smartest move. Along with the port authority, we isolated the ship and searched it room-to-room. The felon was hiding in closet—again, not a smart move from a not very smart crook.
Keen to get a closer look at the scorch marks in the walkway, I didn’t search the closet in the quarters and left.
I investigated three more rooms on the way to the halfway point. Thinking about it—and from the resolving detail as I approached—the halfway point was where I’d find the stairwell down to the next floor. As I walked toward the fourth open door, it looked increasingly clear that I’d been right—the scorch-marks up ahead were the result of a fire. A few more steps and I reached the half-open door on the right, ten yards from the stairwell doors. There was no reason why I chose only the open doors to look inside. But I couldn’t look in every room. After all, I was just passing through to Module 1 and the ship was huge. I pushed open the door and saw a room as untouched as the others except for one thing—the skeletal remains lying on the lower bunk. This guy had been dead a long time as only the bones and his synthetic stasis suit remained. I knew it was a male from the cut of his stasis suit. He was lying face-up, both hands clutching the left side of his rib-cage. A white gold wedding band with a Celtic weave pattern adorned his ring finger—a personal detail that reminded me this man once loved and someone loved him back.
“Sorry it turned out this way, buddy,” I whispered to him.
I gently shifted his hands and saw why—two bullet holes penetrating the suit’s now grubby material. I poked my fingers inside and felt the sharp ends of shattered ribs inside. Yet again, the cause of death was obvious, but the motive was as opaque as before. I checked for a dog tag, but there wasn’t one, confirming one thing at least—he wasn’t military.
Moving back into the walkway, I approached the stairwell entrance. The soot that had clearly emanated from behind the stairwell doors spoke of a fire that came but burnt out rapidly. I looked closely at the metallic, double sliders to the stairwell that met in the middle. What I had not noticed until then was their shape. They bulged in the middle, which gave way to a thin, black, jagged-edged gap with fingers of melted alloy pointing toward me. It looked very much like an explosion had taken place on the other side. I turned around and examined the opposite wall, darkened with soot and age. A vertical line of micro-shrapnel damage peppered the wall. Around it, I counted fifteen bullet holes.
None of this told the story of peace and unity we’d all been hoping for when we set off. It also didn’t help me find out what the hell happened and where the survivors had gone. But it was a clue at least. Maybe there’d been a rescue and they’d somehow missed me. And Arnold Reichs. I could have dreamt up theories all day long, but I still believed the quickest way to solve these questions was at the bridge. The fastest route was straight ahead, along the corridor to the blast doors and Module 3, but the cop in me had a different idea. I turned around one-eighty and went back to the bulging doors.
A control panel did sit on the wall beside the double doors, but there was no point trying the melted, charred mass of plastic and circuitry. Instead, I grasped either door and tried prizing them open. These were not blast doors, but still didn’t move. I wasn’t surprised. I tried the ax and got nowhere, so I placed it on the ground took a step back then landed a massive running thrust kick on the left-hand door. Now I was getting somewhere. Eight kicks later and the alloy door gave way.
I picked up and re-stowed the ax in my suit leg. Wondering what I might find, I entered the pitch-black stairwell. With soot-covered surfaces and no light strips, only the meager light from the corridor helped me see. The explosion had badly twisted the handrail on my left. I didn’t dare lean on
Keen to get a closer look at the scorch marks in the walkway, I didn’t search the closet in the quarters and left.
I investigated three more rooms on the way to the halfway point. Thinking about it—and from the resolving detail as I approached—the halfway point was where I’d find the stairwell down to the next floor. As I walked toward the fourth open door, it looked increasingly clear that I’d been right—the scorch-marks up ahead were the result of a fire. A few more steps and I reached the half-open door on the right, ten yards from the stairwell doors. There was no reason why I chose only the open doors to look inside. But I couldn’t look in every room. After all, I was just passing through to Module 1 and the ship was huge. I pushed open the door and saw a room as untouched as the others except for one thing—the skeletal remains lying on the lower bunk. This guy had been dead a long time as only the bones and his synthetic stasis suit remained. I knew it was a male from the cut of his stasis suit. He was lying face-up, both hands clutching the left side of his rib-cage. A white gold wedding band with a Celtic weave pattern adorned his ring finger—a personal detail that reminded me this man once loved and someone loved him back.
“Sorry it turned out this way, buddy,” I whispered to him.
I gently shifted his hands and saw why—two bullet holes penetrating the suit’s now grubby material. I poked my fingers inside and felt the sharp ends of shattered ribs inside. Yet again, the cause of death was obvious, but the motive was as opaque as before. I checked for a dog tag, but there wasn’t one, confirming one thing at least—he wasn’t military.
Moving back into the walkway, I approached the stairwell entrance. The soot that had clearly emanated from behind the stairwell doors spoke of a fire that came but burnt out rapidly. I looked closely at the metallic, double sliders to the stairwell that met in the middle. What I had not noticed until then was their shape. They bulged in the middle, which gave way to a thin, black, jagged-edged gap with fingers of melted alloy pointing toward me. It looked very much like an explosion had taken place on the other side. I turned around and examined the opposite wall, darkened with soot and age. A vertical line of micro-shrapnel damage peppered the wall. Around it, I counted fifteen bullet holes.
None of this told the story of peace and unity we’d all been hoping for when we set off. It also didn’t help me find out what the hell happened and where the survivors had gone. But it was a clue at least. Maybe there’d been a rescue and they’d somehow missed me. And Arnold Reichs. I could have dreamt up theories all day long, but I still believed the quickest way to solve these questions was at the bridge. The fastest route was straight ahead, along the corridor to the blast doors and Module 3, but the cop in me had a different idea. I turned around one-eighty and went back to the bulging doors.
A control panel did sit on the wall beside the double doors, but there was no point trying the melted, charred mass of plastic and circuitry. Instead, I grasped either door and tried prizing them open. These were not blast doors, but still didn’t move. I wasn’t surprised. I tried the ax and got nowhere, so I placed it on the ground took a step back then landed a massive running thrust kick on the left-hand door. Now I was getting somewhere. Eight kicks later and the alloy door gave way.
I picked up and re-stowed the ax in my suit leg. Wondering what I might find, I entered the pitch-black stairwell. With soot-covered surfaces and no light strips, only the meager light from the corridor helped me see. The explosion had badly twisted the handrail on my left. I didn’t dare lean on
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