He pulled himself over to the command console and chair, and righted himself in preparation for the restoration of gravity. That done, he held himself in position, boots pressed against the floor.
‘Ready to reactivate, sir,’ Harper said.
‘Sergeant Price, prepare for one g.’
‘Aye.’
‘In five—’ Samson gave Harper the nod ‘—two, one.’
Unlike a ship with a more expensive generator—or even one in a better state of maintenance—where it was restored gradually, pulling you back to the floor gently, gravity on Arlen’s Bounty came back all in one go. He felt his weight return, and his joints compress. It was jarring and unpleasant, but nothing more. Far more gruesome was the sound of Arlen’s body hitting the deck, and the splash as the floating blood joined him.
Samson sat on the command chair, the back of which was threadbare. The seat bore a permanent imprint of someone’s backside. Probably Arlen’s. He woke up the instrument panel, and looked over the data. A red flashing icon told him what he had already suspected—the ship’s power plant wasn’t functioning properly and every system was operating on minimal supply. If what he had seen of the ship so far was anything to go by, the engines and capacitors were probably covered in a layer of grease and dirt that was older than he was. In all likelihood, a little attention from his people would get it running well enough to make its way back to wherever Captain Stettin wanted to take the vessel. The important fact was that everything was functioning at a sufficient level.
Although all their movements and voice communications were monitored by the Sidewinder, Samson reckoned it was time to make a proper report.
‘Samson to Captain Stettin.’
‘Go for Stettin.’
‘Ship appears to be secure. One crew member who resisted, now deceased.’ He cast a glance over to the blood-splattered section of the bridge surrounding Arlen’s corpse. On an old rust-bucket like this, cleaning was done the old-fashioned way, and that was one order he’d feel bad giving. ‘All systems appear to be functional. We’re scanning the computer now, and the Marines are carrying out a visual inspection of all pressurised compartments to make sure there aren’t any surprises waiting for us.’
‘Good work, Lieutenant. Once you’ve carried out a full inspection, send me an update. All being well, I’ll leave you where you are to bring the ship in.’
Samson allowed himself a smile. A boarding action and a prize command on the same day. If they managed to get the ship back to port, there would be prize money for him at some point in the not-too-distant future. Perhaps the Frontier wasn’t so bad after all. There would have been no opportunities for a prize command, or prize money, serving on a capital ship back in one of the Core Systems.
Samson relaxed into the chair and wondered if things were starting to look up, or if he had used up all his luck in one go. One way or the other, it was good news so far, and he was happy to take it.
Samson took another look down at the corpse sprawled on the tarnished and scratched deck plates. The body was twisted unnaturally—a gruesome sight.
The adrenaline of the boarding action was fading fast, leaving him feeling drained. Seeing Arlen’s lifeless body had a similar effect on his mood. He was a man in his early fifties, by the look of it. Judging by his dress and personal appearance, he hadn’t made a success out of life—if running an old junker of a freighter out on the Frontier wasn’t proof enough.
There was a sense of unease in Samson’s gut that he hadn’t been able to put his finger on—that lurking notion of unfinished business that prevents you from relaxing completely. Looking at Arlen made him realise what it was—why would this old man have judged it worth firing on heavily-armed Marines? Death by Navy? Might he have been protecting something? A smuggled cargo? Samson wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery before one of his eager crewmates beat him to it.
Perhaps he was just another cracked spacer who had spent too long on his own and couldn’t cope with people invading his little kingdom. Or perhaps there was more to it than that. If he’d had the sense to make sure his transponder was working, he’d probably still be alive and heading to wherever it was he’d been heading. Samson knew the statistics would disagree with him on it, but he reckoned bad decisions were the number one killer in the Union.
‘Where are you at with the computer?’ Samson said, still staring at the dead eyes. If he was to command the ship back to the depot, he’d have to get the bridge cleaned up. None of his boarding crew had pissed him off enough to draw the duty on themselves, so fate would have to decide.
‘I’m in,’ Harper said, pulling Samson from his thoughts of mops and buckets.
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Where was he headed?’
‘Capsilan Two,’ Harper said.
Samson thought for a moment. Capsilan Two was the most populous planet in that sector, and the unofficial capital. That wasn’t to say it was a hub of civilisation—there was only one town, and perhaps ten thousand people on the entire planet. As much as humanity needed room to expand, there were few willing to forego the comforts of life in the Core for the decades it would take to develop them on a Frontier planet.
Most trade from this sector of Frontier space back to the Core Systems passed through Capsilan Two, so for what it was worth, it was the centre of things for this part of space. Samson wondered what might draw a fringe-dweller like the man lying on the deck to the
