I need it back by tomorrow noon.”
“Sure,” Ricker said. “No sweat.”
“I mean it. These are experimental animals, Ricker.” Toomling glanced around again and leaned in closer. “Highly experimental. Worth millions of creds in research.”
“You should have thought of that before you called on two pair,” Ricker said. “Pay me the two thousand you owe me or haul the little monster out.”
Toomling pulled a cage out from under the table. Inside it, a black rat huddled, baring its teeth. “This is Gibson,” Toomling said.
“Now that’s a lab rat,” Ricker said to Auberge.
“Ricker, what’s going on?” Auberge was staring at the cages on the wall holding animals in various stages of a number of experiments. “What’s with the rat?”
“It’s not just a rat,” Toomling said. The rat was apparently unaware of its non-rat status; it was now hurling itself at the bars of the cage, which shuddered under the impact. Its fur was darker than any hair Auberge had ever seen, and its eyes glowed obsidian. It was like somebody had taken a white rat and inverted it. “It’s the last remaining rat of the K-935 series,” Toomling said, pride creeping into his voice. “Bred for intelligence, genetically engineered with human brain cells, and injected regularly with a mental stimulant. As a matter of fact…” Toomling opened a small drawer and pulled out a syringe filled with a thick green fluid. He opened the cage door, and the rat recoiled and hissed savagely.
“That thing’s supposed to be smart?” Ricker said.
“Have you ever heard of ‘hypertext?’,” Toomling asked. “It was an old literary conceit. Had to do with computer-based books with nearly infinite linkage. Any word led its definition, or other text, or a picture, which in turn led to another word, or script –”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ricker said. “What’s your point? It’s got a huge brain?”
Toomling flipped Gibson over and examined his belly. “We didn’t make its brain bigger,” he said abstractly. “We improved the linkages. We – ” He looked at the technicians and sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “Suffice it to say that we altered its brain to allow it to access information faster and more efficiently than most any animal in the world.”
“So it’s smart, is what you’re saying,” Ricker persisted.
“Smarter than the average rat,” Toomling said, flipping open the cage and grabbing the rat with a gloved hand. “Almost as smart as a a six-year-old child, but in an entirely different way. We think.” He jabbed the syringe into its hindquarters with his other hand. The rat squealed in rage and terror. “Gibson hasn’t been cooperative with our testing methods.” Auberge stared at the furious rat, which Toomling released as he closed the cage door, then looked at the cages lining the walls.
“What about these other animals?” he asked.
Toomling blinked. “Experiments,” he said. Auberge took a step towards the cages, and Toomling put a restraining hand on his shoulder. He pointed at a thick yellow line painted on the floor six feet in front of the cages. “Safety line,” Toomling said. “Some of those animals are extremely virulent. Very…” His voice trailed off. A tic jumped next to his right eye. “You’d better not get close to them.”
“Oh,” Auberge said. “What happens if they get loose?” Toomling pointed up at a long gap in the panels above their heads. “In the event of a cage breach, an airtight plexiglass shield drops from the ceiling. It seals off the cage section of the room.”
“If something gets past the shield?” Auberge asked.
“There are, ah, generators in the ceiling,” Toomling said. “They can fill the room with electricity, kill everything in it. The energy gets absorbed by dampers in the insulation. Should one of the more contagious animals somehow get free. A last resort, of course.”
Auberge looked at Toomling. “Isn’t that, you know, scary?” The right side of Toomling’s face jerked. “You, ah, try not to think about it,” Toomling said. “The constant threat of electrocution.” His eye convulsed again. “It’s a safety measure,” he repeated. He turned back to his weighing, fumbling with the scales and muttering to himself.
Ricker picked the cage up. “Yeah, well, thanks for the smart rat,” he said. “We’ll bring it back in one piece.”
“Be careful,” Toomling called after them. “That’s a very expensive animal.” Ricker said nothing during the long walk back to the work room. Auberge strained to control himself.
“Okay,” he said, as soon as the door was closed, “why the hell did you borrow a rat from med lab?”
Ricker raised one long finger in the air. “Consider,” he said pointedly, “that only one man on this ship has the power to make our lives difficult when we return to base.” He walked over to his work table, put the cage on it, and started rummaging around in a large crate. Ricker’s side of the shop was a mess of wires, panels, circuits, and every other nut, bolt and chip imaginable – it was always a mad scramble to shove everything into the appropriate boxes before the ship went into zero-G. He began extracting small parts from the crate, laying them aside deftly. Auberge looked at his immaculate side of the lab and pulled a broken Nutrimat console out of a ‘to do’ box. He selected a screwdriver from a meticulously arranged selection of tools on the wall and began to fiddle with it.
“The captain,” Auberge said.
“Right,” Ricker nodded. “He’s the only person on board with the authority to detain us or punish us or – well, do anything, really. And he hates us.”
“He hates you,” Auberge said.
“Us,” Ricker continued. “As soon as we get back, Kenner’s gonna throw both of us in a brig for the rest of our natural lives. Unless,” he jabbed the air again, “we can get something on him. Some leverage. That’s where the rat comes in,” Ricker said. He lifted an apparatus out of the crate under the table; a small metal exo-skeleton.
Auberge glanced over his shoulder. “What the hell is that?”
Ricker slid work gloves over his hands and reached into the cage. The rat hissed at him, and Ricker grabbed him roughly and pulled him out of the cage. The exoskeleton was rigged on the inside with suckers, some with tiny needles sticking out of their centres. Ricker started strapping the rat into the exoskeleton, ignoring its squeals of protest. The suit fit perfectly over its tiny limbs, probes being inserted into its body at every joint. “It’s an exoskeleton,” he said.
“No kidding.” Auberge found himself walking over despite himself. “When did you make it?”
“While you were deadening your mind with those stupid historical novels during Rec Period,” Ricker said, adjusting a screw. Gibson squealed in protest. “I was doing something productive while you and the zombies lounged.”
“It’s good work,” Auberge said, a little grudgingly. “Looks like you’ve got him rigged with a camera.”
“That and more.” Ricker kept wiring the rat into the suit. “There’s a camera and microphone, some strength-enhancing servos, and a breathing apparatus.” He picked the rat up and put him on the floor. The rat took a few tentative steps inside the exoskeleton, looking around in confusion. It bounced a little with every step. Ricker reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote-control. “I was working on something that would let us send an animal out of the ship, but now I have other ideas – or, should I say, applications.” The rat was now bounding around the room, leaping about a foot into the air with every step. Ricker pushed a button on the remote and the rat crashed to the floor, twitching. “The remote is wired to the cranial probes on the exoskeleton,” Ricker said. “I can steer Gibson through applied pain impulses. The camera broadcasts to a recorder I’ve got set up.” He flicked the power button on a monitor hanging from the ceiling. A black-and-white image appeared on the screen – the room from a rat’s perspective, Ricker and Auberge looming giants.
“What does all of this have to do with Captain Kenner?” Auberge asked. Ricker smiled.
“Rats can move through the vents,” he said, “and spy on anybody in this vessel.”
“Oh, no.” Auberge said.
Ricker shrugged. “I figure anybody that straightlaced must have some rather…exotic habits.” He fiddled with a small button on the remote, and the rat’s hind leg kicked. “I have it on dubious authority that Kenner has a predilection towards younger, blonder crew members. If we can get Captain Kenner doing something unsavory on video, our futures beyond the Catamaran will be assured.” He grinned and punched another button on the remote. The rat scrambled to its feet, squeaking angrily. “Even if we don’t,” he said, “Gibson might record Kenner changing the command codes for his throat mic. If we can get those, I’m sure I could dummy up some sort of substitute. I could run every marine on this ship through their command chip,” he said. “My orders overriding Kenner’s. It would be beautiful.”
Auberge turned back to the Nutrimat panel. “I didn’t hear any of this,” he said. “I certainly didn’t hear anything that sounded like a plan to mutiny.”
Ricker picked the rat up and put it in an air vent. “Off to the Captain’s quarters,” he said softly. The rat clinked off into the depths of the vents. Ricker sat down and put his feet up on his desk. “Another few hours, and our problems will be solved,” he said, grinning broadly. The speaker mounted by the door’s keypad hummed for a second. The sound made the hair on the back of Auberge’s neck stand straight up. “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD TROUBLE! REPORT TO SHIELD STATION FIVE-C IMMEDIATELY!”
Both men jumped up as the woman’s voice sparked through the workroom.
“I hate my life,” Auberge muttered.
“Let’s go,” Ricker said, tossing his jacket on.
Auberge looked up at the vent. “Shouldn’t you stop the rat?”
Ricker looked blankly at him. “I can find him with the remote later,” he said. “How much trouble can it get into?”
* * *
Five-C was one of the most remote of the shield stations, and it was over an hour before Ricker and Auberge returned; Ricker with a slight flush in his cheeks and Auberge bent over and gasping for breath. Ricker picked up his remote and looked at the monitor. He winced, then tapped the buttons a few times. “Crap,” he moaned.
Auberge looked over his shoulder. The picture was frozen on a vent grill, slightly lopsided. “Isn’t that just typical?” Ricker said, “you inject a rat with intelligence-enhancing drugs, build it an exoskeleton, and it dies in the damn vents.”
Auberge looked at the picture. “You gonna try to get the exoskeleton back?”
“How? There are miles of ducts in this place.”
“I guess you’re right.” Auberge picked up his Nutrimat component, turned it over thoughtfully, then dropped it in the garbage. “Tough break.”
“Don’t worry.” Ricker slumped into a chair. “I’ll think of something.”
Days assumed a sameness on the Catamaran, wake-work-eat-sleep becoming a lulling rhythm but for sporadic, frantic calls to tend to the shields. Consequently, Auberge couldn’t remember how much time had passed before he noticed that something was seriously wrong. Two days, at least; maybe three or even four.
The first sign was Kenner’s conspicuous absence at breakfast. The Captain was a notorious breakfast booster, bawling out marines who were late for “THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY.” It was obvious from dark glares and murmured comments that most of the marines wanted a piece of flesh for every hour Yenn was in the brig. When Kenner missed dinner as well, suspicion started muttering in Auberge’s brain. “This is weird,” he hissed to Ricker. “Kenner never misses a meal, let alone two in a row.”
Ricker just shrugged, apparently enjoying the hostility that filled the room. “The guy’s got the flu. He’s so uptight, he probably blew his colon.” Ricker stuffed the wriggling pink cube on his meal tray in his mouth and attempted to chew. “He’ll be back in our faces before you know it,” he predicted, goo oozing from the corner of his mouth.
The second major oddity made itself known as Auberge and Ricker returned to their workroom after dinner. Ricker, springing out of the stairwell, collided with a marine lugging a twenty-kilo pressurized protein spray keg. The marine looked down at Ricker with contempt as Ricker sprawled backwards onto the floor. Auberge helped his fellow technician up and stared at the line of marines stretching back down the hall, oting protein kegs and other concentrated food stores. “Put that down!” Ricker said to the marine he had collided with. The marine slowly put the keg down on Ricker’s foot. Ricker howled and kicked back, hauling his foot out from under the steel canister.
“What the hell is going on?” Ricker demanded, hopping in place. “Captain’s orders,” the marine grunted, re-shouldering the keg. His eyes had the haunted, glazed look of a soldier taking orders from the command chip, instructions planted direct and deep within his brain by the Captain. He hustled down the hall, followed by the next few dozen soldiers bearing food.
“Weird,” Auberge said, watching the marines ferry the food past the lab door. “Wonder why Kenner wants food moved to a different part of the ship?”
“Who cares?” Ricker asked waspishly, pulling his boot off to examine his throbbing foot. “Idiots.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Auberge concluded, turning to his project box and pulling out a circuit board. “It’s just funny, is all.”
At the next mess, Kenner was still gone, as was a good portion of the crew. “Where the heck is everybody?” Ricker said, looking around the room.
“Count your blessings,” Auberge said.
“Something’s up,” Ricker said, frowning. He got up and walked to the Captain’s table, where the First Mate sat surveying the near-empty hall. “Where is everybody?” Ricker demanded.
“Special work detail,” the First Mate said. “Captain’s orders.”
“How can Kenner give orders?” Ricker asked. “He’s been conspicuously absent lately.”
The First Mate raised an eyebrow. “The Captain has been sick in his quarters and has been delivering orders via compsynth,” he said. “Thank you for your concern, Technician Ricker.”
“Don’t you think what he’s doing is a little weird?” Ricker asked.
“Questioning orders is no way to get ahead in this man’s army,” the First Mate said, looking levelly at Ricker. “The Catamaran is an experimental vessel. Even I am not privy to every test that is being run aboard this vessel.”
“That’s because you’re a sycophant,” Ricker said. “Anybody sane would be looking for some reason for all this.”
“The Captain feels that your intuition is needed for your job,” the First Mate said. “Personally, I’d be more than happy to jam a command chip down your throat just to see you snap to.”
“I demand information,” Ricker insisted, “I am an important person on this ship, and -- ”
“RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD COLLAPSE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD STATION SEVEN-N IMMEDIATELY!”
“I believe,” the First Mate said, looking down at his dinner tray, “that your services are required elsewhere. Technician Ricker.”
Ricker turned on the First Mate. “Idiot,” he muttered. Auberge met him at the door, and they scrambled down the hall. Ricker reached the stairs first, and opened the door. Auberge burst through and ran smack into a steel barrier being erected across the stairs by a group of Marines. “What the hell are you doing?” Ricker demanded. “These are stairs, you idiot!”
“Captain’s orders,” the marine said, looking blankly at Ricker. Ricker snarled. He and Auberge, clutching his swelling nose, ran back the way they came, taking a different set of stairs. Halfway down the hallway to Shield Station Seven-N, they ran across another hastily welded steel barrier.
“RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD COLLAPSE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD STATION SEVEN-N IMMEDIATELY!” Ricker kicked the barrier, then yelped. “What is Kenner thinking?” he howled.
Auberge was already back at the stairs. “Down, then across,” he called to Ricker. “Let’s go!” By the time they got back to the lab, both Ricker and Auberge were slumping with exhaustion. As they had been repairing the shields, the marines on ‘special detail’ had been erecting barriers at seemingly random places throughout the Catamaran. The corridors, normally linear and simple to negotiate, had been turned into an obstacle course by the crew. Ricker and Auberge had run across a few work crews, sweating under the heat of the welding torches and the weight of the steel plates, but all they had been able to say was “Captain’s orders.”
“That does it,” Ricker said, punching the intercom button with his thumb. “I’m going to find out what the hell is going on.” He dialed the four-digit code for the Captain’s Quarters, only to be greeted by a ‘ding’ and a female voice, the same voice that apprised them of shield trouble, only milder. “Captain Ioma Kenner is currently unavailable. Please ring again. Thank you.”
“KENNER!” Ricker punched the extension again. “He’s there. I know it.”
“Captain Ioma Kenner is currently unavailable. Please ring again. Thank you.”
“Dammit!” Ricker threw his hands down in frustration. “What the hell is going on?”
Auberge shrugged. “Our is not to reason why,” he said.
Ricker looked at his watch. “Well,” he said, “I really should go down to the lab and tell Toomling his rat died. Come on.” It took over an hour for the two to get to the lab in the Catamaran’s belly, negotiating their way around barrier after barrier. The marines were still at work all over the ship, welding corridors shut. When they finally got to med lab, the doors were locked. As Ricker pounded on the door, Auberge’s attention was drawn to a flashing red light on the keypad.
“That’s odd,” he said. The display was flashing “BIOHAZARD CONTAMINANT PROCEDURE ACTIVE.”
As he watched, the flashing red light was replaced by a steady green. “BIOHAZARD CONTAINMENT PROCEDURE COMPLETED,” the display read. From inside the room, there was the brief violent hum. The door hissed open. Inside the lab, white-coated figures were slumped across tables and on the floor. Behind them, the plexiglass shield held the animals still in cages, gibbering and shrieking.
“Oh, my God,” Ricker whispered.
“The electricity,” Auberge said. He stepped into the room and sniffed the air tentatively. There was the smell of charring, and ozone.
“The biohazard system got activated. On the wrong side of the room.” Ricker looked at the animals, shrieking and gibbering in their cages. “But the animals are in their cages,” he said. “There was no breach. Why did the shield go down? Why did the power get activated?” He walked over to one of the bodies and rolled it over. It was Toomling, his face twisted in frozen agony. Ricker looked at him, then reached down and started patting the pockets of his lab coat. Auberge walked to the door.
“We have to tell Kenner,” he said. He punched the captain’s code. “Captain Ioma Kenner is currently unavailable. Please ring again. Thank you.”
“Forget it,” Ricker snapped, walking around the med lab and prodding various bodies. He returned to Toomling’s and knelt over it. “He owed me two thousand bucks,” Ricker said, rummaging through Toomling’s pants pockets. “Deadbeat.”
“And you owed him the universe’s smartest rat,” Auberge said. His hand drifted to cover his mouth. “Oh, no.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Ricker said, pulling Toomling’s watch off his wrist. Auberge sat down hard, revelation hitting him.
“It makes perfect sense, Ricker. Turning the ship into a giant maze. Hoarding food all over the place. That’s not something a human would do. This was no accident.”
Ricker looked at Auberge. “This wasn’t an accident? Then what was it?”
Auberge gulped. “Revenge.” Ricker’s jaw dropped. “No,” he said. “No way. Not possible.”
“The med staff are all dead…the animals safe…”
“The rat.” Ricker’s voice was hoarse. “The rat.”
“It’s not dead, it just took the camera off,” Auberge said. “And it took over the ship. Somehow.” Ricker buried his face in his hands. “The captain can run the entire ship from his quarters,” he said. “All you need is the appropriate command codes.”
“How would a rat get the command codes?” Auberge asked. “By doing what I told it to do,” Ricker moaned. “Spying on the captain.”
“That’s one smart rat,” Auberge said.
Ricker nudged Toomling with his toe. The body shuddered. “Yeah,” Ricker said. “Toomling would have been thrilled.”
“Do you hear something?” Auberge said, cocking his head. “Like a dynamo. Charging up.” Ricker and Auberge looked at each other, then ran for the lab door. They dove through it as it hissed shut, locking behind them. “BIOHAZARD CONTAMINANT PROCEDURE ACTIVE” flashed on the keypad as the red light began to blink again.
“The rat wants to kill us,” Auberge said. There was a tingle in the floor as residual electricity got absorbed by the wall insulation. “It killed Toomling and the rest of the medical crew, and now it wants to kill us. You.” He turned to Ricker, eyes flashing. “You and your stupid damn plans. If you hadn’t started scheming, Toomling would still be alive.”
“Okay, this could just be a coincidence,” Ricker said. “Let’s not overreact.”
“Not overreact?” Auberge quivered with rage.
“This is crazy,” Ricker said. He smacked his forehead. “I should have installed a self-destruct on that exoskeleton.”
“Well, next time you plan to give a hyper-intelligent psychotic rat a super suit and send it to spy on the captain, you’ll know better,” Auberge said.
Ricker started to walk towards the stairs. “We’ve got to get to the captain’s quarters and kill that thing,” he said, pulling a screwdriver from his belt. “Pronto.” “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD COLLAPSE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD STATION TWO-H IMMEDIATELY!” “Not now,” Auberge moaned, starting to jog. “Any time but now.” He stopped to look back at Ricker, who was standing motionless, staring up at the speaker. “Come on!” he called back. “Ricker!”
Ricker shook his head as if to clear it and joined Auberge on the stairs. “We can go kill the rat after this,” he said. After fixing the shields and wandering the ship for close to an hour, they found every route to Kenner’s chambers sealed off by the welded barriers. “The rat can use the vents,” Ricker said angrily, facing the last of the makeshift walls. “It doesn’t want anybody getting to it.”
“I might have a torch at the workshop,” Auberge said. “We can get through the barriers with some work.” But the work room was stripped; the shelves empty and desk devoid of materials. Eight marines were in the room, packing the technicians’ equipment into boxes. Ricker stood in the door, his mouth working silently.
“What’s going on?” Auberge asked, snatching a screwdriver kit away from one of the marines. “Why are you doing this?”
“Captain’s orders,” the marine said, his eyes glazed. “You don’t understand,” Auberge said. “The Captain – hoog!” Ricker elbowed him in the stomach.
“Put that equipment back right now or you’re in big trouble,” he said, stabbing the lead marine in the chest with a bony finger. The marine looked down at him with measured contempt. “Captain’s orders.” The marines filed out of the room. Ricker and Auberge stood in the empty room, looking around at the spaces in the dust where the tables had been. “Well, that was smart of it,” Auberge said once his breath had returned. “You son of a bitch.”
“I couldn’t let you tell them,” Ricker said. “They would have thought you were crazy.” Ricker jabbed the Captain’s Quarters code into the intercom again. “Captain Ioma Kenner is currently unavailable. Please ring again. Thank you.”
“This is bad,” Ricker said. “I guess it won’t kill us because we keep the shields on-line,” Auberge said. Ricker cleared his throat. “Yeah.” He coughed. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…” The speaker by the door hummed for a moment, then crackled. “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” Auberge walked to the door, stopping as Ricker grabbed him by the arm. He stood half in the hall, looking back at his companion. “Don’t go,” Ricker said. “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMINENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” Auberge tried to shrug him off, but Ricker held firm. “We have to go,” Auberge said petulantly. “If we don’t, the shields will collapse. We’ll all die.”
“It’s a trap,” Ricker said, eyes wild. He ran his free hand through his thinning hair. “The rat’s leading us into a trap.”
“Ricker…you’re being paranoid…”
“RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMANENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” Auberge hauled at his arm, pulling it free of Ricker’s grip. “Ricker, we have to go,” he said. “If we don’t fix the shield, the ship will be destroyed.”
Ricker swallowed. “No it won’t.”
“What?”
Ricker stepped back into the workroom. Auberge followed. “What did you say?” The door hissed shut. Ricker stepped over to the speaker above the keypad and covered it with his hand. He looked around the room, and stared up into the vent before speaking. “It won’t. The shields won’t fail.”
Auberge shook his head. “Ricker, you’re not making any sense.” Ricker’s voice was shaking, his words tumbling rapid-fire out of his mouth.
“I-rigged-the-ship’s-computers-to-report-shield-trouble-at-random-interval
s-less-than-three-hours-apart-to-ensure-that-I-was-considered-essential-
personnel-to-get-a-pay-raise-and-keep-the-crew-off-my-back.” He glanced around the room again. “There.”
Auberge blinked. Ricker wiped spittle from the corners of his mouth with his free hand, keeping the other one on the keypad speaker. Auberge blinked again. Ricker cleared his throat. “What did you just say?” Auberge asked.
Ricker looked down at the floor. “The shields are fine,” he mumbled. “RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMANENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” the speaker said, muffled by Ricker’s hand.
Auberge looked for somewhere to sit, but the marines had taken the chairs. “You…” he stammered, clenching and unclenching his fists. His throat had suddenly seized up. “All that goddamn running…”
“Look,” Ricker said, smiling desperately, “you got the pay raise too! And the private quarters, and the priority placing in the meal line…”
“Getting up in the middle of the night every night for months on end,” Auberge said, something primal shining in his eyes. He reached for Ricker’s throat. Ricker swatted his hands away.
“That doesn’t matter now!” Ricker snapped. “The rat’s figured it out and he’s trying to murder us! It has everyone with a command chip under his control – and that’s most of the marines on this ship. The only people that aren’t following its orders are either asleep or off-duty!” Ricker’s voice cracked. “It’s going to kill us!”
“Ricker, professionalism obliges me to inform you that I am going to kill you first,” Auberge said, fishing through his pockets for a sharp object.
“RICKER! AUBERGE! SHIELD FAILURE IMMANENT! REPORT TO SHIELD SECTION FOUR-I IMMEDIATELY!” hissed under Ricker’s hand. “Auberge, listen to me,” Ricker said. “We can settle this later. Right now…” “SHIELD FAILURE AVERTED. SHIELDS NORMAL.” burbled from the speaker. Auberge stopped looking for a maiming tool. Ricker drew his hands back. “SHIELD FAILURE AVERTED. SHIELDS NORMAL.” the speaker repeated.
“That’s never happened before,” Auberge said.
“This is what I’m telling you,” Ricker said. “The rat knows. It –” “SECURITY: PLEASE CONVERGE ON ROOM TWELVE-J. THANK YOU.”
“Ricker, this is room Twelve-J.” Ricker punched the open command into the keypad. The door didn’t move. He punched the code again. Nothing. “The door has been turned off,” he said. “SECURITY: PLEASE CONVERGE ON ROOM TWELVE-J. THANK YOU.” Ricker pulled his screwdriver back out and began to unscrew the keypad. Within seconds, he had the housing off and was looking at the wires that connected the buttons to the hydraulic system.
“Let me,” Auberge said. He stepped in, found two wires, and pulled them free of their terminals. “The rat can turn panels on or off, but I don’t think he can run every electrical system in the ship.” Stripping the wires in his teeth and touching them together, he sighed in relief as the door hissed open.
“Okay,” Ricker said, bounding into the hall. “We have to get to the Captain’s quarters. If we can get there before –” He looked down the hall. There was a complement of security troopers trudging down the hall.
“Oh, crap.” Auberge stepped out into the hall and began to walk calmly away. “FREEZE!” barked a voice behind them. Auberge and Ricker froze. The Security captain paused for a moment, listening to something. The technicians could see the gloss in the Security officer’s eye.
“Confirmation acknowledged,” the officer said. Then, raising his pistol, “Captain’s orders.”
“RRRRUNNN!” screamed Ricker, diving headlong into the stairwell. Laser fire volleyed past the technicians as they ran down the stairs and into the next corridor. A steel wall greeted them to the left, so they veered right, scrambling down the hallway. The next few minutes were spent negotiating the semi-sealed hallways.
“It’s funny,” Auberge huffed, the clank of the officers’ boots fading behind them. “All that running back and forth to the shield stations – we know our way around this maze.”
“Yeah, well, this is only buying time,” Ricker snapped back. “Right now we’re the best rats on the ship, but soon every marine on the Catamaran will be hunting us down.” He sank to the floor. “We’re going to die.” He wiped one eye with his sleeve and snuffled. “We might as well just let them kill us,” he said.
“Oh, shut up,” Auberge said. “The brig is back here. Nobody’ll look for us in a brig cell. And it’ll only be a matter of time before somebody realizes that the Captain’s gone nuts and investigates.”
Ricker got up, frowning. “It’ll never work,” he said. “We’re doomed.” “I’m going to get myself out of this.” Auberge started to walk away.
“You can stay here and get shot if you want.” Ricker managed the tricky business of slouching and running simultaneously. “If we get killed, it’s your fault,” he said. “The brig is your idea.”
“God,” Auberge said, “you are such a weasel.” The brig door appeared in front of them, and Ricker punched it open. The echo of distant footsteps wound its way down the hall.
“Let’s get into a cell.” He moved to the nearest cell, punched the “open” button on the wall, and stepped in. The cell was pitch black. Auberge moved in after him, and the door hissed shut behind them. A titanium bolt clanked home.
“We’re locked in,” Auberge said. “Let me find the goddamn lights,” Ricker said. “There.” Fluorescence buzzed to life, and the room was awash in a lifeless glow. They were in a small brig cell, bare but for a voiding tube and a bunk. An occupied bunk. Yenn sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Bozhe -- ?” he began. Then saw the technicians. He smiled viciously, cracking his knuckles.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Ricker said. “Why don’t I just stab myself?”
“You would spoil fun,” Yenn said, getting up and flexing his hands.
“Wait a minute,” Auberge said. “You’re in the brig. That means you’re off-duty.”
“Captain can’t save you now,” Yenn said. “Command chip off-line.”
“Yenn,” Auberge said, “we need your help.”
Yenn grabbed Auberge by the shirtfront, pulling him close. “You crazy.”
“You don’t know crazy,” Auberge said. “Yet. Listen to this.” Ricker stood and fidgeted as Auberge talked. Yenn let him go. Auberge talked. Yenn sat down. Auberge talked. Yenn sat there, taking it in, nodding slowly.
“Fakers.” Yenn said after he was done. “You both fakers.” “One unwitting faker,” Auberge pointed out, “and one bona fide faker.” Yenn scratched his head. “And ship is run by rat. Smart rat sealed in Captain’s quarters.”
“Yes,” Auberge said.
“Huh,” Yenn said. Nobody spoke. “Is stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Yenn said finally.
“It’s true,” Auberge said.
Yenn looked at the cell door. “You can get me out of here?” he said.
“Probably,” Auberge said. “I helped fix a brig door once. The electrical conduits run over by the door.” He tapped a spot on the wall. “About here.”
“Let me out,” Yenn said, “and I solve your problem.”
“Give me your screwdriver,” Auberge said to Ricker, who was sitting on the floor rolling his eyes.
“No way.” “Ricker…” Ricker folded his arms. “If you let him out, he’s going to get Security and watch them shoot us.”
“He’s the only chance we have,” Auberge said. “Yenn isn’t subject to the command chip because he’s off the clock while he’s in the brig. The rat has no idea who he is, and he can just walk around with the rest of the marines.”
“If you don’t give him screwdriver,” Yenn said, “I pull teeth out one by one.” Scowling, Ricker handed over the screwdriver.
An hour later, the brig door hissed open. Yenn stepped out into the hall, stretched, and smiled. “Is good,” he said. “Stay here.” The door clanked shut behind him.
“We’re dead,” Ricker said.
“Well,” Auberge said, “you can’t say you don’t deserve it.” Ricker didn’t reply. An hour later, the cell door hissed open. Yenn was standing in the doorway, holding a black rat by the tail, hissing and squirming.
“This bad rat?” he asked. Ricker jumped to his feet. “How – how did you – ” Yenn smiled. “Went back down to Med Lab and got rat.” He cocked an eyebrow and grinned rakishly. “Lady rat. I put cage outside Captain’s quarters and wait. Ten minutes later, out comes smart rat. Game over.”
Auberge nodded slowly. “Right.”
Yenn shook his head. “You guys think you so smart with equipment and words.” He shook the rat. It squeaked angrily. “Smart rats. Huh. No understanding of important things in life.”
“I don’t believe it,” Ricker said. “Our problems are over.”
“HELL NO,” Captain Kenner’s voice boomed. “YOUR PROBLEMS HAVE ONLY JUST BEGUN, YOU SANDBAGGING PIECE OF PHLEGM.” Kenner stepped from out of the hallway and into the cell, a large bandage adorning his head.
“C-Captain K-Kenner,” Ricker stammered. “We thought you were…”
“EVER BEEN JUMPED BY AN ANGRY RAT IN AN EXOSKELETON?” Kenner thundered. “NO? WELL, MY PAIN AND EMBARRASSMENT IS ONLY ONE TENTH OF ONE THOUSANDTH OF THE PAIN YOU ARE GOING TO FEEL OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, YOU GOLD-BRICKING MAGGOT TESTICLE.”
Ricker smiled ingratiatingly. “But you need us, Captain. To fix the shields.”
“I AM NOT STUPID, RICKER,” the Captain said. “AT LEAST, NOT STUPID ENOUGH TO BE OUT-CAPTAINED BY A RAT.”
He pointed at Auberge. “COME WITH ME, AUBERGE. YOU’RE ON NUTRIMAT REPAIR DUTY.”
“I like Nutrimats,” Auberge said. Kenner looked at Ricker, small and balding in the cell.
“AND YOU, RICKER…YOU’RE GOING TO WAIT HERE. BEING A GOOD CAPTAIN, I AM NOT GOING TO DECIDE ON YOUR PUNISHMENT UNTIL I HAVE ACCEPTED SUGGESTIONS FROM THE CREW.” He smiled. It was the first time that Auberge had ever seen Captain Kenner smile. It was the most horrifying moment of a horrifying day.
“EVERY MEMBER OF THE CREW,” the Captain continued. “I THINK I MAY GO THROUGH THEM ALPHABETICALLY.” He hit the ‘close’ button and the brig door slid shut. Kenner motioned to a work crew standing by the brig entrance. “WELD THIS SHUT,” he said. Then paused. “HOLD ON A SECOND.” Kenner opened the door again.
“Captain, I beg of you – ” Ricker wheedled from within.
“I JUST WANT TO MAKE SURE YOU DON’T GET LONELY,” the Captain said. He took the rat from Yenn’s hand and tossed it into the cell, then hit the ‘close’ button again. “YOU TWO SHOULD GET ALONG,” he yelled. “YOU’RE THE TWO SMARTEST RATS ON THE SHIP.” He nodded curtly to the work crew, who started to weld the door shut.
“He’s not such a bad guy, Captain,” Auberge said as the Captain steered him towards the brig exit. “Just a little misguided.”
“I JUST HOPE HE DOESN’T HURT THE RAT,” Kenner said. “I MAY NEED IT TO FIX THE SHIELDS.”
Auberge glanced up at Yenn, who was absently rubbing at a nasty purple welt on his hand. “How’d you get that?” “Lady rat bit me,” Yenn said, shrugging. “It ran away.”
“Did you catch it?”
“No,” Yenn said. He was sweating a little, and flushed; Auberge assumed the excitement had gotten to him. “How much trouble can it get into?”
“You’re probably right,” Auberge said. Yenn scratched at the purple welt, which was spreading up his hand to his arm. “How much trouble can one animal cause?”
