I take several screen caps of my terminal. It’s a nav software add-on I had installed when I first signed on and came aboard. It allows me to replay sections of the jump for my calculations, if necessary. But I can capture video and screenshots of other ship’s systems, too.
I make sure I send the annotated screen caps to my com unit, as well as I download them to a thumb drive, and send the scrambled e-mail and files to a hyper-com portal buoy to hit Olarte’s e-mail. I keep my message short and sweet.
Hang on to these for me, please.
I want this saved off-ship, because this isseriousshit business, right here.
Then I return to the airlock outside the hold and think about what I’m contemplating doing.
One of the last words to ever describe me would be “hero.” There’s a damn good reason I didn’t enlist in the military, and that’s because I’m a chickenshit.
But I find myself slipping into one of the survival suits in the airlock. The suits aren’t made for use out in open space. They’re designed for internal use only, to allow crew to walk around in the cargo hold and inspect or retrieve items without having to pressurize the entire hold or wrangle themselves into one of the bulkier exterior suits.
We all know how to use them, and we even have them in our cabins as part of our emergency kits in case there’s ever a catastrophic loss of pressure. It’s part of our training and being certified as crew. They’re fairly standard, made so that a variety of species of similar height and build can use them, and we have several sizes and types on hand to accommodate our crew.
The last thing I want to do is go out into the hold without a suit. Especially if the captain has illicit cargo on board. Maybe they need me on board, but with the jump engine down anyway, my death would be coincidental and convenient. Besides, I don’t know what the heck, exactly, they might have out there. I don’t want to be exposed to any pathogens I’m not prepared to deal with.
With my com unit in hand and set to silent, I enter the hold through a smaller access door that I know in our current status won’t trip a door alert on the main bridge panel. It’s not uncommon for crew to go out into the hold to inspect the cargo or retrieve supplies we need for the ship. This door only alerts if someone activates it when we’re in a jump, or if the hold is depressurized.
Yep, the hold feels chilly, but it’s maybe sixty degrees.
Definitely not sub-freezing. Plenty warm enough to keep an animal species alive.
We are not currently carrying any cargo listed on our manifest that would require us to keep the hold warm and pressurized. We’re carrying mining ore, and supplies for our own ship.
None of those require holding temps above zero.
Taking the long way around the perimeter of the hold, I hear voices as I approach the auxiliary life pod. Two voices, both speaking in Shalfin. I know, because my translator augmentation understands it.
I also hear noises that aren’t voices.
Non-sentient animal kinds of noises.
In my chest, my heart is pounding as I prepare my com unit to take video. I slowly ease my way around the last cargo container, and I can see through the open hatch of the life pod.
It’s the captain and another Shalfin. I think it’s the one who he brought aboard that very first time we arrived at the space station on Pfahrn.
Around them in the life pod are dozens of crates holding a variety of native animals from Pfahrn.
My hand’s trembling as I take video, just long enough I know that it’s recorded what’s going on and both of the Shalfin’s faces. I also snap a few pictures, then I quietly beat a hasty retreat back to the airlock, grabbing a pint of ice cream from one of the ship’s storage coolers on my way.
Just in case.
I want a viable excuse if I’m asked what I was doing out there. I’ll tell the partial truth, that I wanted ice cream that we were out of in the galley. I can also lie and say I didn’t realize the hold was pressurized until I was already inside the suit. We’re so used to the hold being unpressurized that it wouldn’t be unheard of for me not to check first.
The shakes really hit me hard once I’m in the galley and trying to get myself a bowl for the ice cream. I damn near knock all of them out of the cabinet in the process.
Crap. Ireallyneed to send proof of this off-ship, too. Using my personal com, I hastily compose another e-mail to Olarte, attach the video and pictures, and relay it through my bunk terminal so I can scramble it and bounce it off a hyper-com portal buoy.
“Hey—”
I scream, jump, and turn all at once. McMurtry’s standing there, scowling at me.
“Jeez, you scared the shit out of me!” I’m not usually so jumpy, but, ya know,reasons.
“Sorry. No word on cause yet. Seen nothing like it. Strange.”
This guy is probably the closest person I have to a friend on this ship. And I can trust him.
