Jack in a Box

TW: Violence, death, gore, and septic tanks.

“Why would we go back?” asked Jack, drinking water which had been purified from the waste of the entire crew. Far from putting him off, Jack found that funny. Others rarely shared his mirth when he pointed out the closed water system on spaceships. He was a student of life in the void. No matter how many resits it took.

“Because Copernicus is starving. The Pierce Dynasty will hold the blockade until they all die or surrender!” Doctor Annie Brie yelled, holding her cup of instant coffee. 

“Exactly.” Jack nodded. He hoped the doctor saw that she had made the argument against her own proposition.

“How are you seeing this from the other side?” Annie asked, sipping her coffee with the grimace dehydrated artificial coffee required.

“Two functional eyes.” Jack pointed out the blue fronted orbs either side of his nose.

“You’re a cold hearted bastard.” Annie slammed her cup down on the metal table between them. The frayed stitching of her blue medical overalls suggested her name was Annic 3r e.

“Half right. I’m pretty sure my parents were married before they made me. Maybe I’m cold hearted or maybe I’m logical enough to see that taking the ship back to Copernicus is suicide.” Sawing at something that pretended it was steak, Jack looked with envy at the believable rice porridge in the bowl of the other engineer, Max.

“Does your toolbox have to be on the table?” asked Max Axel. “I prefer my rice without rust in it.” He pinged the cuboid of steel that formed an entirely inadequate barrier between Annie and Jack.”

“We’re going back to Copernicus to deliver supplies as we were paid to do,” said Captain Eliza Erdman. “If you have a problem with it, I can terminate your contract now.” The captain cleared her throat and sat at the table with space for ten. “Your repairs on the work have been excellent and I’m sure Max is benefitting greatly from your tutelage but we’re not going back on our word.”

“Then I have more work to do. If there’s anything I’d hate more than a fiery death in space it’s spending another moment on Hellebore.” Max smiled as Jack stuffed down what was left of the printed steak. 

The acne ridden engineer Axel stuffed down his rice and burped appreciatively. “Better out than in,” he said, shrugging in response to the frowns of the other crewmates. He stuffed his bowl in the dishwasher next to Jack’s plate. Max jogged after the long legged collection of burn scars who had been teaching him new and wildly more efficient ways to merge metals.

Jack checked his magnetic boot batteries then the atmospheric integrity of the EVA suit he always used. Max did the same, eager to avoid a lecture from the oddly scarred health and safety goblin.

“Every time,” said the older man, scratching his mud coloured hair before he donned the helmet.

“I know,” said the young man. Max felt the same way about being lectured as Jack did about Hellebore. “What is it you hate about the planet?”

“Apart from the whole place smelling of fart?” asked Jack? He shrugged. “I like to be on a ship. I like the gentle vibrations of the engine. I like the smell of metal around me. Having a horizon I can’t hit with a wrench gives me a headache.”

An hour of friction stir welding later the last holes in the hull of the Fairweather were gone.

“We need to check the ribs now. A blow like this would have put dangerous stress on the whole thing. We need to find weak points and reinforce them before they bend or snap while we’re on the move.”

“And triple check the integrity of the secondary hull.”

Jack mimed snapping his fingers and nodded.

“Don’t you at least prefer the food on a planet?” Max asked while squeezing out of his suit. As the other man was, he checked it for damage as he went.

“I guess.” Massaging his aching hands, Jack brushed off dust from the white surface of his suit. Nicest space suit I’ve ever had, he thought. “I’m used to ship rations though. Real food just tastes,” he paused mid sentence to find the right word. “Overwhelming. Having better is great but it’s not worth the unease I feel when I’m on a rock that isn’t moving.”

Hours passed of them checking joints and ribs between the outer and the secondary hull. The younger engineer complained that the work was claustrophobic. The veteran didn’t mind.

As per Jack’s predictions they found numerous new weak points in the ship’s hull, far beyond the point of impact. The find delayed the Fairweather’s departure by a further two days while the engineers strengthened the damaged ribs and replaced broken nuts and bolts.

Jack slept through most of the journey to Copernicus. He helped offload supplies from another freighter captained by someone smart enough not to cross a Pierce Dynasty blockade.

Millions of motion tracking mines circled the planet in geosynchronous orbit. Only one battle cruiser had been deemed necessary to guard the now encircled world.

“Remaining crew of the Fairweather, leave this planet immediately or be fired upon. You were shown mercy previously as I had assumed you would learn from the unnecessary loss of life and never return. I do not grant second chances.” The voice of the Pierce Dynasty captain was cold and riddled with the assurance of a privileged life.

“You’re sure about this?” Eliza asked. Her grey eyes searched Jack’s for hints of madness.

“It’s not the first time I’ve done this, Captain. Just get the slingshot right. I don’t want to hit the atmosphere without a parachute. Or worse, a mine.” Without more than that, the battle scarred mechanic checked himself out of an air lock. It had to be on the far side of the ship from the PDs so that they didn’t see the hatch emergency lights flashing.

Jack gripped a handle on the outside of the hatch as the ship accelerated in a semicircle. Using the momentum, the engineer flung himself towards the other ship. Making minute course corrections with his atmospheric jets, he set a collision course. It was going to hurt. That was fine. He had his toolbox strapped to his back. Everything he needed.

Crossing the thousands of kilometers from ship to ship was painfully slow. The view of the new colony was impressive for the first half an hour. From then on it was as tedious as drying paint.

The trick was to use atmospheric jets right before the moment of impact. The difference between collision at the velocity of the departing Fairweather and after he hit the jets was enough to turn an instantaneously fatal splat into a merely painful thud.

Jack’s magnetic boots had only been turned on ten minutes prior to impact. They anchored him for the next phase of the plan. He cut through the outer hull, releasing the air within to the void. Sad as he was to waste precious oxygen, there was no other way.

Having pushed a flap of hull inside, he pressed it back into place and friction stir welded it shut again. The feeble lights of his EVA suit were passable in the perfect darkness between the outer and middle hull of the battle cruiser. He glued the clip on magnetic soles of his boots to the hull. They would make too much clanging noise as he moved.

The first stop was the oxygen tanks between the middle and inner hull. To access the crawl space between them he had to deactivate the notification procedure for the hatch. Twenty minutes of cutting through a control box and splicing wires gave him a door he could use whenever he liked without any lights or alarms tattling on him on the bridge.

With his oxygen gauge in the orange and heading for red, he was loath to pull the same trick with the indicator on the giant tank of precious air. Warnings flashed on his wrist as the carbon dioxide hit critical levels. His reactions slowed. His vision became hazy.

Nearly there. Hurry the fuck up, Jack.

Crossing proverbial fingers he plugged his suit into the plug for the oxygen tank and waited for the headrush of fresh air. A different kind of headache came on as he adjusted to the high levels.

Now that’s a wake up call. How’s the gauge? Exactly the same. With the instrument working for him, Jack flooded the inner hull with oxygen. The atmosphere reader in his toolbox told him everything was safe.

Meal time. He unwrapped a ration bar from his toolbox and scoffed it down. He’d opted for the high calorie options. Only what could fit in his already crammed toolbox. Don’t think about the tank on your back filling up with excrement. Or the tube up your ass. Beats wearing a diaper like the ‘good old days’, he thought.

The only other time he’d infiltrated a ship to sabotage it he had been working with pirates more than capable of finishing off a paralyzed vessel. It didn’t matter that he had done so under duress, a lesson learned was a skill acquired. Without backup, he would have to work with more patience and finesse.

Traveling through the void with three homemade bombs had been nerve wracking. Jack was glad to be rid of them as he glued them to the inner, middle and outer hull. That task alone took two hours. Crawling between the ribs in a space barely wide enough for him and his EVA suit with the attached oxygen and septic tanks.

Space is so glamorous, Jack thought.

The oxygen tanks near the hulls were only failsafes. The big tanks were inside the ship at the fore and aft. He took control of all of the monitoring systems within the hull; for atmosphere, doors and most importantly, the power to the weapons systems. All he had to do was set a time on the dozens of cork sized clock switches. The doors would open. The oxygen would vent. The electrics would turn off.

Charging his drill from the ship’s batteries, Jack used a carbide bit to bore through inner walls between the vacuum doors that would shut in an emergency to save the air inside. He had to listen for the vibrations of footsteps using a pocket stethoscope to avoid drawing attention. Drilling only where the walls met the ribs, he hoped the holes would be hidden in shadow.

He’d been aboard the PD Anathema for seventeen hours when the prospect of ending the lives of the Pierce Dynasty crew hit him. They’re killing everyone down on Copernicus, he told himself. It did nothing to untie the knot in his stomach.

The last step was drilling into the bridge. It was the most risky move of all. All he needed was to make the PD Anathema’s nerve center unusable. If a few of the callus crew survived that didn’t matter. There were inner compartments which would have oxygen as long as no one opened the doors.

Drilling through most of the hull in a dozen places, Jack finished the rest of the holes with a manual screwdriver. He hoped the cabin pressure sensors weren’t particularly sensitive. It wouldn’t matter. All of the clock switches would be triggered in half an hour. Jack had a full tank of oxygen.

One turn. Two turns. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. The resistance stopped suddenly as the carbide drill bit pushed through the inner hull into the bridge. Jack held his breath.

Keep going. One turn. Two. Four. Six. Eight. Again he felt the carbide slip into the air beyond the inner hull.

“Deck Officer Benson, what are you looking at?” The voice was old, worn with the gravel of many years of drinking. A common vice for star sailors.

Shit. Jack froze. His drill was four turns into another hole.

“Just my daughter sir. It was her birthday.” It was a young voice, of an age with Max.

Don’t say that. Jack closed his eyes. Seven turns. Done. Numbers counted down on his wrist watch. Twelve minutes.

“She’s adorable, Officer Benson. Just keep an eye on your station. Is that a frog?”

“Yes sir. No, it's a unicorn. I bought that for her sir.”

“Right anyway. Back to work.”

“Aye sir.”

Done.

“Did you hear that?” A third voice was that of a woman. She sounded young as well, somewhere in years between the captain and the father of the unicorn fan.

“Hear what?” asked the captain.

“A scratching sound, Sir. Coming from over there.”

Oh fuck. Eleven minutes. Oxygen in the green.

Footsteps reverberated on a floor beyond that was lower than he’d presumed. Wincing, he realised he must have been drilling halfway up the wall.

“There are holes, Sir.” Light beyond vanished as fingers traced where Jack had drilled through. “Metal dust on the floor.”

“Let me see,” said the captain with long suffering impatience. “What the hell?”

Jack’s heart began to beat an endless drumroll. He wanted to run but there was nowhere to go that wouldn’t take him closer to a service hatch. “SOUND THE ALARM. THERE’S SOMEONE IN THE WALLS.”

Hulls, moron. Jack scuttled away through the hull with his trusted toolbox in his left hand. A deep whining moan rose and fell. He could hear and feel it through the steel and led of the inner hull.

Can’t go that way. That’s where the bombs are. He turned.

“Where are you, rat?” The fourth voice was stern and that of someone quick to anger.

Can’t run. Can’t hide. Dammit. Jack pulled a welding torch from his tool box and turned to wait for his predator.

“I can hear you,” said the malicious voice. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.” The beam of a headlamp momentarily blinded Jack as he backed away.

Nine minutes.

“There you are.” The smile on the man’s face was wide as he floated towards the engineer with a long kitchen knife in hand. He was in his Pierce Dynasty naval uniform but not a space suit. He could move faster than Jack. “I’ve got him,” he yelled with his chiseled jaw open wide.

Igniting his oxy-acetylene torch, the stowaway winced at the flash as high oxygen fed the flame to grow to unusual length. Using the muscular man’s flinch as an opening, Jack kicked off a rib behind him, launching himself at the soldier flame first.

The blood curdling scream the burnt man emitted would have done Sheb Wooley proud. Jack winced inside his suit. Come on. Hurry up.

“Lieutenant Wilhelm?” called a voice from the hatch in front of Jack. He turned off the torch and backed away from the man who had passed out from shock. The knife floated in the air between them.

He cut me. Jack realised his suit arm had a slash across it. He fumbled for his duct tape, fingers shaking with adrenaline he was unused to. Flashes of previous traumas had to be pushed aside.

Eight minutes. Just eight minutes.

“Mark. Did you get him?”

“Lieutenant Wilhelm, what’s happening?” came the captain’s voice.

Jack backed away. He only had eight minutes to retrieve his magnetic boots. Ignoring voices behind him he pulled himself through the bowels of the ship towards his waiting boots.

Six minutes. He clipped on the metal soles. All I need to do is stay safe for Five and a half minutes. Fuck. Why did I volunteer for this?

Clanging noises echoed from every direction. The grizzly burns of Lieutenant Wilhelm that were tattooing themselves on Jack’s mind seemed to be giving his comrades caution.

Five minutes.

Four.

Three.

“We’re going to kill you, bilgerat,” said a voice from the bow.

“You’re gonna fucking die,” growled someone from the stern.

“Nowhere to go, asshole,” whispered someone above him.

Two minutes. “I hope you all have your EVA suits on?” He lit the flame and held it up. The image of the fire swam in his eyes because he’d fought the urge to blink.

“ARGH!” Flesh melted into hideous shapes as the sailor screamed, dropping a stun gun. Jack grabbed the gun from the air as it spun.

One minute. Oh fuck. Here it comes.

“Let’s get him.”

Forty-five seconds.

Lets see how well you breathe in space.

Thirty.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

BOOM!