Chapter 4: Salvage some of the guns
Toby was outside the bridge screaming loudly at a brawny crewman who was trying to tell him that the captain did not want to be bothered with demands to know what was going on - he was busying captaining.
I wondered what had possessed me to go out with him. Loneliness, desire for approval, a chance to experiment? What?
I was suddenly glad he'd broken up with me the night before. This way I didn't have to worry about offending him.
"Toby," I said to him, "shut up."
He stared at me.
"What did you say?"
"I said shut up. I apologise for not realising you are deaf." He gaped. "Face it. We're just passengers now. Find something useful to do and stop bothering the crew."
"And what are you doing?"
"Captain wants to see her," the dark-haired one who'd escorted me shrugged. "I didn't ask why." I squeezed past Toby and through the bridge hatch, opened a crack to permit me, then slammed shut again. His outraged sputtering was abruptly cut off.
Captain Holloway was bent over a navigational chart. I read it upside-down; we were hiding behind a convenient moon, but it wouldn't last. The battle was over; the Cylons had moved on.
We'd lost.
"Ah, Miss Kendall," he said to me. "I understand you know a lot about Vipers?"
"Well, sort of. My grandfather worked on them during the Cylon… the last Cylon war," I corrected myself. "His maintenance manual has become something of a family heirloom." The maid who tidied my room had noticed it and commented. "I've got that and his notes just about memorised, but it's at least a decade out of date and it's just book knowledge."
"It's better than we've got. I want to scoop up some of the wrecked space-craft out there and see if we can salvage some of the guns and ammunition. Get that manual and head down to cargo bay three."
"My room's in the section that got depressurised when the lounge window blew. I can't get in there yet." Every space-suit would be in use, I was willing to bet.
"Alright. We'll manage without it. Get down there anyway." I didn't mind he was being rude; he had enough problems to deal with. Damage control, repairs, supplies, and most importantly of all, not getting us killed.
I was glad I wasn't in charge. The thought of that responsibility made me shudder. No way did I want that!
Toby was still yelling; I went past him at the run. By the time I got down to the cargo bay, people in EVA gear were hauling in wreckage. Most of the ships in the engagement had been destroyed, but a few had bits and pieces intact. I had to wait until the bay was filled and pressurised.
It was a mess. I'd seen Vipers in museums, gleaming silver-white with pristine name-plates and cockpit windows without even a speck of dust. Elegant monstrosities designed to kill and dance and fly and burn.
These ones had just burned.
I wondered how many had stood a chance. There were wings, engines, half a cock-pit with the stumps of legs protruding; the pilot had been cut in half when his ship was. Most of the fighters would be debris, exploded debris, by now.
How many fighters? How many big ships? How many lives?
Had they even killed any Cylons at all? Had they made them pay even a little? Or had they just died like animals at an abattoir? Was this what Grampa had meant when he said war was pointless?
A few of them seemed more or less intact, just shut down. The suited figures of the pilots were slumped over. The Cylons had killed every system they had, even the air circulation, and they had suffocated in their own carbon dioxide exhalations.
Grampa had told me that happened with some fighters in the early days of the war, before they got rid of the integrated computer systems. You had to go right back to the Mark 2's before you got fighters with no disruptable systems. These were 6's and 7's.
There was a time when I would have given anything I had to get up close to a working Viper, take it apart, put it together, see how it worked up close. Now I would have given anything to have the last few hours not happen, to have things back to the way they were before when I was a schoolgirl and naivety wasn't a luxury.
I sighed. There was no one else around to help me. The EVA-suited people had left me to it and gone to fix hull ruptures. I went to get started - which I did by finding a ladder and removing the bodies.
I couldn't work on a ship with a corpse in it. I just couldn't.
Those bodies were damned heavy. Even the one cut in two was heavy. It left bloody marks across the floor. I didn't want to step on them.
I wished my sense of smell came with an off-switch. I was sorry I'd eaten.
Then I got a shock. I came to the last one, the one nearest the doors and furthest from the hatch, and eyed the damage. This one had battle damage, not system shut-down. Damaged engines, marks of jammed guns, scorch marks, shredded relays…
I realised something.
This one was an old Viper, a 4 - and I could fix it. Probably.
Then I climbed up the ladder and hit the manual release for the cockpit.
The pilot had condensation on his face-plate.
I tilted his head back; it lolled.
He was breathing. I could see it. I cursed and gave up on the idea of hauling him around like a sack of potatoes. With the others, the dead ones, I'd basically dropped them on the deck and not cared if bones broke. I wasn't strong enough to lower someone gently. If I was, Helena would be alive.
This one was a bit more complicated. I moved around, set my arms under his shoulders and heaved, hauling him - eventually - out of his seat and back along the nose of the Viper, then down the wing. The whole fighter was sloped slightly; I hauled him along in fits and starts until I could step to the ground, then lowered him using a bent knee to cushion his head.
I checked his air mix and yanked his helmet off. His pulse was weak and fluttery. I put my ear to his mouth, since I couldn't get his flight suit off to hear his lungs; he was breathing but not well. I hauled him as gently as I could, which wasn't very, across the bay.
Sticking my head out of the bay, I found a couple of hydroponic gardeners who had been monitoring the air circulation systems and asked them to help. They carried the pilot off to the infirmary. I got to work salvaging ammunition and weapons; the basic design hadn't changed so much I couldn't handle it.
Any real mechanic would have had fits at what I did. I observed no conventional safety protocols, I didn't bother with neatly severing connections and supports, I just cut through them with a welding torch. It was the difference between butchery and surgery. The part of me that appreciated craftsmanship curdled.
I worked mechanically, going from one fighter to another in a kind of rough pattern, making mental notes of components worth salvaging. I wished I knew how the war was going. Then I decided I didn't want to know. I had a sick certainty we were losing. It was the kind of horrible gut-feeling you can't shake.
Toby was outside the bridge screaming loudly at a brawny crewman who was trying to tell him that the captain did not want to be bothered with demands to know what was going on - he was busying captaining.
I wondered what had possessed me to go out with him. Loneliness, desire for approval, a chance to experiment? What?
I was suddenly glad he'd broken up with me the night before. This way I didn't have to worry about offending him.
"Toby," I said to him, "shut up."
He stared at me.
"What did you say?"
"I said shut up. I apologise for not realising you are deaf." He gaped. "Face it. We're just passengers now. Find something useful to do and stop bothering the crew."
"And what are you doing?"
"Captain wants to see her," the dark-haired one who'd escorted me shrugged. "I didn't ask why." I squeezed past Toby and through the bridge hatch, opened a crack to permit me, then slammed shut again. His outraged sputtering was abruptly cut off.
Captain Holloway was bent over a navigational chart. I read it upside-down; we were hiding behind a convenient moon, but it wouldn't last. The battle was over; the Cylons had moved on.
We'd lost.
"Ah, Miss Kendall," he said to me. "I understand you know a lot about Vipers?"
"Well, sort of. My grandfather worked on them during the Cylon… the last Cylon war," I corrected myself. "His maintenance manual has become something of a family heirloom." The maid who tidied my room had noticed it and commented. "I've got that and his notes just about memorised, but it's at least a decade out of date and it's just book knowledge."
"It's better than we've got. I want to scoop up some of the wrecked space-craft out there and see if we can salvage some of the guns and ammunition. Get that manual and head down to cargo bay three."
"My room's in the section that got depressurised when the lounge window blew. I can't get in there yet." Every space-suit would be in use, I was willing to bet.
"Alright. We'll manage without it. Get down there anyway." I didn't mind he was being rude; he had enough problems to deal with. Damage control, repairs, supplies, and most importantly of all, not getting us killed.
I was glad I wasn't in charge. The thought of that responsibility made me shudder. No way did I want that!
Toby was still yelling; I went past him at the run. By the time I got down to the cargo bay, people in EVA gear were hauling in wreckage. Most of the ships in the engagement had been destroyed, but a few had bits and pieces intact. I had to wait until the bay was filled and pressurised.
It was a mess. I'd seen Vipers in museums, gleaming silver-white with pristine name-plates and cockpit windows without even a speck of dust. Elegant monstrosities designed to kill and dance and fly and burn.
These ones had just burned.
I wondered how many had stood a chance. There were wings, engines, half a cock-pit with the stumps of legs protruding; the pilot had been cut in half when his ship was. Most of the fighters would be debris, exploded debris, by now.
How many fighters? How many big ships? How many lives?
Had they even killed any Cylons at all? Had they made them pay even a little? Or had they just died like animals at an abattoir? Was this what Grampa had meant when he said war was pointless?
A few of them seemed more or less intact, just shut down. The suited figures of the pilots were slumped over. The Cylons had killed every system they had, even the air circulation, and they had suffocated in their own carbon dioxide exhalations.
Grampa had told me that happened with some fighters in the early days of the war, before they got rid of the integrated computer systems. You had to go right back to the Mark 2's before you got fighters with no disruptable systems. These were 6's and 7's.
There was a time when I would have given anything I had to get up close to a working Viper, take it apart, put it together, see how it worked up close. Now I would have given anything to have the last few hours not happen, to have things back to the way they were before when I was a schoolgirl and naivety wasn't a luxury.
I sighed. There was no one else around to help me. The EVA-suited people had left me to it and gone to fix hull ruptures. I went to get started - which I did by finding a ladder and removing the bodies.
I couldn't work on a ship with a corpse in it. I just couldn't.
Those bodies were damned heavy. Even the one cut in two was heavy. It left bloody marks across the floor. I didn't want to step on them.
I wished my sense of smell came with an off-switch. I was sorry I'd eaten.
Then I got a shock. I came to the last one, the one nearest the doors and furthest from the hatch, and eyed the damage. This one had battle damage, not system shut-down. Damaged engines, marks of jammed guns, scorch marks, shredded relays…
I realised something.
This one was an old Viper, a 4 - and I could fix it. Probably.
Then I climbed up the ladder and hit the manual release for the cockpit.
The pilot had condensation on his face-plate.
I tilted his head back; it lolled.
He was breathing. I could see it. I cursed and gave up on the idea of hauling him around like a sack of potatoes. With the others, the dead ones, I'd basically dropped them on the deck and not cared if bones broke. I wasn't strong enough to lower someone gently. If I was, Helena would be alive.
This one was a bit more complicated. I moved around, set my arms under his shoulders and heaved, hauling him - eventually - out of his seat and back along the nose of the Viper, then down the wing. The whole fighter was sloped slightly; I hauled him along in fits and starts until I could step to the ground, then lowered him using a bent knee to cushion his head.
I checked his air mix and yanked his helmet off. His pulse was weak and fluttery. I put my ear to his mouth, since I couldn't get his flight suit off to hear his lungs; he was breathing but not well. I hauled him as gently as I could, which wasn't very, across the bay.
Sticking my head out of the bay, I found a couple of hydroponic gardeners who had been monitoring the air circulation systems and asked them to help. They carried the pilot off to the infirmary. I got to work salvaging ammunition and weapons; the basic design hadn't changed so much I couldn't handle it.
Any real mechanic would have had fits at what I did. I observed no conventional safety protocols, I didn't bother with neatly severing connections and supports, I just cut through them with a welding torch. It was the difference between butchery and surgery. The part of me that appreciated craftsmanship curdled.
I worked mechanically, going from one fighter to another in a kind of rough pattern, making mental notes of components worth salvaging. I wished I knew how the war was going. Then I decided I didn't want to know. I had a sick certainty we were losing. It was the kind of horrible gut-feeling you can't shake.