The improvised Mess Hall had, ironically enough, originally been the Tiburon's Mess Hall. In anticipation of keeping the troops on ice for the majority of this flight, Space Fleet had removed all the fittings to create more storage space. On seeing this, those Dee-Kays that had objected strenuously enough – almost to the point of violence – to spending their time dead, had immediately set about converting it back. It was still incredibly cluttered, and the 'tables' and 'chairs' were all modified military equipment or storage crates, but at least it was somewhere to congregate.
They were an eclectic group – these elite soldiers – and Dalek Killers (although mostly humans,) were drawn from many different species.
There weren't any Sontaran's yet…
Even though they were allied with Space Fleet against the Daleks, and they participated in joint operations without hesitation. (Any chance at 'Glorious Combat' was enthusiastically accepted!) However, the cloned soldiers preferred to remain among their own kind, and McShane had only ever seen one up close. The Earth Reptiles, Draconian's, and the New Martians, also had fleets of their own: but many individuals from those species had volunteered as Dalek Killers, for reasons of their own.
There were only a few of them about at present. The majority of the Earth Reptiles had no problem with being put on ice – Hell! For them it was practically second nature! – and pretty much the same could be said of the Ice Warriors. Outside their massive bio-mechanical power-suits, the majority of the Martians were no bigger than your average humanoid. They actually preferred to go into cold storage when forced to relinquish their armour, unless the ship was very cold.
McShane's friend, Essstaarl, was the first to spot her when she began to negotiate her way through the stacks again towards the (relatively,) clear central area. The female Ice Warrior raised a hand to beckon McShane over, patting the top of her head, and then twirling a finger over the crate beside her. (Actually, Essstaarl was an 'Ice Lady', some kind of high muckety-muck on New Mars apparently…)
Despite their friendship, McShane still wasn't sure why the Martian woman had volunteered to become a Dalek Killer, or why she chose to suffer the discomfort of such a 'hot' ship. But she was sure Essstaarl would tell her eventually – when she was ready. Not wanting to shout over the various conversations separating them, she patted her stomach, and mimed taking a swig. Then she threw her friend a grin and a thumbs up. Essstaarl acknowledged with a nod, then returned her attention to the banter around her.
As she passed the running mill that Xiphonax had created, McShane jeered good naturedly at the man using it. "Does Sheephonax know that you only use that to practice running away, Vastogne? You couldn't get away from a Wirrn lava at that speed!"
Vastogne, who was breathing easily as he kept up his steady pace, didn't look at her as he replied – his eyes fixed on some imaginary horizon. "There is an art to running away, my young Padawan,' he said, in the placid tones of a venerable sage to a recalcitrant child. 'It is not about how fast you can run, but how far…" McShane laughed before moving on. (He always managed to crack her up, somehow, but she had yet to get a bite out of him!)
Her intended destination was the Galley. Of course, it wasn't a real Galley, just an area scoured out to provide somewhere to stash the ratpacks, originally. However, this had changed when Allutron had turned up, and decided to take over. He had seemed a bit of an odd man out at first, neither a trooper nor a crewer. But since he could work magic with the most minimal of ingredients, he was rapidly accepted as one of the live bait posse.
As usual, he was seated behind his makeshift counter – a 'spare' guidance fin from some luckless ROAM (Remotely Operated Atmospheric Missile) – when she approached. "Hello, Allutron. Who's on the menu today?" She asked.
"You know, McShane? That line never gets old.' He stated, deadpan. Affecting an expression of deep contemplation, Allutron went on, 'In fact, I think that it gets funnier every time that you say it…"
McShane had eventually discovered that he was a 'nanotechnologist', responsible for certain (classified) mission specific assets and equipment. He wouldn't say more than that, other than that it left him with a lot of spare time, at this point in the mission.
What he had told her was that he was a Thal. McShane still wasn't sure if she believed him. She had good reason to know that he was physically identical to a human male – in every respect – and given their compulsory baldness, that particular races one trademark feature was not in evidence. (He even did his eyebrows!)
Still, if he was a Thal, then he was a rare beast indeed. The Thal's had been fighting the Dalek Wars for longer than anyone else, and it was generally rumoured that there weren't too many of them left. They still maintained an active and important alliance with Space Fleet, but they preferred to operate as independent and self-contained Special Forces units. (Where even Dalek Killers fear to tread.)
If there was a new Thal home world somewhere, they weren't telling anyone. Allutron had let slip that he had once been on a Thal ship where – due to circumstances that he refused to go into – they had been forced to recycle their dead crewmates. "It's not like we just cut their legs off and made a stew, McShane! The disassemblers broke the bodies down into their component molecules, which were then reassembled into water, proteins, and minerals. It is now standard practice on all Thal vessels. We cannot afford to waste anything!"
McShane knew (vaguely) how gobblers and assemblers worked, but even though they were used here on a daily basis, for the most mundane of purposes – she was still a 20th century girl at heart. It all still seemed like science fiction to her, and she was unable to feel as comfortable with the tech as people that had been born into this time.
Still, if she was honest with herself, her daily digs at Allutron were more to keep him at a distance. The man had a bit of a soft spot for her. (Or, to be more accurate, the bit that he had for her was anything but soft.) However, McShane really liked him…
So she didn't want to let herself get too attached, and she definitely didn't want him getting too attached to her…
She gave him her best cheeky grin, and said, "Aw… Come on, Allutron, you know I only tease you 'cos I love you!"
He rolled his eyes and groaned in mock despair. "Oh, McShane! If only that were true!' Then he reached behind himself to grab a self-heating ratpack from a stack. Dropping it onto his counter, he looked up at her and continued. 'I'm assuming that you don't want to sample my latest culinary masterpiece, and would prefer – just for a change – Ration Number Five?"
"You read my mind, Chef!"
"And what would Madam like to drink with that?"
"Well, I'm not really sure…' McShane made a show out of giving the question some deep thought, then snapped her fingers, as if just remembering something. ''Oh! I know! Did you ever manage to work out that drink I asked about before?"
Allutron gazed at her sardonically. "Love Potion Number Nine? No… I'm afraid that I have been unable to locate the chemical breakdown of that particular concoction."
"Oh, what a shame! Well, in that case, I'll splash out and have bulb of Hotel Two Oscar – make it a double!"
The (maybe) Thal was grinning and shaking his head as he handed over her water and ratpack, so McShane allowed herself to act on the spur of moment. She made sure to brush her hands against his as she accepted her food, and captured his astonishingly blue eyes with her own when he looked up at her quizzically.
Then she gave him a seductive wink, loaded with innuendo, and said "Maybe I'll see you later?"
Then she walked away, smirking to herself. If she knew the affect she usually had on him, (and she did,) the poor bloke wouldn't be standing up to leave his counter anytime soon. Maybe she was being mean, or maybe he might actually get lucky tonight – she would just have to see how she felt later. As long as Allutron understood that it could never be anything serious… Well, life was too short and unpredictable not to have some fun while you could.
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Captain Fry couldn't get Trooper McShane out of his head.
He desperately wanted to renew his acquaintance with her as soon as possible, but wasn't entirely sure how to go about it. At the moment he felt fit and healthy, which he considered quite astonishing, considering how desperately ill he had been during the long recuperation – but he had no idea how long that would last. Allutron's work was practically the definition of experimental – right up there with 'I don't know what the Hell I'm doing', it often seemed – and Fry had no idea if his Thal friend's 'medication' would prove as effective as they both hoped.
Unfortunately, there was so little of his life (and memories,) that he could – in good conscience – share with McShane. This would make striking up any kind of worthwhile dialogue somewhat… problematic. He had already lied to her once, when he told her that he had been confined to the Medical Ward. Gazing round the converted space around him, that only he and the brilliant Thal nanotechnologist had ever spent any time in, he considered the long past that had led to now, and never…
Most of the actual medical work that Fry had required had been carried out on Station Five, before he had even boarded the Tiburon. He didn't really worry about the surgical procedures that he'd had to undergo. (He had been sown back together so often, Fry just considered requiring medical treatment to be an irritating inconvenience – one that kept him away from his job.)
No, what he hadn't liked were the attentions of the scientists of the Special Projects Unit - but that was so highly classified that Fry wasn't even cleared to know the full details himself. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to share what little he did know with McShane. The only good point during this unpleasant process, had been being reunited with Allutron. Up until then he hadn't been told how many of the Thal's had survived the mission that had landed him on Station Five, despite how many time's he had asked.
The room he had been transferred to aboard the Tiburon was more a scientific research lab than a Med Bay, really. True, he had a state-of-the-art medical bio-bed, with all the bells and whistles – but that was just a case of triple redundancy, as far as Fry could tell. There was also a fully stocked chiller cabinet – containing everything currently available – that might possibly be required to enable the Captain to complete his mission.
The rest of the available space was given over to Allutron's Nanotech research, and all manner of wondrous machinery, exotic doodads, and things that go 'Ping!' Fry didn't actually see the Thal for much of the time, beyond the regular checks to confirm that the process was developing as hoped for. Occasionally, the Captain would be woken from a troubled doze to find his friend tapping away frenziedly at a keyboard, only be assured that Allutron had just thought of something else, and wanted see if it would be useful. There was little point in asking for details when this happened, Fry considered, and he didn't want to disturb the man at his work.
Unfortunately, this left him bored out of his mind most of the time!
Really all he had to do was recover his strength, but this seemed to entail a lot of lying about doing nothing, and eating a ridiculous amount of concentrated nutrient packets. The repairs to his mutilated body were a constantly nagging presence, even without covers – the weight of the very air itself often seemed to bear down on him. Allutron's medications had no pain killing component, as he wanted Fry to remain as alert as possible during the procedure… But the Captain suspected that his friend had slipped a few 'extra's' into the mix. Although the pain had taken a long time to fade, Fry was continually astonished at how little physical evidence of his wounds remained visible, at first glance.
Given that, maybe he could tell McShane about some of the treatments, if not the actual purpose they were intended to achieve – but that would have to wait, until he knew whether she would want to know anything about him in the first place. (Don't get ahead of yourself, Lucius!) Perhapsthe safest approach would be to tell her about where he had actually spent a good deal of his time after boarding the Tiburon, and see where things went from there.
Decision made, Fry left the Med Bay and headed towards the umbilical that connected the main body of the Tiburon to its zero-grav Command Pod.
Once he had been strong enough to get out of his bed, Fry had requisitioned an inter-ship hover-sled from storage, and made his first visit to the Tiburon's bridge. Now he was able to stride confidently down the passageway, and negotiate any hatchways or ladders under his own steam.
Reaching the airlock to the umbilical, Captain Fry used the dedicated comms link to request permission to 'come aboard'. Ever since his first visit, Fry had never been refused, even though strictly speaking, he was not authorised to access the bridge itself. The Captain of the Tiburon, a Terileptil called Vaarg, was the only member of the crew who knew the full details of Fry's mission. Knowing what he did, Vaarg couldn't find it in himself to deny him and, despite the cramped conditions, the rest of the flight crew soon grew used to Fry's presence.
Standing inside the first airlock as the pressure differential equalised, he allowed himself to gradually float free of the floor, so that he could position himself ready to enter the (much smaller) hatch into the umbilical. It wasn't the blessed relief that it had initially been – a merciful release from the oppression of gravity – but he still enjoyed the sensation of being weightless.
As he hauled himself along the long, narrow pipe, Fry reflected on the rationale behind the design of Space Fleet ships that weren't dedicated combat vessels. The brutal fact was that trained and experienced flight crew were more valuable than whatever cargo they were carrying, even if that cargo was soldiers. (All ground pounders were well aware of this – hence their morbid names for most Fleet vessels.)
It wasn't just them that were at threat though, the majority of the crewers would die in the event that the control pod had to bale. Only six of the eighteen flight crew had a remote possibility of surviving, if the Tiburon was detected and attacked by Dalek warcraft. That's why there were screens of heavily armed Fleet ships out there to protect, distract and decoy. But the best defence still remained – to remain undetected. (Only the hospital ships used more stealth systems than a troop carrier.)
The flight crews worked staggered eight hour shifts, only relinquishing their post once their replacement had arrived. They were also under orders to get eight hours sleep, if at all possible, and the final eight hours was for eating, general living - and exercising in full-grav. Fry hadn't really known much about the reasons behind the spherical shape of the Pod, and the need for a zero gravity environment, having spent most of his military career operating from Thal ships.
Fry had been surprised, when he first entered the bridge, to find that there was no up or down. He had been thinking of himself as traveling forwards as he glided along the umbilical, but when he cycled through the airlock connecting directly to the pod, the first person he saw was looking at him from the same orientation, as if Fry had floated up to join her. Then he realised that any terms of directional reference were superfluous, as the other seven workstations were ranged around the interior of the bridge, so that everyone had their heads to the centre, and their butts to the wall.
Captain Vaarg was unwilling to explain anything while on duty, and instructed that, whilst Fry was welcome to observe – he should do so silently. He had later taken the time to explain. The small size of the Command Pod, was due to the fragile nature of the escape hatch this 'lifeboat' could provide. An advancement on traditional transmat technology, vessels so equipped would drop relay arrays as they advanced into potentially hostile space. If the worst came to the worst, they could detach from the umbilical and attempt to 'leapfrog' out of danger. It simply wasn't possible to use this on anything larger yet, although Vaarg believed that researchers were constantly working on ways to beef up the system.
This also explained, apparently, the necessity for the zero-grav. But the Tiburon's Captain had been rather vague on that point. (Perhaps he didn't even know himself!) By now, Vaarg had relaxed his restrictions on Captain Fry, he was allowed to converse with the flight crew – if they chose to explain anything, he was permitted to ask questions, and he come to know all eighteen, at least by name. Today, Fry decided as he joined the current duty crew, he was just going to hang loose, and see if he learned anything safe to share – that McShane may find interesting…
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Essstaarl shifted slightly as McShane took her place next to her, but continued listening to whatever Kerdan was telling her. It was unusual to see the female Earth Reptile 'at table', she usually preferred to just plonk herself somewhere on an isolated stack, keeping herself to herself. She was one of only two Earth Reptiles that had foregone 'the ice', but McShane had never had the opportunity to ask why. The woman was just too intimidating to approach in a casual manner.
"MukSsshayne!' Essstaarl greeted her, when Kerdan paused for a breath, 'It isss good to sssee you looking ssso well!" Unable to think of a response to that right away, McShane just smiled and tilted a wink in her friend's direction.
While she broke off the Spork attached to her ratpack, activating the self-heating function, she said. "Not looking too shabby yourself, Mate! How are you coping with the heat? And what're you two whispering about?"
Essstaarl hissed slightly – her way of laughing, McShane knew – before replying, gesturing towards the rapidly 'cooking' meal. "I sssee you ssstill will not eat Allutron'sss disssh of the day, MukSsshayne! Sss, Sss, Sss! You really don't know what you are misssing!"
"And I intend to keep it that way, thank you very much! Besides, I like this stuff." McShane mock protested. (And it was true enough… She wasn't entirely sure what was in it, but McShane was practically addicted to Five…)
"He isss a very clever man, that Allutron.' Essstaari stated, nodding towards the distinctly uncomfortable looking 'chef'. 'He hasss made for me a clever modification. I don't know how it works, but my jumpsuit now helps me to maintain a more comfortable body temperature.' She then leaned back a little on her packing crate, to include the patiently observant Kerdan, offering her a brief apology before saying. "Kerdan here was telling me a fassscinating ssstory about her new arm…" She trailed off suggestively, obviously hoping to encourage the Earth Reptile into continuing her tale.
McShane looked curiously at both of Kerdan's arms, then offered a slightly apologetic look to the woman. "Er, forgive me for asking, Kerdan, but which one would that be? And what's new about it?"
For a moment it looked like Kerdan was not going to answer her, (McShane found the facial expressions of the species completely unreadable – not to say non-existent,) but it was merely a brief pause. "To apologise is unnecessary, fellow Trooper. It is this arm of which I speak.' She flexed her left arm in McShane's direction as she continued. 'Although to call it new is perhaps misleading. I have had it for over a year now."
Thoroughly confused, McShane paused to unpeel the cover from her meal, then glanced quickly at Essstaarl. The Ice Warrior would have made a great poker player! Before getting stuck into her Five, the Human said, "Okay. That sounds like a story worth hearing, Kerdan. But first, if it isn't a rude question… Er… What happened to your old one?"
"I agree,' Essstaarl chimed in, 'This I would like to know alssso, if the telling isss permitted."
The normally taciturn woman, whom McShane had always assumed was a dedicated loner, considered the remains of her own meal for a moment, dabbing at the last traces of paste with a finger. After sucking that finger clean thoughtfully, Kerdan began to speak. "As I am sure you are both aware, my people are specialists in underground warfare. We also have certain… technology… that enables us to attack our enemies from below. This has often proved useful against the Daleks. When circumstances allow, and the terrain is suitable, we endeavor to create traps to kill the evil creatures.'
McShane sporked a chunk of meat (if it was meat,) from her container, and managed not to miss her mouth, even though her attention was fixed on the Earth Reptile. As always, the texture and flavour was intoxicating.
"The simplest approach is to tunnel up from below, leaving only a small layer of top cover in place, so that on the surface it is impossible to see. When the prey moves over the trap, that surface layer is liquefied, and the target is drawn down into our domain. With the assistance of Space Fleet, we were able to develop a weapon that was specifically targeted at the Dalek travel machine's weakest area – the base plate. If the Dalek is traveling on the surface, it is unprotected by its anti-grav shielding, and the Scientific Elite have yet to recognise and address this weakness…
'Being creatures of limited intellect, Warrior Daleks – those that are sent first into the fray – have a tendency to panic when the ground begins to swallow them… They do not think to fly out of danger. They are too busy shrieking 'I AM UNDUUUR AATTAAAACK! I AM UNDUUUR AATTAAAACK!' to realise how easy it would be to get away."
The accuracy of Kerdan's impersonation startled McShane, and she nearly choked on her latest mouthful.
'The idea is to place our special weapon against the underneath of the Dalek's travel machine – where it is held in place magnetically – and then detonate the device from a safe distance, while the Dalek is still crying for its Mummy. On my bomb, the magnetic attachment failed for some reason, so I had to physically hold the device against the base plate… As I detonated the charge."
This time McShane did choke. She had begun to suspect that Kerdan's story was heading in this direction, but to hear it delivered so calmly, so matter-of-factly… Well, it still surprised her. She had seen such traps working effectively on several battlefields. She knew that the shaped charge weapon Kerdan was talking about, well, it was supposed to direct at least 90 percent of its destructive force upwards – inside the travel machine. Even though the payload was (relatively) small, the Dalek driving the machine ended up like a frog in a blender. McShane knew – she had been unwise enough to open one up. From the outside, although clearly dead, the Dalek that she had examined looked practically undamaged. Only the drooping eye-stalk, and weapons sticks – and a thin wisp of greasy smoke from its neck bits – really showed that it had ceased to be.
Inside, it looked like someone had set off a crate of fireworks inside a paint factory…
Essstaarl enthusiastically began belting her on the back in a comradely fashion, Sss-ing all the while – almost dislocating her spine. (Well, that's what it felt like!) But it seemed to do the trick. When McShane managed to raise her eyes towards Kerdan again, it was with a profound feeling of awe and respect. (Okay, she liked mucking about with high explosives as much as the next girl – but she wasn't sure that she would have the balls to detonate a bomb that she was actually holding onto!)
"Wow!' she gasped. 'I mean, how the fuck did you survive that?"
Kerdan studied her left hand contemplatively, apparently un-phased by McShane's reaction, and said simply. "I was lucky."
McShane didn't know that much about the people that had (apparently,) thrived on her home planet when her ancester's were little more than rodents. (Just enough to be deeply grateful that they were on her side.) So she felt no qualms in asking, "So… What? You just, like… Grew a new arm?"
Before Kerdan could reply, an enthusiastic bellow of "Good Morning, ladies!" demanded their attention. It was Roadkill, of course. Dee-Kay's didn't usually go in for nick-names, preferring the separation and distance that impersonal surnames provided. Roadkill had created his own nick-name, and refused to answer to anything else. (As he was ever so slightly insane – and insanely good to have at your back in a shit storm – not even the officers used his real name.) McShane didn't even know what it was.
A near-human from Kaldor, Roadkill's face did exactly what it said on the tin. (He was even more protective of his scars than McShane.) Unfortunately, he also considered himself to be the joker in the pack, which was a shame, as usually he wasn't even remotely funny. Dumping his own breakfast down on the dismembered Hearse aileron that served as their table, he pulled up a crate and began to dig in enthusiastically. Completely oblivious to his audience's total lack of interest, he began to regale them with a tale about something that McShane had lost interest in before he even started.
Axtol, the only Earth Reptile besides Kerdan that had chosen not to enter deep sleep, gave him an unreadable glance, then pushed his own crate back from the table. Before leaving, he retrieved the packaging of his own meal to be recycled, and offered Kerdan a bow of deep respect. Evidently she didn't know how to react to this, because she didn't.
Tuning out Roadkill's monologue, McShane glanced over to where Xiphonax, one of the Draconian troops, had just arrived. He was chatting with Vastogne about something. Evidently he must have already eaten, as he then headed straight for the communal table.
When he arrived behind Roadkill, the man was totally unaware of the Draconians presence, as he said. "Well, enough about that, ladies – got a new joke for y'all! What do you get…? If you lock a Sontaran, a Draconian, and a Human together in the same cell?"
He studied them all avidly, egging them on to have a guess, as Essstaarl, McShane, and Kerdan exchanged bemused looks. Then the women all turned their attention to Xiphonax, standing just behind Roadkill, to see how he would react to this. He simply bent down until he could murmur quietly into the ugly man's ear. "A well fed Draconian."
Roadkill froze, then gradually turned his head until he was eye to eye with the elegant Draconian. "Ah, hello, Sheephonax! Didn't know you were there!' He offered brightly, then added hurriedly, 'Just a joke, Mate! No offense intended…"
Xiphonax smiled as he helped himself to the crate so recently vacated by Axtol. 'Oh, I realise that, my friend,' he said as he settled himself beside Roadkill. "Of course, there is no basis in fact for those tired old rumours, I'm sure that you are of that." He favoured the women opposite with a loaded look, and they all watched in breathless anticipation to see what would happen next.
"Of course, Mate!' Roadkill agreed, obviously relieved that he hadn't pissed his drinking oppo off, and turned back to his food. Xiphonax just observed him from the corner of his eye, waiting until the man had taken a particularly huge mouthful of food – before leaning in close and murmuring. "Sontaran's are completely inedible."
Now it was Roadkill's turn to choke on his food, and the girls just cracked up. Essstaarl was Sss-ing ten to the dozen, McShane was laughing like she hadn't done in what felt like forever, and Kerdan was quietly tapping the 'table' in appreciation. Xiphonax stood to receive his accolade, and McShane jumped up immediately and high-fived him. To his credit – once he had actually stopped coughing – Roadkill also stood to give his friend a five, then licked a finger to chalk an imaginary 'one up' on an invisible blackboard.
It was this kind of shit that made people want to spend their time alive, rather than dead in a coffin.