The maintenance crawlways form a complex network of tunnels that access most parts of the ship. I have to move slowly and carefully, to make sure that no one hears me — but I’ve discovered that I can get around pretty well. There are ladders between the ship’s floors, a comfortably wide main passageway, and smaller ventilation shafts branching off to the sides. The vent shafts, scattered with narrow slits cut into walls and ceilings throughout the ship, provide a good vantage point for watching and listening. I can be right behind a man, mere feet away, without him noticing.

  After the initial hours of chaos, fighting for dominance with the guards and each other, the prisoners began to calm down. And eventually, as the temperature dropped and our breath began to frost, everyone seemed to figure out that we’re in big, big trouble. Some kind of order is needed. Something has to happen.

  The crew canteen is the largest room on the ship, and the men gradually began to flow towards it.

  I’ve crawled my way there myself, and am now looking down on the room from above. It’s packed with people. Several tables have been pushed together in the center, forming a kind of stage. The bolder men leap up to address the baying, restless masses.

  “I say we send out a signal luring another ship to us — then when they come aboard, we kill every one of them, and take their vessel!” yells one bulky man.

  “There’s nothing else out here!” someone else hollers back. “That signal may take longer to reach them than we have oxygen, you dumb fuck!”

  The dumb fuck in question leaps off the stage with his teeth bared, and the two fall to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs, soon swallowed by the jeering crowd.

  “Why don’t we just force the crew to fly us wherever we want?” asks another.

  “Because some goddamn idiot killed the Captain, that’s why. And the rest of the crew ain’t good for nothin’!”

  The rest of the crew? Does that mean others are still alive?!

  “Then why don’t we just kill ‘em? They’re just usin’ up our oxygen…”

  There is a murmur of approval for this idea — but another voice cuts through. It’s the last voice in the world I want to hear.

  “Because,” booms Roth, “They have value. If this ship is recaptured by the authorities, they will be our only bargaining chip.”

  He’s walking through the crowd — which parts around him. Their shouts die down, and a natural hush descends. He is such an eldritch figure: standing head and shoulders taller than the rest, with his blue-twined skin and his crown of horns. A delirious thought floats through my oxygen-deprived mind: How does he get a t-shirt on over those things?

  I’ve gotten so used to seeing Roth caged, in semi-darkness. It’s shocking to see him in this clean, brightly lit space where I eat my meals and laugh with my bunkmates. It’s like watching an escaped tiger padding between picnic tables at the zoo.

  “We will put the surviving crew into maximum security cells. Bring them food. Keep them alive until we are sure we are free.”

  “And why should we do what you tell us?” asks another tall, muscled prisoner. Curling his lip, he spits at Roth’s feet. “Freak.”

  Roth looks down, then back up at the man. Without a word, he reaches out both hands, and seizes the man by either side of his face. The man has barely started to get out an outraged cry of “Hey!” when Roth promptly snaps his neck.

  I gasp out loud, and my hands fly to my mouth. The casualness of it. I don’t know what I expected… Perhaps a fight? For his opponent to have even the tiniest shred of a chance? Roth killed him like I would swat a fly; as if he was nothing.

  Nauseated, I watch as he drops the dead body to the floor like trash and steps over it without a backwards glance.

  He’s not even a man anymore, I think. He’s a creature from a bad dream.

  The gathered men are tense and silent now, waiting to see what Roth does next.

  “I do not wish to take this ship by force,” he says. “I will prove that I can lead you. Who here knows how to pilot this ship?”

  No one speaks.

  “I do,” says Roth. “And I will navigate us to safety. Allow me one hour to prove myself, then I will return, and you may all decide.”

  Well, it’s getting colder all the time, and I feel faint, which tells me that oxygen is starting to get low — so there’s no complaints from me. If he wants to have a go at pressing some random buttons on the flight deck, he can go right ahead.

  Everybody else must feel the same, because no one stops him as he walks out of the canteen.

  We must all be thinking the same thing, though. It’s bullshit. There’s simply no way he knows how to pilot a government starship. Only specialized pilots are trained to do that. It’s highly technical, and a closely guarded secret, to prevent Earth’s most advanced technology from falling into the wrong hands.

  I crawl through the vent shaft just far enough to see that Roth really is headed towards the flight deck. Between the falling oxygen, the shock, the teeth-chattering cold, and my sore body (bruised when I ran into obstacles in the dark), I don’t have the energy to follow him. So I do what the rest of the men do: stay in the canteen area and wait.

  About an hour must pass. I’m almost dozing off, curled into a ball against the cold metal. Then, from the belly of the ship, there comes a rumble — loud at first at first, like something bursting into life, then settling down into the quiet, constant purr that had been the background noise to our whole journey.

  That was the superluminal core flaring on. No way. The engines are up and running again!

  But wait… How was Roth able to operate the ship’s controls? Did the terrorists figure it out somehow? I guess that they must have had some serious scientific ability, to do… whatever it is they did to their DNA. Or did they capture a government pilot and torture them for information?

  Soon, tendrils of warmth are flowing from the heating pipes around me, and I can feel that I’m breathing clean, freshly oxygenated air. The men must feel it too, and I hear whoops and relieved laughter from below me. I drag myself back towards a vent to watch.

  Roth strides back into the room and mounts the platform of tables. He turns to face the crowd.

  “Nothing is wrong with the Hades,” he states. “Whatever stopped the ship has caused no lasting damage. I can chart a course towards inhabited space, and there find a planet for us all to go free.”

  The prisoners murmur among themselves, perhaps disbelieving. Roth looks down at them with steady, absolute confidence.

  “If you follow me, we will all live. If you do not, you will die.” His voice rises to a roar. “WHO WANTS TO LIVE?”

  There’s a beat of silence — then the prisoners go wild. They’re cheering, howling, and stamping their boots.

  I think he just won their loyalty for life.

  “Long live the king,” I whisper. The words taste bitter in my mouth.

  I should be relieved that someone can still pilot the ship, too. Instead, I’m more afraid than ever. I assumed that we would all die here, frozen, adrift in space. After all the screaming, that didn’t seem like the worst possible way for this to end.

  But now… where is Roth going to take us and set these killers loose? Will I end up stranded on some godforsaken planet — with him?

  10

  Roth

  AS I anticipated, it was not difficult to take control. All the men’s wildness has burned out. They want a master.

  Only a small display of force was necessary. One man. An acceptable loss, to save the rest of these lives.

  I told them that I have plotted a new course, towards a zone with habitable planets, to see whether there is somewhere we can take shelter. This is not strictly untrue. It is exactly what I will do, once a little more time has passed. For now, I have ensured that we will not stray too far from the location where the engines failed.

  If there is a chance that my brothers sabotaged the ship and stopped it there intentionally, then that region is where they will come to look for me. We must not move on too hastily — not until my brothers have had a reasonable chance to make their presence known.

  For now, the order of the day is to keep the ship running smoothly. I must maintain the vital life support systems, so we do not freeze or suffocate. Violence must be minimized amongst my fellow inmates, who now roam loose like dogs. Food must be distributed. We must make sure that we do not tear ourselves apart before we can be saved.

  These things can be managed. Like anyone, these men wish to survive. For the most part, they can see that anarchy will not serve them now.

  In the background of my awareness is the little bird. I know she is alive, somewhere. I can feel her still, humming in my chest — that new, unfamiliar feeling which I have no language for.

  When I think of her, I picture a small flame burning in the dark.

  I would go looking for her, but for now, I suspect that she is safer wherever she is holed away.

  She will not be safe forever, though. Eventually, I will need to find her.

  11

  Rory

  IT’S NOW been around thirty-six hours since the lights went down. Around twenty-four hours since Roth became the de facto captain of the Hades.

  I have to admit that I’m impressed by how well he’s managed to organize the prisoners. They quickly figured out how to rehydrate and heat the food, and have distributed two rounds so far; a pretty similar schedule to the one we were running. The biggest bullies are eating more than their fair share, and those who can’t fend for themselves are going hungry — but it’s still more of a system than I expected.

  Just as Roth suggested, some of the guards have been shoved into the maximum security cells. He’s right: if the law does catch up to us, it will look better if the escapees haven’t slaughtered all the crew.

  There’s a vent at the top end of the corridor, which I’ve crawled down here to look through. The vent isn’t at a great angle for seeing into the cells, but I can see enough to fill me with relief.

  Tommy is in there. And Ellis. I don’t see Carl… He may not have made it. Lots of people didn’t. But Tommy and Ellis did. They’re right there, and they’re suffering, and they’re my friends.

  So I’m going to get them out.

  There’s no guarantee that it will work, but I really think it’s possible. If they can make it into the crawlways with me… If we can steal a tiny bit of food while the prisoners are sleeping… Maybe we can all stay alive, just long enough to be rescued.

  Sooner or later, Chronus or the Earth authorities must realize that the Hades has gone off course and not arrived at its destination. They’ll send a proper military starship and easily overwhelm the prisoners — most of whom are unarmed, except for a few stun-guns stolen from the crew. All we need to do is outlast the bastards.

  It may be a long shot, but what have I got to lose? I haven’t got anything to eat or drink, if you don’t count licking condensation off the pipes. My lips are already dry and cracked, and my belly is cramping with hunger. I’m going to have to risk coming out of the crawlways sometime. And what better reason will there ever be than the chance of saving other lives?

  In fact, the sooner I do it, the better, before I get too dehydrated and exhausted to be any use to them.

  * * *

  I MAKE MY way through the crawlways and shimmy down a ladder to get back to the same maintenance hatch that I first scrambled through in the dark. Shit… That was only a day and a half ago, but it feels like a thousand years. Just remembering the feeling of running with Roth at my heels makes my heart kick up a gear.

  Taking a deep breath, I ease the hatch open. The crew room is empty and dark. Good.

  As quietly as I can, I clamber out of the safety of my tunnels, and back into the real world.

  I leave the hatch open behind me. That’s a risk, since it reveals my hiding place, but it will help us to escape quickly if I manage to get the others out of their cells.

  I creep across the room. With my pulse loud in my ears, I peer out and check the hallway.

  Abandoned. Quiet.

  I cross the hallway and head down the corridor of max security cells. It looks so different now, with most of the cells empty. One thing hasn’t changed though: Gregory is still lying dead on the floor. He’s been kicked carelessly out of the way.

  My eyes burn. It’s not just the indignity — it’s the smell.

  “Rory?!”

  It’s Tommy, he’s seen me. I jog the rest of the way down the corridor and crouch beside the three cells that the remaining guards have been squashed into. A grin breaks out on my face. It’s the first time I’ve smiled since the lights went out.

  They look terrible: tired, bruised, bloodied, traumatized. But they’re alive. Tommy, Ellis, and seven others who look familiar.

  “Hey,” I whisper, still beaming.

  “Hey?” rasps Ellis. “You show up alive, and the best you can do is ‘hey’?”

  That startles a laugh out of me, which I stifle with my hand.

  “Really, Rory, how aren’t you dead? Where the fuck have you been?”

  “In the crawlways,” I whisper. “It’s safe, we can all go in there. I’m going to bust you out.”

  “Only a supervising officer’s ID card can lower the force fields,” says another man from Ellis’s cell. I think his name is Reginald something. “I’d give you mine, but they took everything off us when they threw us in here. So you’re going to need his.” He’s pointing at Gregory’s body.

  I blanch, wanting to protest. But there’s no time for that.

  Okay. After everything I’ve seen over the past couple of days, I can do this.

  I go back to Gregory. He’s face down, so I roll him over as gently as I can. He’s heavy, though, so he flops over hard once I’ve heaved him up on one side. The slapping noise his body makes on the ground makes me cringe, and I glance back up the corridor.

  Still clear.

  Trying not to look at Gregory’s blank, staring eyes, I reach under his uniform collar, finding the lanyard and pulling it off over his head. On the end is his ID card, streaked with blood. I wipe it away, revealing the little holo-vid of Gregory’s face underneath.

  He’s a few years younger in the vid. He looks serious, as if he’s posing for the camera, then glances to the side and smiles. I wonder if someone was outside the holo-booth while he had this taken, trying to make him laugh. I guess he wasn’t always my grouchy supervisor.

  “You need to go to the control panel at the end of the corridor,” says Reginald briskly. “Scan the card, then go through the options until you find ‘Deactivate force fields’. It will let you choose the cell numbers. You might need to re-enter your security credentials at that point, since it’s an unusual action. I’ve only ever heard of these force fields being lowered mid-journey in a medical emergency.”

  Reginald knows his stuff. I wonder how many runs back and forth to Chronus he’s done.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “You got thith, Rory,” says Tommy. His lips are swollen and his two front teeth are missing, but he still gives me a smile.

  I hurry back up the corridor and open the control panel, then scan Gregory’s card. Thankfully, the system lets me in without complaint.

  It takes me a while to figure out where to find the option I need. I have to fish through a couple of different menus before I see ‘Deactivate force fields’. Breathing a sigh of relief, I press it, then select their three cell numbers.

  “PLEASE STATE YOUR REASON FOR DEACTIVATING FORCE FIELDS,” says the computer. Its voice is bright — and loud.

  “What?!” I hiss at it.

  “THIS ACTION REQUIRES A REASON TO BE RECORDED, IN CASE OF LATER REVIEW.”

  There’s a noise in the hallway.

  Crap.

  “The prisoners have escaped, crew members are trapped in the cells instead,” I whisper. “Please, you have to let them out.”

  “WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO SEND OUT A SHIP-WIDE ALERT THAT A PRISONER HAS ESCAPED ON THIS DECK?” offers the computer helpfully.

  “No no no no no! Please don’t do that!” I scramble, casting my brain back to what Reginald said. “Um… Scratch that, no escape. Medical emergency, there’s a medical emergency!”

  “REASON RECORDED: MEDICAL EMERGENCY,” blasts the computer. “FORCE FIELDS 517-519 NOW DEACTIVATING.”

  Someone not far away is shouting. Footsteps are pounding down the hallway.

  At least the force fields are gone now. If the crew can just get out of the cells, maybe we can fight our way free?

  “RUN!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “THERE’S NO BARRIER, RUN!”

  But it’s too late. The prisoners are rounding the corner. They see me, then see the others stepping out of the cells.

  Before they can react, I charge straight at the prisoners with a shriek of war, yanking out my stun-gun and firing it for the first time outside of a training exercise. It’s a wild volley of shots, some bouncing off the walls — but some of them land, men crying out and falling. Then something hits me hard in the stomach.

  I fall onto my back, gasping for air. A man is standing over me. He’s raising a stun-gun, but not to fire it — raising it like a club, ready to bash me again with the blunt, heavy end.

  I cover my face with my hands, shut my eyes, and brace for it all to go black.

  “Wait,” someone shouts. “Wait, not that one!”

  I keep my hands raised, but no blow comes. Cautiously, I open my eyes.

  “That’s the Lunchlady,” says a shifty-eyed man.

  I recognize him… He’s a prisoner from this block. The guy who tried to warn me that Roth had killed Hatha. Now he’s almost shielding me with his body, trying to stop the man standing above me with a stun-gun from beating me over the head with it.

  I feel a brief flicker of hope. Is he a decent person? Is he helping me?

  “Roth used to stare at him,” says the man. “I think he’d like it if we brought this one in alive.” He pauses, thinking. “And don’t ruin his pretty face.”

 

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