A/N: Welcome back, everybody. Hope you enjoy this next installment.

CMS ROANOKE

Chapter 2

Ellie had no time to warn Buckell or Santos. She yanked the yoke to fling them into a controlled barrel roll as the red mines honed in on their position. Several detonated, shaking the craft and sounding off more alarm systems. They were already at maximum thrust from de-shock, so Ellie screamed them into a maze of debris where they would have a slim chance at out-maneuvering the mines. Deep in the bowels of the ship, the engines whined with the misuse.

"Fire all decoys!" Ellie shouted. "Deploy that shockbeacon!"

"Roger!" Santos and Buckell yelled in tandem. She was tossed forward across the controls as another explosion rocked them.

"Now, goddamn it!" Ellie didn't care about the flyer. But if the shockbeacon was destroyed, Robert wouldn't be able to find them. There was no guarantee that there would be another beacon on any of the derelicts. No, their single beacon held their hopes and survival with it. Isaac would come with it.

From all sides the mines closed in; bright flickers raced through the black void as the decoy attracted a cluster of mines. There was a second's reprieve. Faint, in the belly of the craft, was a gentle thud. The shockbeacon had deployed. No time to feel relief. She banked the flyer away from the beacon and prayed the mines would follow the ship.

Her prayers were answered. More mines closed in, unavoidable like fleas on a mangy dog. Again the flyer was hit, the cockpit was alight with the alarms, as Ellie continued to roll their craft with evasive maneuvers. Their engines had been damaged from the blasts; they were losing speed. It was a matter of time before they would be destroyed.

"Buckell! Santos! We're abandoning ship!" She strained the yoke as far as it could go, narrowly avoided a fast-approaching rank of mines. They bumped together, detonated, and blew a concussive shockwave that sheared some below-deck compartments. "Get to the escape pod!"

Buckell was at her side. "You're coming, goddammit!"

He input the autopilot codes for her as she fumbled with her harness. The flyer continued to howl as low bursts erupted around them. Smoke billowed through the cramped halls as they sprinted along the narrow deck. Ellie stumbled, even with Buckell's firm grip on her arm, toward the escape pod. Metal curled, buckled, and screamed under the strain. Everything was in a chaotic whirl. Explosions continued to tear through the flyer, gutting it, exposing it to airlessness.

Santos already was at the pod's control panel. Her hands flew over buttons and switches and holographic dials. She didn't wait for Buckell or Ellie to strap in before she jettisoned them free of the dying ship. Ellie lost her balance and tumbled into a seat. Limbs numb, she righted herself and managed to click together the harness. Buckell fell into a seat beside her. His soot-smeared features were grim. He looked a hundred years old.

The escape pod was eerily silent, until Santos gasped. "These mines are everywhere! We'll never get past without hitting them."

"Are they detecting us?" Ellie asked. She leaned to see out the windshield. Glowing red mines had scattered everywhere, and the escape pod wouldn't last if one exploded in its proximity. "Do we have any way of detonating them before we go through?"

Santos shook her head. "No on both counts. The mines seem to be programmed for larger ships, so I don't think they'll bother with this little pod. But how can we go forward? No matter how we maneuver, we'll be setting one off."

Ellie glanced around for an idea. There, the airlock. Beside it, the four ancient suits and the rest of their supplies, which Santos had had the forethought to stow. Buckell seemed to be on the same wavelength.

"It's a bad idea," he said, "but one of us'll have to hang on outside and shoot down the mines." He paused, leveling a fatherly look at Ellie. "I'll do it."

Before he had even said it, she shook her head. "No. It should be me."

"You're our pilot and our leader. You're more important to keep alive," he told her. "I'm old and decrepit. What's one more corpse to add to this graveyard?" He gestured with his chin to the dead ships surrounding them. "Besides, Norton'll skin us alive if we put you in unnecessary danger."

Santos swiveled in her chair, her broad nose and gnomish features aglow from the control panel's lights. "Austin's right, Ellie. He's the better shot and has the training."

"And what about his heart?" asked Ellie. "Have we forgotten about that?"

Buckell snorted. "To hell with my bad ticker. I'm oldest and I'm the man and I'm going out there, young lady, and you can't stop me."

"That's just stupid."

"Deal with it," Buckell retorted.

Ellie, overruled, sat back in her seat and watched as Buckell unclipped his harness and went to the glass case with the outdated spacesuits. Buckell had brought with him his seeker rifle, which would be useful outside. He checked the clip and set the gun aside so he could have both hands free to pull on the suit. Everything zipped up and sealed. All lights indicated it was green to go. Then he opened the hatch into the airlock and closed it behind him. It clicked and hissed as it, too, sealed.

As she stewed over his recklessness, she listened for his heavy footsteps. One loud thud echoed in the escape pod as he magnetically clamped to the hull, followed by a series of slow, steady thuds.

"Okay, Santos. I'm locked and loaded," said Buckell over the comm. His voice hissed with static. "Ready when you are."

"The flight path is set. We're aiming for the top of the Roanoke, where I'm certain there will be a dock we can get into. I'll go slowly so you can clear our path."

"Roger that."

The pod's thrusters switched on and they eased forward. Ellie was riveted to the windshield, picking out the malevolent mines. One burst apart- -a white flare, nothing more- -then another, then another. Buckell's pot shots at the mines allowed Santos to guide the pod closer to the Roanoke until the massive ship loomed in front of them, dark, foreboding, abandoned.

Buckell cleared mine after mine after mine. Ellie waited for the inevitable. His voice crackled through the comm, "Sorry, Santos. No more. I'm out of ammo."

"We're nearly there. Hang on."

Another problem presented itself. The closer they came to the Roanoke, the more debris they encountered. Whole sections of broken ships floated in their path, so that Santos had to swerve the pod up or down to avoid hitting them. Sweat gleamed on her brow as she sat hunched over the controls. Ellie dared not speak as Santos squirted past a couple mines that hung dangerously close.

"We're coming up on the service dock, Buckell. You'll have to help the pod into the bay doors," Santos reported. "I can't do it all from here."

"Got it." Buckell thumped the hull. "Be careful up ahead. You don't have a lot of wiggle room."

This close to safety, concentrating on the dock doors ahead, Santos nicked a clump of debris. The hit was enough to shake the pod. Some sharp edges squealed across the hull. Santos cursed. "Buckell? Are you okay?"

"I'm good. Just a few dings here. Nothing major," he reported, but in the same breath, "Shit! Santos, look out!"

A bright blink- -so stark and white it blinded her. Violently Ellie slammed against her harness. Her breath exploded out of her lungs. Her ears rang, but soon cleared. For the second time that day, alarms and warnings shrieked at them. Santos was limp over the controls. Cracks had formed in the windshield.

Ellie unclipped herself to go to Santos. The soreness where the harness had secured her was a punch in the chest. She ignored it. Leaning over the technician, she saw blood seep from a gash on her brow. Her RIG was yellow. "Jennifer?"

Santos was unconscious, but alive. She could wait. Ellie tapped the audio controls. "Buckell? Buckell, are you there?"

Static answered her. Shit. The pod had taken too much damage; they were losing oxygen. She turned to the case containing the spacesuits. But she hesitated, mistrusting them. Then she berated herself for the pause. Santos had run a check on these suits; they wouldn't be compromised. Ellie didn't think about that as she jammed her legs and arms in the appropriate holes. She had to know what happened to Buckell. As she zipped up, the airlock chimed, and the hatch popped open.

Buckell stumbled in. His hand pressed his side, where a deep red dripped. The blood stained the suit, spread with terrifying speed. Buckell's face was ashen.

"A mine…stuck in the," he gasped before he collapsed, his RIG pulsing with emergency red.

Ellie tore the med-kit off the wall of the pod. She gently pulled Buckell's hand from the wound. Small metallic bits and pieces had embedded in Buckell's suit and a larger piece had reached skin and tissue. Experience guided her hands. When they were safe, she could take out as much shrapnel as possible and sew him up. He was old, but he was stalwart. He'd make it. The best she could do is to pack the wound to stop the bleeding and pump him full of medical gel.

She did that, hoisted his limp body from in front of the airlock. The blast had done them a favor, pushing them closer to the Roanoke and the dock Santos had mentioned. Ellie tried the controls. They were unresponsive. Guess I'm going outside for a bit, she thought, and donned the rest of the suit. Everything flashed green.

After stepping into the airlock, she secured the door behind her, took a steadying breath, and hit the sequence of buttons to initiate decompression. Once the airlock was open, she used her suit's stabilizers to glide out. The pod was unwieldy, clunky, but she guided it to the bay doors. She'd have to enter the Roanoke and unlock the doors before she could get the pod in.

There was an airlock next to the dock, so she checked that first. Kinesis was a convenience, not a necessity, to their ancestors 200 years ago. Luckily, all she had to do was yank out the circular wheel and muscle it in the right direction. It wouldn't budge, but she was desperate and strong, and it gave in after she jimmied it with a length of thin rebar. She spun it a few times until the hatch unsealed and unlocked, opening for her.

Inside the ship was dark. Not because there was no light, but because the metal was a dark grey, almost black. Undaunted, she shut the airlock hatch behind her, cranked the wheel until it locked, sealed, and her suit hissed as atmosphere was returned to the airlock. So there was air and gravity, she thought and unlatched her helmet. Those were positive.

Dust made her cough. Fine grit carpeted the metal floors, and the entire place reeked of must and stillness. Under the must was a sinister stink. And where there should be a chill in the air was a damp humidity that she was all too familiar with. The moist heat was needed to change cells, to mutate dead flesh into something living, to change oxygen into toxic gas.

The Roanoke was not wholly abandoned.

A/N: And play the dramatic music! Next chapter to be posted Jan. 25th. See you then!