Free Penance (RN: Book 2) by David Gunner

sagging at her terminal. Blood ran freely from the red soaked bandage covering her right eye, with the front of her grey jacket now matted burgundy from congealed blood. What facial skin remained visible beneath the bandage was deathly white with her left eye dark ringed and depressed, seemingly painted on. She sat hunched forward and tilting to the left, threatening to topple at any minute, yet still her fingers pecked at the crimson encrusted keyboard
    “My God! Cummings!” cried Denz. He rushed to catch her slumping form and push her upright. Cummings appeared not to notice his presence and sagged like a cloth doll against his supporting hand, her body flaccid as the blood loss took its toll. Denz’s jaw wagged but despair stole his words until the anguish overflowed and his call for help filled the bridge. “Help!” He cried. “Someone help me here. You, Medic! Leave that man and come and help Cummings. I think she’s dead!”
    The next moments were a blur to Denz as grief stole his experiences and training to leave behind an impudent and feeble old man who could only hinder. His actions were those of a drunk with every blink stealing great scenes from what passed as people moved about him at insane speeds.
    Canthouse beside him in an instant, Cummings’s head pushed back, check the dilated pupil, two fingers on her carotid artery; a shake of the head. Medical staff jostle Denz aside as they push for access. Cummings’s limp form slid to the floor. One, two, three lift - to the rear of the bridge. Denz follows offering weak instruction, too many bodies crowd her. He couldn’t see, he wanted to see, they needed to take care. A flat monotone. Raised voices: no pulse, no pulse. A tube in her forearm. Clasped hands compress her chest, again and again. Fingers on her neck, another shake of the head. Cummings on a stretcher and out the door. Denz stands weak and useless as he watches them take her, watches the door slide shut. More to himself than anybody he tells them they needed to take care; that she was his ... that s he was his.
     
     

Chapter 5
     
    Avery leaned against a support column of the engine room with his arms crossed, as a slim moustachioed man in orange overalls pointed at the second furthest concentric ring in a series of eight that diminished in size as the followed the narrowing hull to the rear. He had understood the problem from the get-go, but the chief engineer insisted on a further elaborate explanation as to how the creatures bite had indented the rear hull displacing rings six and seven, pushing them beyond critical alignment and affecting the ship’s ability to gate.
    Avery’s eyes narrowed from impatience and stress, “So can we gate or not?” There was nothing he could do here and he had other critical duties to perform. Repairing the hull and realigning the rings required a major dockyard, so why the engineer insisted on holding him here, he had no idea.
    A man of few unnecessary words, the chief engineer narrowed his gaze in return, with his bushy eye brows separating from his mop of wild black hair just enough for his short thick forehead to become visible as stared at Avery as if here were a simpleton. The chief engineer chewed his tongue, something he did when pensive, which hollowed his cheeks to an unnatural degree and making his pale face appear more gaunt than usual.
    “I don’t think you’re hearing me when I speak. That ring there, and that one,” the chief engineer pointed to the rearmost drive rings as he spoke, “they’re out of alignment, but the engine was designed to jump with five rings, with the others being ancillaries. So yes, we can still gate out but it’ll take the torol a bit longer to generate and we’ll lose some top end. Take a bit longer getting there, so, but we’ll get there.” He began chewing his tongue again.
    Avery followed the engineer’s pointing finger for pure effect. Like most of the crew, he had a basic understanding of how the