Snippet 6 - The Engineer

    He was the very model of a modern, outdated space engineer.

    Spalding woke up to the combined sound of his hatch door chiming and someone physically pounding on his door.  The door was made of a light composite, but it was still solid metal.  They must be pounding on it with a wrench or something.

    Rolling over he grinned, until his aching joints started to complain.  The grin wilted and a grimace took its place.  Grimace turned to scowl when he looked at the clock he’d set up on the two way wall-screen.

    Sweet cryin' Muphy, they’d woken him up at 2 a.m. in the morning.  What a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing slackers.  He’d told them to keep a sharp eye out during two and three shifts.  He told them to triple check everything.  Blast it!  Arses were going to feel the heat before he was done tonight.

    Two o’clock in the grief stricken morning.  He’d told them to watch out, he warned them to follow their check lists, and have parties out doing manual follow ups and double checks, most especially this first night of all nights, with a skeleton trainee crew.  He’d done everything but give away the whole darned game.

    He’d specifically set the ship to reboot the three deck main sub-processor back to its original factory specifications at midnight on the dot.   Factory defective specifications, as he’d learned when he was a young midshipman fifty years ago.  Midnight was the middle of the blasted shift change, when they were supposed to be visually double checking things.  Things exactly like breath gas mixtures.  And sending out crew parties to verify anomalous readings with hand held scanners.

    He staggered around his quarters, forcing his way into his uniform and skin suit.  He only fell once, catching himself against the bed, which he thought with pride was an accomplishment all on its own.  As soon as he was dressed he over-rode the safety lock he’d personally installed for his room and headed out of the room on a tear.

    Still strapping on his tool belt, the sight of Spacehand Brence did nothing to improve his mood.

    “Sir!  It’s a disaster, three deck’s been flooded with CO2 and Argon.  Everybody’s dead!” Stuttered Brence.

    “What are you talking about, you blithering fool,” Chief Engineer Terrence Spalding asked.  He couldn’t help a sliver of fear shooting through his  heart, even though he knew better.

    “Both Engineering and Environmental have identical readings, sir, there’s no way anyone could have survived breathing those levels,” Brence said, face crumpling.

    “How long ago did the CO2 and Argon levels spike?  What’d a physical check with hand scanner turned up,” he demanded, walking as fast as his old bones could carry him to main engineering.

    “We’ve no idea, Sir,” Brence said.

    Spalding spun around, leaned in closer, poking his finger into Spacehand Brence’s chest and smelled whiskey on his breath.  “You’ve been drinking,”  he cried.  “Drunk on duty and it’s no wonder you don’t have the first idea what’s going on!” His voice echoed through the corridor.  “The Imperial’s wouldn’t have you for love or money and so you stayed here to plague the rest of us with your drunken incompetence.  Which just got a bunch of good men killed, you mewling idiot,” It was past time someone taught the pair of ne'er’do’wells a lesson and better they learned it from the Chief Engineer, where they only  thought they’d killed their fellow crewmates, than after they’d actually exterminated an entire decks worth of people.

    “Why don’t you know, you drunken fool?!”

    “I was off duty, Chief,” Brence said.  “I swear I didn’t touch a drop of the stuff until after shift end.  Castwell’s the shift boss in engineering for third shift.  I’m off duty!”

    Spalding used his forearm to slam the spacehand up against the wall, “An Engineer is never off duty and if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times.  The Clover’s a dry ship when it comes to rot gut whiskey.  Its triple distilled Gorgon Ice-ales and simple meads or nothin' else when you’re on my ship!”

    “Half the men are allergic to Ice-ale, Sir,” he protested, “and the meads aren’t very strong stuff.”

    Spalding drew back and slugged him in the gut.  “Saint Murphy give me strength, people are dying and you’re arguing about an illegal liquor still.   Get a work party with scanners and emergency oxygen supplies over to 3 and find out what the blaze’s going on over there,” the engineer demanded to the now coughing Brence.

    “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Brence said right before he threw-up.  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “the Imperials took all the self-sealing skin suits with them when they left and the work parties won’t go in there, not when the only thing they’ve got is a  stupid head bag.”

    “Argh,” Liuetenant Spalding screamed.  “Cowards!  The Caprian 109-a self sealing Face Bags are specifically rated for short periods in a pressurized area with low or no oxygen.   Which leaves aside the absolutely brain straining idea of putting on an exterior suit and slow stepping it all the way from an airlock over to deck three.   Why, there’s even more than one airlock on three deck itself!”

    The chief engineer ran all the way to the next lift and stomped inside, a silent Brence, looking green faced from whiskey and worry in tow.

    The doors slid open.  A party of engineering ratings stood blocking the way out of the lift and arguing with Castwell.  From the sound of things the ratings didn’t want to risk getting in the lift and going over to 3 deck.

    Spalding forced his way through the men outside the lift door and scowled when they ignored him.  He went to the machinist room and pulled out a plasma torch.  This’ll do the trick nicely, he thought before stomping back out to confront the young hooligans who were too afraid to do their duty.

    “Time to do your duty to your crewmates, lads,” said the Chief Engineer in a voice that cut through the din.

    There was a pause followed by a resentful silence.  “Easy enough for you to say, with your fancy government issued skin suit and for them staying safely here in main engineering,” sneered a loud mouthed red head, with damage control patches on his shoulders.

    Spalding turned red from half way up his chest to the top of his balding head.

    “We’re the ones who have to go to three deck and die in these,” snarled the red head, shaking the oblong shaped clear plastic looking bag with a flimsy plastic port at the bottom, near where the chin would be if someone was wearing it.

    Spalding glared and started tearing off his clothes, first his uniform and then the self-sealing skin suit.  Holding up the skin suit he said, “I paid for this my own self, you candy arsed coward,” Then he threw the skin suit on top of the uniform.

    Now standing in nothing more than his skivvies, he snatched a head bag from one of the crowd of disgruntled ratings.  Placing it on his head, he ignited the plasma torch.

    “Time to make like a rabbit and run into that there lift,” he said conversationally, taking a few practice swings with the plasma torch before making a few adjustments to the settings, lengthening the two inch flame into a foot long stream of burning plasma.

    A few of the reluctant ratings gave him a  concerned look and backed away a step or two, into the midst of their gathered fellows.

    “I’ve already lit the fire boys,” the engineer continued in the conversational tone, then roared, “so let’s go save yer crew mates before I use this here torch to burn you a new evacuation port!”  So saying, he gave a shriek and charged forward.

    Ratings gave out cries of dismay and tried to scatter but he managed to herd enough of them for his purposes, including their red haired leader, into the lift.  Jumping into the lift himself, he hit the emergency button and shut the door.  Using one hand he slapped the override button and sent them straight to 3 deck.

    “You’re crazy, old man,” screamed the red head.  “Get away from the door and let us out!”

    To keep any of the cowards from rushing him, Spalding casually swept the plasma torch in front of him.  He could tell several of the nearer ones felt the heat when they tried to back away but were caught between the walls of the lift and the bodies of their friends.

    “Shut yer yap, before I decide it’s important for the safety of the ship that I remember your name, buddy boy,” sneered the wild haired engineer in his underwear.

    The lift chimed and the doors started to slide open.

    “There’s no air in here,” cried the red head before scurrying to put on his head bag.  The faint noise of suction seals taking hold sounded, as the other ratings pulled on their head bags in a rush.

    “Engineering’s the toughest Department on the ship.  I don’t care what lies Gunnery tells,” cried the new Chief Engineer, “If you think I’m going to let you disgrace the Department with your cowardice then you’ve got another think coming,” he said before chasing them out of the lift by running around one wall, swinging his torch.  “Now jump, my scared little rabbits.  Jump!  Papa Spalding’ll make a man out ye’ yet, or someone will die from his trying!”

    Spalding kissed a few reluctant butt cheeks with the flame of his torch, and made sure the red head got a good stripe along his backside to complement his hot mouth.

    The shrieks of burned and terrified ratings echoed out into the corridor as they raced down the hall.  “Hop along my little rabbits, hop along, and don’t forget to check your hand scanners,” he yelled after the ratings.  He ran after them as long as he could.  But at his age he barely made it past the first T in the corridor before his heart was pounding uncontrollably and his breath was coming in short gasps.

    He placed his hands on his knees as he stopped to catch his breath, and bent over laughing between gasps.  He thumbed the deactivation switch on the plasma torch and dropped it to the floor.  He sat down in the middle of the corridor and pulled off his head bag.

    He chuckled, expelling air and throwing the head bag as far as he could down the hallway.  This was the moment of truth.  If his little trick with the sub-processing node had actually killed the crew on three deck, he deserved to die right along with them.

    Taking a breath of good clean recycled air, he scowled.  He hoped his little running rabbits were too terrified to stop for a good long while yet. “Everyone dead on three-deck, my ugly old bones,” he snorted.  “Too terrified and jumping at shadows to engage brain and figure out this was just a training exercise.  Idiots.”

    One thing was sure and certain, and that was that this ship needed a lot more in the way of safety drills.  Or he wasn’t Junior Lieutenant Terrence Spalding, Chief Engineer of Lucky Clover, the finest Battleship to every come out of the Caprian Ship Yards.  Or, as far as he was concerned, any shipyard in the entire Galaxy.

    “Broke the mold when they made you, my fine lass,” he said and gave the metal wall of the ship a pat.  “Even the other ships of your class, none can hold a candle to you, my beauty.  You are the last and greatest of your kind.” His voice lowered to a soft, smooth pitch and he leaned his head back against the cold metal wall.  “I'll make them worthy of you.”



The Deposed King