“What, no somersault?” said Tris. Brice ignored his jealousy.
The door to the cabin ran on a self-contained system, and slid back when Brice pushed the release. With the tilt of the Proteus, the opening was at head height. He grabbed the frame and jumped, balancing on the thin lip, his lattice pushing and pulling at his muscles, synchronised to keep him from tipping too far either way. He smiled, relishing the control.
It was dark, the dim glow from the bridge failing to penetrate beyond a metre or so. Brice called up night filters on his lenses, and objects glowed green. He added other filters, and the image morphed into something almost like normal. Almost, but everything had an indistinct edge, like a dream.
“Be back in a bit,” he said.
“Be back when you’ve done a thorough check,” said Cathal.
“That’s what I meant.”
He jumped and let the door seal behind him.
The cabin was about twice the size of the bridge. For this mission, Cathal had ordered standard config, so there was a table in the middle, and a bench along the wall that was now at his feet. The bench was locked upright, which made walking across it so much easier.
He started at the crew’s quarters. He’d never liked that term, and didn’t care that it was traditional. The fractional sound of it just reminded him how small each one was.
Five of them, of course, little more than pods in the wall. Five quarters—something else that annoyed Brice. Each contained storage and a mattress, giving just enough space to sleep.
Home away from home, Cathal always said. Brice was never sure if he was joking.
Cathal insisted that communal spaces were kept as clear as possible, and Keelin didn’t like anything interfering with the smooth lines of her baby. But the quarters were personal. So Tris had pictures stuck to the ceiling of his—real pictures rather than projections—and Brice wondered how Data-boy could sleep with all those faces staring down at him. Keelin had a few extra cushions on her red fleece topper, and Ryann had crisp white bedding against green mottled walls that, he assumed, reminded her of the forest or something. Brice’s quarters were nothing special, and although Cathal said they were a mess, Brice just thought of them as his.
Of course, Cathal stuck to standard-issue bedroll and plain walls.
Brice sealed up each of the quarters as he checked it, then moved on to the storage units and kitchen area. Everything was in its place—tools, utensils, foodstuffs, extra clothing. And their pathetic array of weapons.
Brice loved firearm training, and he’d looked forward to using those weapons in the field. But the company didn’t allow that. Kaiahive were setting up outposts, not invading enemy territory. The area had been scanned by drones, and there was no need for lethal weapons. Even the warths were not dangerous if left to themselves.
And so, for the sake of the company’s image, the crews had no firepower. Everyone held a lash, true, but these only sent out a short burst of energy. Hit a warth with one, and if you got it right, you might knock the beast over. And, as the company said, that should give you enough time to get the hell out of there.
So their weapons were next to useless.
Of course, the company allowed them to carry knives. But they were tools, not weapons. They were for cutting through undergrowth, not for hacking at living things.
He pushed through the door into the heads, and nothing was amiss—two shower cubicles, toilet, couple of sinks. The mirrored storage was sealed and, when he opened it, nothing moved. Another of Cathal’s demands—always use webbing. Just in case.
<No problems so far,> he sussed. Of course there weren’t. This task was pointless, something that had to be done to tick a box in Cathal’s mental check-list. As usual, Brice got the donkey-work.
And why? Because he was green. To Cathal, he’d always be the newbie, and he’d never be good enough.
Brice pulled out of the heads, shutting the slightly lemony, slightly medical smell behind him. Just the hatches left to check.
There were two of them, the main hatch to port (now over Brice’s head), and the smaller reserve hatch in the topside. As far as Brice could tell, that was one of the few times the company actually put major money into a safety feature. Of course, they had little choice after that crew had been trapped in the burning Proteus. They talked of learning lessons, and of ensuring those lives had not been lost in vain, but it was clear what they were doing—limiting damages. As usual, they were looking after their own backs.
But they did install reserve hatches in all craft after that.
Brice had only ever used one in training, crawling through the hatch as dense smoke filled the craft, his lattice warning him of danger that he knew was only a simulation programmed by the trainers. But he’d still felt the adrenaline rush.
The door was circular, with a number pad in the middle. He keyed in the release code, not wishing to use the emergency over-ride. That would trigger all kinds of signals, and probably annoy the hell out of Keelin. And then Cathal would have a go at him for upsetting his crew, like he wasn’t supposed to even be there.
The door hissed and dropped back, swinging on heavy hinges. The movement was quicker than Brice expected, and he stumbled out of the way, putting a hand out to steady himself but falling anyway. The impact jarred him, and for a moment his lenses flashed, and a sharp bolt of pain surged through his head.
He swore under his breath and brought a hand up to his temple, where he’d struck the wall. It felt tender, and he winced as his fingers probed. Shaking his head to clear the grogginess, he punched the hatch door. Stupid, pointless job! There was nothing to find. Any problems would
