The pressure alarms kept ringing as Solon punched the door seal control and let the metal barrier slam shut. His close-shaven head felt like bronze bells from a steeple were swinging violently against the inside of his skull. Then the attack alarm began.
"Solon!" The comms panel burst into life. On a laughably small screen he could see the dregs of the crew crowding around the bulkhead with improvised weapons and instruments of punishment. Their semi-articulate, semi-leader, a kitchen-hand named Ang was leaning into his side of the door.
Solon rubbed his smooth chin and ignored the image of the corridor outside. "You brought this on us, Jonah!" Ang bellowed. "You cursed us. We've had nothing but trouble since we took you aboard!" Solon tapped the 'mute' switch with his thumb. All his attempts at civility had come to nothing. The promise of wealth and infamy had lost its sheen.
He looked around his cramped quarter and assessed each of his belongings with cold precision. But nothing was worth anything in his current situation. The only thing that mattered was in the hold of the ship. The only thing that was driving him to escape was hidden among contraband and trinkets. And totally out of reach. Any further assessment was interrupted by a hunched figure stepping from the shadow. Surprised, Solon froze. It was the ship's indolent captain. Solon's lower left eyelid twitched briefly. The captain's forehead had been improved with the addition of a forked gash in the skin. Solon had often thought of demolishing that forehead himself and thought he would like to commend whoever had inflicted the mark. However, the artist concerned probably had grander designs on Solon's own physiognomy.
"Please leave," Solon requested with every grain of calm that he could feign. He looked to the water cooler to emphasize his indifference. "I need some space to think." The alarms continued.
"You told me we were rescuing refugees, Solon." A misshapen fist slammed against the veneer of the bulkhead.
"We are rescuing someone, Captain. Someone of great historic importance." Solon slapped his hand against the other man's upper arm. "Behave like a freighter captain. Or were you just boasting with all those pirate stories?"
The Captain rubbed his arm, then wiped his forehead. He started to wag his finger in Solon's face. "That's not some kids with a hot-wired yacht." His eyes rolled up to the wailing collision alarm. "I figured it out. That's the Time Lords following us. Or more likely their Special Forces. God, we're screwed. I'm surprised we still have all our limbs." He looked in terror at his hands as if expecting them to turn to dust at any second. There were tales of what the Time Lords could do.
Solon knew precisely how the Time Lords operated. And their turgid committees had allowed him to walk in and walk out of a public execution. Now he needed someone of equal determination to assist him. "Don't be pathetic, Captain." He grabbed the tips of the hands and held them up like trophies. "This shows that you live. No-one erases you. If you're going to die - when you die - it's going to be like every other ball of cells in the galaxy. Now, how do you motivate this lot on an ongoing basis? Surely there's a stirring speech in you somewhere." He tried to meet the Captain's blinking gaze, tried to get him stable.
"No, Solon." The Captain shook his head. "They listen because we all share in the rewards. We work together as a team. We're a family."
"Such garbage," said Solon. "I've seen you kick your closest friend and spit on the cook. Get some words together and make these people steer us all out of danger." Somehow he had to transform this contemptible idiot into the savior of his own plan.
"Us? You mean 'you'!" The Captain's eyes bulged. He was torn between murder and insanity.
Solon could only take his own advice. This was his only opportunity. His hand held the Captain's lower jaw like a quiet exhibit, fit only for contemplation. "I mean we can all die. And we can all live. Let's all pull this ship out of whatever trouble it's in."
The Captain braced himself against the wall holding his head. "It's too much, Solon. You've brought everything down on us." Solon maintained his stare. The Captain had to make his own decisions now. "An explosion in the primary power. A navigation error trapping us in these asteroids. Snub fighters picking at our shields." His eyes turned to Solon, flames behind the dark pupil. "A mutiny in my loyal crew."
"And your conclusion, Captain?" he challenged. His stare wrestled back at every possible response, dared the other man to choose a coward's path.
The Captain thought and became still, knowing what his only answer could be. "If you open the door, we'll kill you quick," said the Captain.
Solon sighed. There seemed now only one last agreeable way of escape.
:::
Ang was losing control of the men and women in the corridor.
"Smash it in!" The galley hands waved implements that were barely sharp enough to prepare food.
"Smash the Jonah!" The freight handlers gripped packing hooks in massive fists.
"Smash everything!" The engineers mocked their colleagues and their exuberance. "We'll fix it later."
Their anger was shifting focus to each other and to him. "Move out of the way. Get him off the ship! You said he'd be easy to find."
"Pipe down!" Ang shouted. "We'll have the electronics shorted out in a few minutes." He stared anxiously at a dirt-covered info tablet. Still no messages from the tech rats.
A hiss from the door frame made them jump. The strip lighting started to flicker.
"Bulkhead's gone!" shouted Ang. The air around them chilled instantly. Cold mingled with darkness and the howl of escaping oxygen and nitrogen escalated to the demonic scream of approaching death. Ang curled his fingers into the deck-plates and cursed Solon one last time.