Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.
I raise a mug to my reviewers - "To Explosions"! Thank you for helping me launch this story. It is complete but I am posting chapters separately to enable me to give them individual attention. I hope to be able to update reasonably frequently.
Also, thank you, Rusty Armour, for your 'blurb' :-) . It was a very pleasant surprise to receive it and much appreciated!
Chapter 2
Malcolm thrust the strap of his kitbag back on his shoulder and grasped the door with his other hand. He peered in. A ripple of air breathed over his cheek, carrying a heavy odour of engine oil mixed with a tang of ozone. The dimly-lit cargo hold of the small transport 'Carlotta' appeared deserted at first, but then Malcolm saw movement behind a stack of containers.
"Hello?" he called, prompting a dark-haired head to pop up over the stack. Malcolm saw a flash of white teeth standing out against the dirt-streaked face.
"Hi, there. Can I help you?" The man stepped around the containers, wiping his hands on a cloth. He was a large fellow, perhaps on the overweight side, although his dark overall fit well enough to disguise the bulk. Malcolm guessed he was one of those men who could move faster than they looked. There was certainly some strength there, he noted, as the man casually shoved a container back into line.
Malcolm stepped forwards. "Yes, I… Oomph!" He stubbed his toe against a box left just inside the doorway. His outward 'oomph' was accompanied by an internal curse. What an immensely stupid place to leave that, he thought, with considerable irritation. He gave the man a filthy look, not caring anymore how much he let his annoyance show. He'd been travelling for days - no, make that weeks - and, with nothing to do except sleep, eat and fret, he had acquired a considerable head of steam. The man chuckled merrily at the mishap, causing Malcolm's scowl to deepen.
"Sorry about that," said the man, striding forwards and waving an arm about at the crates. "I'm in the middle of ordering the cargo. I didn't expect any visitors, otherwise it'd be less of an obstacle course." He stuffed the rag in a pocket and offered his hand. "John Bailey."
Malcolm shook it, forcing a grin. He should at least try to be civil. "Malcolm Reed."
Bailey scratched the back of his head as he processed the information. "Ah, yes. I've already secured your cargo. Over here." He led the way deeper into the hold, skirting items scattered apparently at random about the place.
Malcolm trailed behind, shaking his head at the total disorder. There were containers, reels of cabling, kegs, nets of loose goods and the like, all haphazardly distributed with no logic that he could discern. He sighed, worrying about what fate might have befallen his equipment. He had packed it well enough, but was not overly optimistic about how it had fared. His recent experiences with other vessels on the journey had been an education. No one seemed to treat munitions and sensitive scientific apparatus with any respect these days. He regretted the absence of Starfleet's disciplined approach. There were rules and regs for most eventualities, and organising cargo was well covered. This utter shambles would be unheard of on a Starfleet ship. He regretted even more his lack of authority to do anything to improve the mess. 'Mister' Reed carried a lot less clout than 'Lieutenant' Reed - as he had already discovered.
Distracted by his concern for his explosives, Malcolm failed to see the cable strung across at ankle height. Just as Bailey half-turned to say, "Watch out for that…" the cable snatched eagerly at Malcolm's foot and he found himself flying in the general direction of Bailey's back.
Malcolm's unintentional rugby tackle was quite brilliantly executed, and the two men ended up in a tangled heap on the deck. Bailey recovered his breath first and began to laugh, his entire body quivering with mirth. Splayed out underneath him, Malcolm wheezed and thought of a few choice words. Unfortunately, he needed all the breath he could muster, so he was forced to keep his sarcastic comments to himself.
Bailey eventually heaved himself to his feet, wiping tears away from his eyes with one hand and offering Malcolm the other. Malcolm levered himself up onto one elbow. He gazed thoughtfully at Bailey's grinning red face and then his outstretched hand. Bailey wiggled it a little to emphasise the invitation. Malcolm briefly considered flipping Bailey over his head, but decided that could be construed as an overreaction. He didn't want a brawl to mark the beginning of his new career.
So, instead, Malcolm gave an insincere smile and allowed the other man to help him up.
"As I was saying," spluttered Bailey, still apparently finding this most amusing, "watch out for that line! But I guess you found it, in the end!"
"Yes. So I did," said Malcolm dryly, gingerly putting some weight on his left foot. Yep, he had sprained it. Nothing too serious, though. He brushed at his clothes in a - mostly ineffective - attempt to remove fine white dust picked up from the floor, coughing as some of it invaded his airway. At least his jacket and trousers were light-coloured, so the dust wouldn't show up too much. A small consolation.
As Malcolm smoothed down his disordered hair, he noticed that dust and grime coated ledges, the deck, most of the cargo... everywhere he could see, in fact. The place was absolutely filthy! That was not good at all. Yes - Carlotta might only be a humble transport vessel, but she was still deserving of respect. It demonstrated a sloppy mentality amongst the crew. Malcolm sniffed disdainfully, disgusted by the state Carlotta had been allowed to get into. There was no excuse for it, in his opinion.
Oblivious to Malcolm's disapproval, Bailey gave him a hearty slap on the back and said with a chortle, "Guess that little roll in the hay, or rather on the deck, means we gotta get married now!"
Malcolm turned slowly to Bailey. "Excuse me?" He wasn't sure he had heard correctly.
Bailey laughed again, a noise Malcolm was beginning to heartily dislike. "Only joking!" he said.
"I see," said Malcolm icily. Most amusing - not, he thought, gazing at Bailey with a sinking feeling. He was forming a nasty suspicion that he would have to endure this man for some time to come. Sadly, he didn't think that even in these distant parts, murder would be considered justifiable for the sake of one's sanity. Shaking his head, Malcolm grabbed his kitbag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. Fortunately, the only item in it of any significance would not have been harmed by being dropped.
"Your stuff's over here," said Bailey, finally getting control of his mirth, although Malcolm thought he was still finding it far too entertaining, judging by the random chuckles he emitted. Malcolm sighed. He supposed out here one had to make one's own amusement. He fervently hoped he was not going to turn into an idiot, too.
Lifting aside a tarp, Bailey revealed the grey containers with red flashes warning of unstable materials. Malcolm limped up to them, taking in the unbroken seals and noting with approval the secure manner in which they had been lashed to the deck bolts. He tested the fastenings to discover they were taut.
Bailey ran a hand over the top container. "These'll stay put even if we lose all our grav plating and the cargo bay is shot apart around them by marauders. Gotta treat explosives with respect." He patted the container, all foolishness now gone from his manner.
"Indeed," agreed Malcolm, thinking that perhaps he had been too hasty in his judgement of Bailey. He couldn't be all bad.
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Some hours later, Malcolm was re-revising his opinion of Bailey.
Malcolm's offer to help load the remainder of the cargo had been accepted with alacrity by Bailey. Malcolm's sprained foot hampered him a touch, but it didn't prevent him from operating the handling machinery and hoists. He worked up quite a sweat, and felt a lot better for it. He hadn't had an opportunity to work out on his journey and had been feeling unfit.
However, his physical well being was tempered by his mental torture. Bailey was incessant in making his little 'jokes' and far too jovial altogether for Malcolm's taste. He had found himself becoming more terse by the minute in self-defence. He caught himself and tried not to be so curmudgeonly, but it was difficult. He found out that, indeed, Bailey was crewing the transport and was from the mining Facility, so there would be no escape from him.
Finally, the cargo was stowed in proper fashion. Wiping his hands on his overall, Bailey smiled. "Thanks for that help, Reed."
"Not at all. I'll put my kit away, if you show me where I'm bunking."
The transport was cramped, being designed for two-man operation with scant room for passengers. Most of the interior was occupied by the craft's engine systems, storage bays and grappling lines. What cargo couldn't be lodged shipboard was towed behind. The quarters allocated to Malcolm were dignified by that designation. In actuality, he had a locker and a pull-down bunk that stowed up against the wall when not in use. The bunk was in a passageway linking the flight deck with the engine room. It didn't bother Malcolm overmuch. He had a knack of being able to fall asleep in the most unpromising conditions and he had never really required much space. He owned little in the way of personal possessions.
Malcolm had a quick wash in the bathroom next to the galley and put his gear away neatly in his locker. With all the cargo now loaded, they would be on their way soon. Bailey was aft, carrying out a final walk around and then they would be ready.
Malcolm felt a flutter of apprehension. He hoped this was going to work out. It had seemed like an excellent plan back in San Francisco, but now the reality was near he was having qualms. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, massaging a kink that had developed from manhandling the freight.
A sudden footfall from behind caused him to spin about, fingers clutching for a non-existent phase pistol.
In front of Malcolm stood a long-faced man of about forty years with thinning red hair. He was tall, spare and had a sardonic smile as he held his hands up in mock surrender.
"Sorry to startle you," he said, an amused tone suffusing his words.
Malcolm stiffened at the mocking quality to the voice. Slowly he relaxed but could feel an embarrassed flush creep across his face. He said, with a self-deprecating smile, "I'm a little jumpy."
"So I see." The man seemed disinclined to continue.
Malcolm wiped a sweaty palm on his trousers and held out his hand. "Malcolm Reed," he said, trying to keep a friendly tone although the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up in protest.
The man eyed Malcolm in a considering manner, then shook his hand as if he were doing him a favour. "I know," he said.
Hell, thought Malcolm, you don't want to make this easy, do you? "And you are…?"
"Jeff Gomez."
For a moment, Malcolm thought he was joking. The pale freckled skin and light blue eyes did not demonstrate a Spanish ancestry. He kept a straight face, however, and the man smiled slightly. There was a more genuine quality to this smile.
"Thank you for that," said Gomez.
"For what?"
"Not making some infantile remark about my name."
Malcolm shrugged, not knowing how to reply.
Gomez peered around him to the locker. "Got everything?" he asked.
"Yeah. My freight's stowed in the hold."
"Ah, yes. Munitions." The condescending tone was back again.
"That's right," answered Malcolm evenly.
"You do realise that the mining Facility has a large stock of explosives?"
"I had assumed that would be the case, yes," replied Malcolm, re-setting his stance and crossing his arms. Not like his cargo, though, he thought smugly. He kept a poker face, however, and did not volunteer any information.
Gomez looked down his long nose at the Englishman. After a moment, he said, "I'm going to make the pre-flight checks. Do you want to sit in?"
"Okay," said Malcolm. It made sense to familiarise oneself with a new ship. They were all different.
"You're a pilot?" said Gomez, leading the way to the flight deck.
"Uh huh," confirmed Malcolm, limping in his wake.
"What types?"
"A variety," said Malcolm. No answer at all, really, but he didn't want everyone to know all about him within ten minutes of arriving.
Gomez didn't press the point.
Carlotta's flight deck was as neglected as the rest of her. Tape held one of the displays together, several buttons were missing on the control desks, and the panels were mismatched and dented. And dirty. Malcolm bit his lip to hold in the disapproval. What would Trip make of all this? It wasn't as if the fixes were difficult or expensive.
Gomez settled himself into one of the black bucket seats and Malcolm took the other - the co-pilot's place. The layout was fairly standard, he noted with a quick glance. The grappling controls were surprisingly sophisticated for the vessel. Not as advanced as Enterprise, of course, but as good as he'd seen on any other ship, including Starfleet ones. He pulled up the relevant display, moving the controls which directed the grapplers. Nice, he thought appreciatively.
Gomez leant across and switched it off. "You watch. You don't touch," he said.
Malcolm bristled but remained silent. Gomez was correct but he didn't have to be so abrupt about it.
Gomez ran through the rest of the checks, calling out each system as he came to it while Malcolm watched, somewhat concerned by a number of warning lights, which Gomez dismissed as being unimportant. Malcolm didn't press the issue as Gomez seemed to know what he was doing but it did nothing to counteract his poor impressions of the ship's condition.
As Malcolm had anticipated, the transport had one inadequate pulse cannon. He resisted the urge to ask about its yield. He could hazard a pretty accurate guess. It wouldn't be much use for anything except pulverizing the odd small rock.
"Do you have any problems with marauders in this sector?" Malcolm asked, noting also a lack of hull plating.
"No. Not much. Nervous?" Gomez gave an unpleasant sneer.
Malcolm chuckled. "No. Not much!"
Gomez' eyes widened at the echo to his words, then he gave a short bark of laughter. He opened up a little. "We have had an occasional raid to deal with near the Facility, but we aren't big enough for them to pay much attention to us. It's not worth their while. They prefer the more refined ore, not what we produce." He flipped on the pre-warm engine sequence. "I suppose I'd better find my co-pilot so we can get on our way," he said, easing up from the seat.
"No need!" boomed Bailey's voice from the door. "I'm already here!" He grinned broadly.
"When you're ready then, Mot," Gomez said mildly.
Malcolm moved to the rickety jump-seat at the rear of the flight deck and Bailey took his place in the co-pilot's position.
"Thanks for warming it for me, Reed," said Bailey over his shoulder. "You're being a most useful passenger!"
The ship shivered into life with a rising engine note as Gomez engaged the engines and then several loud thumps sounded through the hull.
"That's normal," called out Bailey to Malcolm. "It's the docking clamps releasing."
Malcolm knew that, of course, but he was appreciative of Bailey's thoughtfulness. The ship lifted off smoothly, although with a list to port, smartly compensated by Gomez. She set off in the direction of Mining Facility Deross, which - if all went as planned - was going to be Malcolm's home for some considerable time to come. He sat back and tried to think happy thoughts.
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With Carlotta set fair, the three men adjourned to the galley for a meal. Bailey took on the task of preparing the food, which he did by the simple expedient of placing some ration packs in a preparation unit. Gomez sorted out the drinks and soon they were settled around the small table.
Malcolm eyed his yellowish mash with suspicion, but it tasted better than it looked and he ate it without complaint.
Bailey squinted at him. "That okay?"
"Yes, thank you. Lovely," said Malcolm automatically, pushing another load onto the back of his fork with his knife. In his view, anything that he could actually keep down and gave him energy counted as adequate.
Gomez snorted. "Lovely!" he parroted sarcastically. "High standards then, Reed?"
Malcolm didn't deign to reply. He concentrated on his side dish, which was some form of green matter he couldn't quite identify. Local plantstuff, he supposed.
Bailey said, "By the way, people call me Mot."
"Oh?" said Malcolm, discovering a long stringy piece of vegetable suspended from his fork. He decided to roll it up.
Bailey carried on. "Do you know why?"
"Motte and bailey castles, I guess," said Malcolm distractedly, as he wound the green leaf around his fork and presented it to his mouth.
"Uh. Yes. That's right," said Bailey, deflated.
Oh damn, thought Malcolm, noticing Bailey's face fall. He felt a heel about removing a small bit of cheer from Bailey's life. He grunted, then tried, "Very clever. Not at all obvious." Like heck, he thought. "How did you come by it?"
"Oh. From my schooldays," replied Bailey, a little brighter at the compliment. "I thought it up, as it happens."
"Like I said, very clever," said Malcolm, as he finally succeeded in ingesting the leaf. It wasn't worth the effort. The chewy texture was hard work and he found it tasted like paper.
"What do they call you?" asked Bailey. "Any nickname?"
"No," said Malcolm shortly and with a full mouth, which would have horrified his mother. He had had several nicknames in his time, but none he cared to perpetuate.
"None?" asked Bailey, incredulously. "There must have been one at least."
"No," lied Malcolm with more vehemence, as he finally swallowed his mouthful. "Reed suits just fine, thank you."
"Oh, I think we can do better, don't you, Red?" Bailey raised an eyebrow at Gomez.
Malcolm glanced at Gomez in query.
Gomez gave a thin smile. "Original, huh?"
"Most original," agreed Malcolm with a small grin, thinking of all the 'Red's' he had encountered over the years.
"I'll do some thinking," promised Bailey, tapping his temple with a finger.
Malcolm rolled his eyes at Gomez, but said nothing. He got the feeling that Bailey was not one to be easily dissuaded. He would just have to quash anything unsuitable - which would be anything at all - that Bailey came up with.
Gomez sipped his coffee. He said to Malcolm, "Why choose Deross Mining Facility? It's remote - not near anywhere much."
"I could ask, why did you?" replied Malcolm, expertly turning back the question to avoid answering it.
Gomez gave a mirthless smile. He thoughtfully took another sip. "It is unique in its abundance of rare minerals. Difficult to find and extract them, but worth a lot when you do."
"Exactly," said Malcolm, although to his mind that was actually a minor point. The remoteness held a certain appeal for him, to be truthful.
Bailey gave a chuckle and shoved his elbow in Gomez' side. "That and the anomalies, huh?"
Malcolm pricked up his ears at the term, looking alertly at Bailey. "What do you mean? Anomalies?"
"He doesn't mean anything," said Gomez. "It's nonsense, of course."
"It is not," insisted Bailey, glaring at Gomez.
"It's stories, Mot. Nothing more," said Gomez in exasperation.
"Depends who you talk to," said Bailey, undeterred by Gomez' scepticism.
Trying to get some useful information, Malcolm asked, "What type of anomalies? Gravitational?"
"Gravitational? No! That would be strange," said Bailey. He pushed back from the table, balancing on the rear legs of his chair. "No. These are… ghosts, visions."
Gomez snorted and said caustically, "Mere daydreams, caused by the bored imaginations of miners who have nothing better to think about. Or malfunctioning sensors and viewscreens. Nothing more."
"No, Red. I saw one once, remember?"
"So you say."
Bailey huffed and allowed his chair to slam down. "I'm not discussing this with you again, Red!"
"Fine," Gomez said lazily. "That suits me."
Malcolm frowned. He had seen many strange things in his time and was not inclined to dismiss anything out of hand. Once he would have taken Gomez' line, but no longer. He asked Bailey, "How many sightings have there been? Are they always the same?"
Bailey leant forwards. "Three or four, and no, they're not the same-"
"Must we talk about this?" interrupted Gomez. "At least, wait until I'm not around. I don't want to hear those ridiculous tales again!"
Bailey said, "I'll tell you later, Reed."
Malcolm shrugged. It was intriguing, but he was sure he was going to learn as much as he could ever want to know before too long, whether or not he wanted to. He was quite happy to feign indifference in the meantime.
Gomez gathered up the dirty plates and shoved them in the cleaning unit. "I'll take first watch. I'll come and get you at changeover, Mot." He slid past Bailey's bulky form and through the door.
Bailey grunted an affirmative. He leaned back in his seat to grab a portion of pie from a cupboard behind him. After cutting a piece, he skated the dish over to Malcolm, who helped himself to a slice.
Malcolm studied the galley more closely as he bit into the pie. It was functional but tired-looking, like the rest of the ship, with peeling paintwork and flaked patches of corrosion, and even some rust in places. The table top was scratched where an unskilled 'chef' had ill-advisedly chopped up vegetables or the like on it.
"Does Gomez own Carlotta?" Malcolm asked.
Bailey shook his head, finishing a mouthful of pie in a leisurely manner before replying. "No. She belongs to the Facility. General workhorse. She's used for runs between the mining ships and the Facility, and the occasional trip to pick up supplies, like this one."
"Do you and Gomez work for the Facility?"
"Nah. Red's got his own vessel, the Mariposa. I crew for him."
"Oh. That's a mining vessel, I take it?"
"That's right. But at the moment, we can't get any work done. There's a problem with the engines. That's why we volunteered for this run. We've picked up some replacement parts for her."
Feeling full, Malcolm relaxed back against the wall and took a gulp of coffee.
Bailey grinned at him as he popped the final bit of pie into his mouth. "It'll be good to have a new face around. We don't have many changes to the roster. We need some fresh conversation. Who will you be crewing for?"
"I haven't arranged anything yet."
Bailey lowered his voice, which struck Malcolm as faintly ludicrous, since there was no way Gomez would hear a thing from the other end of the ship. "I can give you the low-down on who not to go with. There are a few crazy people out there. They seem okay until you get out to the fields and then they turn into raving loonies! Or are always boozed up and expect their crew to do all the work. And there's one guy, Grizzeli, who has managed to end up killing three of his men. He tends to work alone these days, but he might try to persuade you to go in with him."
Giving a half-smile, Malcolm said, "Thanks for the heads-up. I appreciate it."
Bailey waved a meaty hand. "Think of it as a return for your help with the cargo."
"Have you been working out here for a long time?"
"Yeah. Longer than I care to remember. It doesn't seem that long, but it's been over ten years. It gets to be a way of life. I don't know what else I would do." Bailey gave a belch and dragged himself upright. "Let's go through here," he said, indicating the small room opposite with several comfortable chairs.
Malcolm followed with his coffee and took a seat by a viewport. The stars slid past as Carlotta made her sure but steady progress. "So," Malcolm said, sipping the brew. "How many miners operate out of the Facility?"
Bailey frowned in concentration as he made a mental calculation. "I don't keep tabs on them, but about two hundred, I guess."
That surprised Malcolm. He hadn't expected such a large number. He gave a small grin. It meant more opportunities for him.
Bailey said, as if reading his thoughts, "You know most miners do their own blasting."
"So I'd gathered. I think there is still something I can offer, though."
Bailey gave a shrug. "Perhaps. But if not, I'm sure you'll get work of some sort. There's always a need for labourers."
Malcolm considered the point, but dismissed it. His precision demolition would be highly sought after, unless he was very much mistaken. He asked Bailey, "How many outfits are there?"
"Fifty or so. Three to four man teams are the most common."
"Are they all human?"
Bailey sat up straight. "Yeah. Of course," he said in surprise. "Why do you ask?"
"Just interested," replied Malcolm. He wanted to know if he would need to tailor his services to any alien customers. "Do you get many aliens visiting?"
Bailey said, "No, not many." He gulped down the last of his drink, placing the empty mug on the floor beside him. He carried on carefully, "Do aliens bother you?"
"What do you mean?" asked Malcolm, suddenly conscious of his body tensing as he imagined Xindi Reptilians rampaging through the ship.
"Some people find aliens kinda… disturbing," said Bailey, eyeing Malcolm.
"No. It's not a problem." Malcolm had always been pretty open-minded, prided himself on it, actually. That was one of the reasons why he had felt he was so suited to Starfleet. But that had been before the mission to the Expanse. Now, he tended to view aliens as inherently dangerous and untrustworthy – it was something more deep-seated than proper caution. That was one of the legacies he hated - how his objectivity had been compromised. He was still working on restoring it. Malcolm drained his mug and gazed into its interior, noting the rings resulting from inadequate washing. "No problem," he repeated softly.
Bailey said, "There are a few AAP people at the Facility, if that's what you want."
Malcolm said, "AAP?"
"Anti-Alien Party. You not heard of them?"
"No." Malcolm didn't like the implications, though.
"Where have you been! Haven't you seen their ads, their programming? I thought everyone knew about them!"
"Not where I was," said Malcolm, trying to hide his alarm. It had been bad enough when underground groups such as Terra Prime were causing trouble, but to think that this AAP was spouting off in public… It shocked him. How had he missed this development? Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer.
He had cut himself off from the outside world when he was being debriefed. Everything had been so difficult and he hadn't followed the news. It was unusual for him, but he had been in overload. Too much information, or misinformation, to try to offload and to take back on board. It had been easier to merely disregard everything outside and remain ignorant. Wilfully ignorant. Too lazy to form a view. Malcolm gave a snort of disgust. What had he come to? At one time, he had been ambitious, set goals, manipulated the system. Now he was drifting with no direction other than his immediate goal to 'go mining'. It was pitiful. He ran his hands over his face and around the back of his head.
"You okay?" asked Bailey, a note of concern in his voice.
"Yeah. Fine. I'm turning in now. It's been a long day." Malcolm got up, grabbing the mugs and crossed to the galley to put them in the cleaner. At least he still had some standards, he comforted himself, as the pie dish followed. If nothing else, the crockery and cutlery on this tub would be clean by the time they reached their destination. He wandered off to his bunk, looking forwards to sleep, and hoping the dreams would stay away.
TBC