The Fringe Wars

5.18

Ship Rat

On board the Littorio, en route to the Alliance

Critch could tell the ship had gone to jump speed when the walls vibrated and he was sent tumbling off his bunk.

"A little notice would be nice next time," he grumbled as he rubbed a bump forming on the back of his head. It didn't make any sense for a CUF ship to go to jump speed unless it was after someone...or running from someone. But since Anders was the Corps General, he assumed it had to be the former.

As he lay on the floor, he realized that his security guard would've left his cell to buckle in for the jump. The thing about jump speed was that the crew generally had all sorts of safety checks to go through before and after each jump. This would be the time they'd be least focused on a prisoner.

He sat up and considered his options. He'd escaped from CUF cells before, and there was really only one way to do it: overpower the guards and then hope for extreme luck in getting to the docks and stealing a ship. It'd be impossible to take off from the warship's docks while it was at jump speed, which meant that Critch needed to find a place to lie low until the ship dropped out of jump. The odds were stacked against him.

"Screw it," he muttered. He crawled over to the only part of the entire cell that wasn't smooth or curved, a support rod under his bunk that was screwed into the floor. It took some maneuvering to slide under the bunk and into position on the squared metal bracket that was between the rod and the floor. He had to assume they weren't watching him, or else his ploy would be blown before he even got through the door.

He grimaced. Then slammed his forehead into the edge. He saw bright white the instant before the pain hit him, followed by a warm trickle of blood. Red droplets made a sharp contrast on the white floor, and he pushed to his feet, letting the blood flow freely down his face in a trail.

He leaned an arm against the wall as he tapped the service button on the wall near the door. He pressed it three more times before someone answered. "What do you want?"

Still leaning against the wall, Critch looked up at the camera and pointed to his wound. "I hit my head when the ship jumped. I don't feel so good. I think I got a concussion." He wobbled on his feet, perhaps overacting a touch.

After a pause, the same voice said, "Stand away from the door."

He pushed off the wall and collapsed in a seated position on his bunk.

The door opened, and the guard stood there. He held out a bandage. "Here. Take it."

Critch tried to stand but fell back. "The whole room's spinning."

The young man frowned as he thought through his options. He stepped forward and unraveled the bandage. "You better not throw up on me."

Critch leapt to his feet and punched the guard's throat before the man had any time to react. Unable to breathe, the guard clawed at his throat. Critch grabbed the guard's head and smashed it against the wall, and the man dropped. The guard was going to die from his throat being crushed, and despite his reputation, Critch didn't want to prolong the young man's suffering. He knew a better man would've grappled with the guard, but Critch knew better than to fight someone half his age—and who had weapons and a comm on him.

He rolled the guard over and grabbed everything he could in the brief seconds he could afford before someone noticed the door open and the guard missing. A blaster, a stun stick, and a wrist comm made Critch feel less vulnerable, and he strode from the cell. The hallway, as he'd expected, was still empty, though he knew it wouldn't be for long. He looked left and then took off running to the right.

Blood blinded his left eye, and he wiped it as he sprinted down the hallway. Every second he was out in the open, his captors could see him. Only once he found his way into the engineering tunnels—the bones of the ship—did he have a chance at evading capture and coming up with a plan that didn't involve him getting killed.

He didn't find an access point in the brig hallway—that would be a stupid design decision—so Critch had to venture into another hallway. When he reached the door, he slapped on the guard's wrist comm and scanned it over the lock pad. The door clicked and opened, and he hurried through. At a glance, he counted at least four people, two couples in civilian clothes, chatting with each other. He didn't understand why they weren't wearing uniforms, but he kept his head down as he rushed by them.

"Oh, dear! You're bleeding," a woman called out. "Do you need any help?"

"No," he said, and added a "thanks" to sound a little more like a citizen would speak, though he knew his tactical clothes would raise doubt. He turned a corner and found the access point he'd been looking for. He used the wrist comm to unlock the nondescript service door in the wall and stepped into the cold air. Puffs of his breath formed little clouds before him.

The wrist comm still worked, which meant they hadn't found the guard yet. He tore off the wrist comm and dropped it by the door. It'd have a locator chip in it, and they'd be able to track where he'd used it. Now that he was inside the ship's guts, he had free rein of several kilometers of hiding places.

He ran down the narrow walkway, trying to put as much distance between himself and the door he'd used before the hunting parties were sent out to scour the ship. While the hallways were well lit, the area between the ship's hull and the hallways had only dim LEDs lighting the walkways. Along his left was the smooth wall and service doors that separated Critch from everyone else. Along his right were pipes and conduits, and beyond those was several-feet-thick gel insulation that protected the ship against the small pieces of debris that floated everywhere in Collective—and Alliance—space. A one-inch chunk of plastic could tear through a foot of metal but only a couple inches of the gel insulation.

The scenery didn't change as Critch ran, and he searched for a stairway. He found one next to a service door. He took the stairs and descended several levels until he was at the lowest level. The floor he emerged onto was wide, and he knew it spanned the length and width of the ship. The ceiling was just high enough for him to run along the walkway without crouching.

He sprinted until he couldn't get enough air and his legs burned. He slowed, then jumped over the railing and onto a conduit line. In the ship's belly, the lines were easily the diameter of three men, making it easier for him to crawl under the low ceiling now that he was off the walkway. He scanned the thick conduit and pipes, ignoring the obvious hiding places and instead moving toward a crevice between two conduits.

He settled between the cold metal and tried to relax, but his adrenaline and pounding heart made it hard. After several minutes, his body caught on and he felt his muscles mellow. Wet with sweat, icy pricks seeped into his skin. He'd have to find a warmer spot or else deal with the prospect of hypothermia. He went to sit up, but lights came on across the ship's belly.

He lay back down and stilled, as though in a tomb. They'd discovered the guard and knew Critch was in the hull, but they couldn't know where. Finding someone who didn't want to be found in the service areas that spanned the entire warship made finding a needle in a haystack a piece of cake.

Critch smiled before a shiver clenched his teeth. He was free from the cell. But he had no water and no food, was in below-freezing temperatures, and was about to have a dromadier army on his ass.