Free First Fleet #1-4: The Complete Saga by Stephen Case Page B

and Hammersmith’s report. The two ships remained motionless, relative to one another. The only sign of movement were the stars swinging in wide scythe-like arcs around them both. The Captain of the Grenada grew listless. This was taking too long. The boarders should have reported in by now.
    “ Grenada , this is Command. What is the status of your men?”
    “Unknown, Command. We’re still reading their life-signs, but we have been unable to reestablish contact. Please advise.”
    A transmission broke in.
    “This is Ajax.” The voice was strained. “They’re talking to me.”
    The captain leaned forward. “Who are?”
    There was no hint of static in the transmission. The words were clear. The silence between them was sharp and defined.
    “I see it. My blood. I hear it…”
    Someone was breathing into a communication unit. The breaths were heavy and labored.
    There was a flash of red light from within the broken side of the ship. A figure emerged, careening end over end. It was Hammersmith. He righted himself with tiny fingers of compressed air from his thin-suit and barreled toward the waiting Grenada .
    “Command, this is Grenada . We’ve lost contact with Ajax.”
    “Confirmed, Grenada ,” said the distant voice. “Do not allow entry to the boarding party.”
    There was silence for a long moment. Hammersmith had reached the Grenada ’s airlock and was pounding on its tiny, transparent portal. The sound echoed through the scout ship like a gavel crashing down.
    “Command, please repeat.”
    “Do not allow members of your boarding party to enter.”
    There was a low, keening wail on the transmission.
    “Switching to closed channel, Grenada .”
    The pounding was fainter now. The anguished cry cut out.
    “ Hamilton is now designated an extreme biohazard. Proceed to next search coordinate.”
    The Grenada’s captain cleared his throat. “Roger that, Command. Grenada is underway.”
    The scout ship veered away from the Hamilton’s wreckage with enough acceleration to tear off the man still clinging on to the airlock. The figure tumbled, end over end, back towards the Hamilton . By the time Grenada had jumped to the next search coordinate, the figure had become indistinguishable against the ring of debris circling the dead ship.

Fourteen
    C am was in the attic , staring at the body in the pod. There was only a week left now until resupply. Though the process was largely automated, there was simply no room for it. The cargo units that contained the water, food, sundry, requested tools, and medical supplies would completely fill the room.
    She had to decide what to do with the body. Soon.
    The regeneration was nearly complete. There were no longer signs of facial or cranial trauma. There was simply a sleeping man, in perhaps his thirties or very early forties, suspended in the blue-green gel of the res-pod. The power drain to Station had dropped in sync with the near completion of the regeneration, and the major tissue damage all over the body had been repaired. Now it was drawing just enough to keep its occupant suspended and alive. Soon it would be ready to wake.
    She and Paul had discussed their options that morning while the twins were in class. The week before, Paul had finally prevailed on her to take the elevator up to station and investigate the pod herself.
    “I was right,” she had explained to him. “It’s far too small to have a jump-set. It must have made its way here via the light lines.”
    “So we can just send it back the way it came. Won’t it keep the guy alive until it finds a military ship or something?”
    “It will have logged its time here. And before you ask—no. No matter what you say about how wonderful I am with computer logs, I can’t re-construct or alter the trajectory and manifest logs of a military transport. Which means whoever finds it could trace it back to us, and ask why we didn’t report it.”
    “Can we bring it down here?”
    “It’s too large for the