Morton had been checking Faulkner’s vital signs and struggling to come to terms with the speed of his recovery when the idea had first occurred to her.

  “Earlier,” she’d said. “You mentioned that the other senior staff thought that reviving Faulkner was a waste of resources.”

  “That’s right. As far as they were concerned, there’s no benefit in this for us.”

  “And that’s what I don’t understand. What have you got against cryogenics? Surely, it can benefit everyone.”

  “It’s an ethical issue for us. Yakutians would never think of using one of your cryo-pods.”

  “No? Not even in an emergency?”

  “Even if our lives depended on it. Once our brain function starts to slip below a certain level, our implants would start to disintegrate, wiping out vast swathes of our processing power, eroding our skills, destroying our memories. Essentially, the process would change who we are.”

  Although she fundamentally disagreed with him, Morton had restrained herself from commenting thus far. No good would have come from getting embroiled in that argument. She knew from past experience how uncompromising the Yakutians could be when it came to the issue of their implants. Many would rather die than have them interfered with. That was why so few of them sought to have them up-dated, putting up with systems which were often badly antiquated.

  “But there was something else you said,” she’d probed. “You said they talked about throwing him out of an airlock.”

  “’And let the Feds clean up their own mess.’ Yes, that was what a lot of them were saying. Looks like they weren’t joking, either.”

  The Yakutians weren’t renowned for their sense of humour. So, she’d been particularly careful about how she’d worded her next question.

  “You talk about the Feds but surely, with the Mantis gone, there aren’t any Confederation vessels still in the area, are there?”

  “Well, of course there are,” Bayas had caught himself before he could say much more, but the words were already out. “Alright, doctor. What else do you need to know?”

  Morton, though thrilled at the news, had been deeply disappointed in herself. She wasn’t by nature, a devious person and it upset her to think how she’d tricked Bayas into compromising himself. Especially after all he’d done to help her.

  It had felt like a particularly cruel way of repaying his kindness.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked you that after everything you’ve done. I apologise. That was very mean of me.”

  Bayas had waved her apology aside as if annoyed with himself. “No, you ought to know what’s going on. There’ve been a number of ships involved in trying to recover your crewmates but the one you’re interested in the Renheim. It re-entered the system about a week ago. Is that any use?”

  The Renheim!

  Morton couldn’t have been more surprised. She’d thought they’d seen the last of Captain Meyer and his crew.

  “And Captain Mahbarat hasn’t chosen to engage them?”

  “Not so far, no. But all that might be about to change.”

  He’d left that comment hanging in the air. She’d been desperate to ask him what he meant by that but was wary of pushing her luck. Though there was one thing she’d been desperate to ask.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” she’d said. “Would you mind if I asked you one more question?”

  “Just the one?”

  “Yes, I promise. The Renheim. How close are we in terms of distance, do you know?”

  Bayas had pursed his lips as he’d considered this. Sharing on-going operational intelligence with a foreign combatant – this was serious stuff.

  “My understanding is that the Renheim has been shadowing our movements for the last few days.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “It’s just something we do. In a few more days, we’ll be shadowing them.”

  He’d gotten it all out in one breath and then, when he’d finished, he’d dropped his head down onto his chest as though he was ashamed of himself.

  “So, they are close by then?”

  When he’d looked at her again, there’d been tears in his eyes.

  “I think I’ve said enough. I think we both have.”

  And now they were here, rushing Faulkner’s auto-doc through the corridors of the Serrayu, the pair of them dressed in medical scrubs, trying not to engage anyone with eye contact. Ahead of them, a group of disparate crew members were standing around looking disconsolate.

  “Perhaps we should turn back,” Bayas whispered under his breath.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Morton but still she slowed her pace.

  Eventually, they were forced to stop. There was a crowd of around twenty of them, all gathered around a single security guard. Bayas moved forward and spoke briefly with one of the men before coming back.

  “We can’t go this way. We have to back up.”

  “Can’t you say it’s an emergency or something?”

  “They’re saying it’s for our own good. There’s been some kind of disturbance up ahead. Reports of gunfire.”

  “What? Between who?”

  “Not sure. It’s all a bit confused at the moment, but we can’t stay here. Come on.”

  He reversed the auto-doc down the corridor and then took them through a series of inter-connected rooms before finally coming out into another corridor at the end of which was one of their turbo elevators.

  Morton made to protest. Once they were inside, they’d be picked up by every security system on-board. They couldn’t do it on the corridors, there was just too much traffic, but the elevators were different.

  In response to her objection, he did something very odd. He raised a finger to his lips. It was a strangely old-fashioned gesture. Morton remembered a particularly elderly aunt motioning to her in this way when she was younger.

  They got into the elevator and travelled down several floors. At one point, one of their security personnel entered holding a rifle. Morton thought that she was going to pass out but eventually remembered to breathe. The man had stood in front of the auto-doc and had hardly looked at her, though he twice looked at Bayas. She was so relieved when he got out at the next floor that she wanted just to collapse onto the floor.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, she waited until the doors of the elevator were securely shut before turning to Bayas.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on? Who carries kinetic weapons around on their own ship?”

  Bayas looked as confused as she was. “The only time I’ve seen anything like this was when we went to ship settlers off from one of the colony planets. When they found out that they were being re-located to a green-shoot colony they started to riot.”

  “I’m afraid my crewmates are in no fit state to start anything like that,” she said a little too flippantly.

  She suddenly realised that Bayas probably hadn’t heard about the recent events on the bridge. The only reason she knew was because of Hermendal. She was reluctant to say anything now, she didn’t want to alarm him for fear that he might abandon her. But neither did she want him wandering about blithely unaware of whatever dangers might be out there. No. He deserved to be told.

  “You should know that yesterday evening the captain had Commander Sunderam arrested. It might be that his arrest has got something to do with all this.”

  “Sunderam arrested?” his eyes were big and wide. “Really? And you witnessed all this yourself?”

  “No, but one of my people did. He was wounded in the crossfire. They called me down to attend to him.”

  He looked suddenly pensive. “I suppose that would explain things.”

  “What things?”

  “The reason why everyone’s been giving me the once over.”

  “They’re trying to decide whose side you’re on?”

  Bayas flared his nostrils, looking flustered.

  “And whose side are you on?” she asked.

  He seemed affronted that she should even ask such a question.

  “I think that’s between me and the Emperor,” he said haughtily.

  “Of course. I apologise. Forgive the intrusion.”

  But even this didn’t appear to completely placate him. He simply stared straight ahead, unwilling to continue the conversation and looking like he wanted to punch the wall.

  They travelled down two more floors before Bayas stopped the elevator.

  “Change of plan,” he said before pushing the auto-doc out into the corridor. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you here.”

  Morton fought to contain her frustration. Instead of keeping her mouth shut she’d pushed things to the extent that she’d succeeded in alienating her only ally.

  Was that it, then? Was he going to simply abandon her?

  She couldn’t blame him if he did. What had she been thinking to openly question his loyalties like that? It was the one topic you never broached with a Yakutian, but that hadn’t stopped her.

  Oh no, she could blunder her way into anything.

  She felt so bad, she didn’t even question him, just stood there, merely stood there in dumb acceptance.

  “I need to return to my quarters,” he said. “If what you say is true, then they’ll be on the look-out for me. I have to go back.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I’m sorry about all this. I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done.”

  She wanted to take his hand then, to elicit some kind of physical exchange between them but at the same time, she didn’t want to make matters worse.

  As they stood there awkwardly looking at one another, alarms began sounding followed by a repeated tannoy announcement.

  “I have to go,” he said, a note of apology in his voice.

  “It’s as bad as we thought?”

  “I’m afraid it is. If you continue straight on down this corridor, you should find what you’re looking for.”

  He stepped back inside the elevator then, raising his hand as the doors slid shut.

  That left Morton feeling isolated and alone. She started pushing the auto-doc down the long and austere looking corridor feeling strangely disconnected from her surroundings.

  Whatever it was that was going on in the rest of the ship, she wished Bayas well. He’d given her one last chance at redemption and for that at least, she was grateful. But the longer she continued down the corridor the more uncertain she became.

  She wasn’t sure exactly what it was that she expected to find at the end of the corridor. She’d been entertaining the idea that they would be herded onto a small shuttle. That the pilot would be a friend of Bayas’s who would take them wherever it was they wanted to go. It was a ludicrous idea of course, but it had been the one thing that had been keeping her going. If she’d have thought about the reality of her situation she’d probably still be back at the medical facility. Now, that she’d been left to her own devices any sense of resolve she might have had was starting to evaporate.

  She wasn’t even sure she wanted to leave the Serrayu even if the possibility did present itself.

  There was still the unresolved issue of what was to become of Yamada and Bertran, not to mention Hermandal and the other prisoners. Didn’t she have a responsibility to them as well? Was she being selfish just thinking about herself? Though if she got herself thrown in the brig she’d be no use to anybody.

  She chose that moment to steal a glance at Faulkner and immediately regretted it. Though he was breathing normally, he looked extremely unwell, bone white and sweating feverishly. For a moment, she came close to breaking down completely, but then her training kicked in.

  As an officer, it was her duty to facilitate her own escape the best way she knew how. Mahbarat’s men had failed in their clumsy attempt to dispose of Faulkner and she knew that if she could somehow get him off the ship and to safety, then that in itself would be judged as a major success. And yet things had started to break down on-board the Serrayu and she had to wonder what would become of her people in the likelihood that this was to turn into a full-scale mutiny.

  If the Yakutians were capable of killing one another then the fate of the enemy prisoners looked decidedly perilous.

  If she’d been on her own at that moment then she would have gone back but the responsibility of looking after Faulkner weighed heavily on her; if she could just get him over to the Renheim then they’d he’d have full access to their extensive medical suite which was set up for cases such as this. If he stayed here, chances were that he wouldn’t be around in twenty-four hours.

  That decided her. She had to press on.

  She looked up to see two crewmen approaching her, at speed. She didn’t know what else to do but put her head down and keep walking. The two crewmen were so deep in conversation that they hardly noticed her.

  That in itself was worrying. If she wasn’t heading towards the shuttle bay then where was she going? The occasional signs were all in Yakutian and so completely useless as far as she was concerned. There was also no sign of any security checkpoints which was good in some ways and yet worrying in others. Any route off the ship would also provide a potential ingress point for hostile boarding parties and so it either had to be capable of being sealed off, or had to be properly defensible.

  And there was no sign of any of that here.

  Where was Bayas sending her? There were two clear possibilities the first of which was so unlikely as to be inconceivable. The missile loading bay itself would provide a possible escape route for Faulkner but it was clearly not one that he was likely to live through. Plus, there’d be launch crew in attendance who wouldn’t just stand by while she went about her business.

  The second option was far more likely: an actual escape pod proper. All that she knew about the Yakutian versions were that they were fairly rudimentary. In the Yakutian navy, if you hadn’t been picked up in the time it took for your oxygen to run out then you weren’t likely to survive the experience. Added to that was the fact that Faulkner was still totally reliant on the auto-doc and the whole proposal was starting to look less and less likely.

  Her senses told her where she was headed long before her conscious mind had managed to work it out. More astringent, her sense of smell told her. Yakutian ships had a notably different smell to Confederation ships. It was nothing particularly unpleasant, just different. Yakutian ships had a strongly sanitised smell, not overly acerbic in nature but not particularly enticing either. In many ways it was not entirely dissimilar from working in the sickbay on the Mantis.

  But this smell was different. A smell that was a constant on any ship you’d care to mention, regardless of who was crewing it, a combination of rotting food and burnt polymers. It was the smell of the waste disposal area.

  There was only one crewman in attendance who immediately threw up his arms upon seeing her. He wasn’t being overly hostile, at least no more so than he was when greeting any other crew member but the sight of the auto-doc instantly triggered a whole raft of potential objections, none of which Morton had the slightest interest in hearing - even if she could have understood them.

  Instead, feeling greatly aggrieved, she pulled out the stun stick she’d been hiding under the canopy of the auto-doc for just such an occasion. Bayas had shown her how to use it and the simple act of switching it on had exactly the effect she had been hoping for.

  The man dropped his hands and regarded her properly for the first time. He seemed suddenly to realise that she was a woman, at which point his desire to get as far away from her as possible quickly became apparent. But Morton was in no mood to let him go that easily.

  She felt terribly cheated that this had ended up being her final destination but she was determined to make the most of the opportunity. Waving the stun stick in the man’s general direction, she backed him over into a corner.

  The waste disposal was virtually identical to the set-up on the Mantis and every other Confederation ship she’d ever served on. There were receptacles for a variety of items but mainly these broke down into food waste, general waste and metals. The food waste and metals were intended for recycling with the general waste being compressed into giant pellets. Usually, these were stored until the ship returned to base as even these could be recycled in some way but, on particularly long deployments, these pellets could be dumped. It might be frowned upon to dump waste into space but it was a fairly common practice and it was this which started an idea forming in her head.

  She mimed pushing something away but the maintenance man just stared at her dumbly. But then, when she switched on the stun stick again and waved it at him, he quickly got the message and led her across to a long, cylindrical drum. It was constructed of bare, unpainted metal but it was obvious what it was straightaway: a cost-effective alternative to a traditional airlock. It even had a portal so that you could check its contents had been fully purged before opening it again.

  Then she looked back at the auto-doc. It’d be tight but she reckoned that if she took the legs off it might just fit.

  It was a mad idea, of course. Absolutely insane, but she didn’t see that she had any other option.

  “What do you think?” she said to the maintenance man. “Think it’ll work?”

  He seemed to understand that at least. He went over to one of the walls which was covered with a whole list of dos and don’ts regarding the appropriate use of the facility. She couldn’t read any of them, but most were accompanied by a simple pictogram.

  He pointed to one which showed a primate with a broad cross partially obscuring it. He then pointed over at Faulkner and shook his head.

  He obviously didn’t think it was a good idea which, perversely, spurred her on.

  It was just a question of working out the percentages. Most cots in a Confederation sick bay were designed to be self-sufficient in case of a catastrophic loss of atmosphere. You didn’t even need to oversee the process, the cots were designed to be self-regulating. It gave rescue crews a twelve-hour window in which to recover them after whatever misfortune had befallen their ship. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.