Serengeti (13 page)

Simple question, not so simple answer.
Serengeti
hesitated, watching poor, shell-shocked Finlay wander aimlessly around the bridge.

No,
she corrected
. Not aimlessly. She’s looking for Tsu.

She turned the camera a bit, focusing on Engineering and Tsu.

Poor Finlay. Hasn’t she suffered enough?

“Where are we,
Serengeti
?”

Henricksen’s voice drew her back to the center of the bridge.

“I don’t know,”
Serengeti
said softly. “I honestly don’t know.”

“You don’t know—” Henricksen shook his head in disbelief. “We’re lost then.”

Lost and alone, Henricksen
.
Far from where we should be.

“The jump drives failed mid-transit,”
Serengeti
explained. “The stress of hyperspace was just too much for them. We dumped out here and…” The smallest of pauses as she cycled through the cameras on the bridge. “Let’s just say we’re lucky we survived at all.”

Luckier, in fact, than Henricksen knew. The inertial dampeners—dead now, like so many of her systems and components—survived their tumbling departure from the trough, cushioning their exit, preventing her surviving crew from being turned to mush. No need to pass that tidbit on to Henricksen.
Serengeti
thought about mentioning that to Henricksen, decided against it. Might be a bit too disturbing given the situation. Besides, the dampeners were offline now—unrecoverable like so many other systems inside her.

Henricksen coughed, waving smoke away from his face. “Lucky. Right,” he said, eyes drifting to Sikuuku’s hand dangling from the crushed coughing Artillery pod. Finlay wandered over to Nav, stooped by Evans and looked into his face. “We’re all so damned lucky.”

If you only knew, Henricksen. But for dampeners, you’d all be lumps of liquid flesh and pulverized bone.

“No one
knows
we’re here, do they? No one even knows we’re alive
.
” Henricksen looked up at the camera. “Which means we can’t expect anyone to come looking for us.”

“No,”
Serengeti
said softly.

A tremor passed through her as a rumbling built somewhere deep inside her ship’s belly. A second tremor and she shuddered violently, metal tearing as a gap appeared in her port side, compromising one of her few intact compartments, blasting its contents out into space.

Finlay tumbled to the floor, landing beside Evans. Henricksen grabbed at his captain’s chair, bracing himself until the trembling subsided. And then he squatted down—arm wrapped tight across his stomach, face tight with pain—and started tearing at the underside of the Command Post’s panels, checking wires and circuit boards, tossing burnt out electronics to one side, rerouting connectors where he could.

Comms. He’s trying to fix Comms
,
Serengeti
realized.
He thinks it’s just his panel.

“Henricksen.”

Henricksen gave a sharp shake of his head and kept working, gutting one panel and using its salvaged parts to try and rebuild two others. Blood trickled down his face, blinding one eye. He wiped distractedly at it and then swore softly as his bloody fingers slipped, dropping a circuit board to the floor. “You’d have this working in no time, wouldn’t you, Kusikov?” He flicked his eyes to Kusikov’s sprawled body, his burnt-out eyes staring from his dead face.

“Henricksen.”

“Bet you’re laughing your ass off, aren’t you?” he said softly. He grimaced and looked away, grabbed up the forgotten circuit board and slotted it into place.

“Captain!”
Serengeti
called.

Henricksen bowed his head, dropping a handful of relays to the floor.

“Comms is dead—internal, external, the entire system.”

A tremor ran the length of
Serengeti’s
body, making her shudder and shake. Henricksen pressed a hand to the floor, steadying himself until the trembling stopped.

“You can’t fix it, Henricksen. You’re wasting your time stripping that panel.”

Henricksen sighed and wiped at his bloodied face. “What about Nav? Engineering? Between the crew and the robots maybe—”

“No,” she said gently. “Nav is down. Engines and secondary propulsion systems are down. All I’ve got left are docking and maneuvering jets.”

“Fuel based. Won’t last for long. Certainly won’t get us very far. Damn,” he breathed, taking another swipe at the bloodied side of his face. “The crew?”

Difficult question to answer with her internal monitoring systems down. But
Serengeti’s
jaunt through the ship gave her some idea of the extent of their losses, enough to know the dead far outnumbered the living.

Not enough crew left to salvage her. Not before life support failed completely.

“The crew,
Serengeti.
” Henricksen stared hard at the camera.

“Fin. Fin,” Tsu’s soft voice called.

“Tsu?” Finlay pushed herself to her feet and took a tentative step toward Engineering, waving a hand to clear the smoke. “Tsu?”

“Fin.” Softer still, Tsu’s voice fading, face stained red by the emergency lights. She lay draped over her station, head pillowed on the panel, composite metal girder sticking out of her back. “Fin,” Tsu called, raising a trembling hand.

“No!” Finlay lurched to Engineering, grabbing at Tsu’s hand as she knelt down at her side. “Tsu,” she sobbed, tears spilling down her cheeks. “No. No-no-no.”

“Damn. God damn.” Henricksen climbed to his feet, wincing in pain, one hand holding tight to the captain’s chair. He stood there a moment—head bowed, taking deep breaths—and then straightened and walked over to Engineering, setting one hand on Finlay’s shoulder, touching the fingers of the other to Tsu’s cheek. “Hey there, Tsu. Lyin’ down on the job, I see.” He smiled for her, trying to keep the moment light, but that smile couldn’t hide the sorrow in his voice, the sadness lurking in his eyes.

“Captain.” Tsu forced a tremulous smile onto her face, but it withered quickly, dying on her lips. “Sorry, sir,” she said, fingers twitching, eyes filled with fear. “Tried.”

“Nuthin’ to be sorry for, Tsu. You stood your station. That’s all I can ask.”

“We have to help her.” Finlay clasped Tsu’s hand tight, staring pleadingly at her captain. “Please, sir. We have to get her out.”

“Finlay—”

“Star,” Tsu gasped. She fumbled at her station with her free hand, tapping at one corner, leaving a bloody smear behind. “Star,” she repeated.

Henricksen frowned at the blank panel, its star charts all locked away. “Star? What star?”

Tsu craned her neck around until she could see the camera. “Star,” she breathed, moving her finger with an effort, touching that same spot again so
Serengeti
would get the message.

“I see it,”
Serengeti
assured her. “I see it, Tsu.”

Tsu’s hand fell away, face filled with relief as her lungs gasped for breath. “Fin. I want—I need—” She squeezed Finlay’s fingers and then let them go, fumbled for something tucked into the pocket of her uniform jacket that she pressed into Finlay’s palm. “Fin. Take.” Tsu gasped, eyes widening, hand clenched tight around Finlay’s fingers and the object cradled in her palm. “Fin.” A last shallow breath and the light in Tsu’s eyes faded. She slumped against the panel, staring sightlessly at Finlay’s face.

“No. Tsu, no. Please no.” Finlay sobbed softly, pressing Tsu’s dead hand to her cheek.

Henricksen leaned close, whispering to Finlay until the sobbing finally stopped. And then he straightened and stepped backward as Finlay sat down beside Tsu, wiping tears from her cheeks as she hummed a soft, sad tune and stared into her dead friend’s face.

Such a lovely voice
,
Serengeti
thought as Finlay’s humming gave way to the barest breath of a song.
I’ll miss Finlay’s singing. I’ll miss many things about this crew
.

“So what do we do?” Henricksen stared at Finlay, watching her stroke Tsu’s fingers. “We can’t just sit here,
Serengeti.
”

“No,” she agreed.

“What then?”

Henricksen looked up at the camera. He knew.
Serengeti
could see it in his eyes. In the sour twist of his lips.

“Leave,” she said, as gently as she could.

Henricksen flinched, spots of anger blooming on his cheeks. “No,” he said, hands clenching into fists. “No, we won’t abandon you. Not me, not my crew. Not after—”

“Henricksen. Stop.”

Henricksen’s mouth snapped shut, lips pressing together in an angry line. He stared at
Serengeti’s
camera, knowing she was right, hating the options laid before him. Stay and die—kill the last of his crew—or leave and live, abandoning
Serengeti
to the darkest depths of space.

Save his crew or save his ship. A terrible choice. One no captain should have to make.

Henricksen touched a finger to his collar, tracing the outline of the bloodied silver stars he wore. Tremors shook the ship as another compartment vented its contents into space. Henricksen bowed his head, looking away from the camera.

“I’m crippled, Henricksen. My hull is shredded. My systems are failing. Life support is working for now but it’s only a matter of time before that quits as well.”

“The power cores—”

“Damaged. Irreparably. A few are holding on but eventually those will go too. I can feel the last bits of power trickling away even now.”

The emergency lights flickered as if to prove her point. Henricksen closed his eyes, muttering curses under his breath as the air handlers cut out, fans going silent.
Serengeti
shunted a last bit of power to the environments, bringing the fans back to life.

Henricksen’s head lifted. “You can’t ask this of me,” he said, staring accusingly at the camera.

“I can. I
am.
Go, Henricksen. Save the crew.”

He shook his head, stubborn to the last. “We can try—”

“And fail,” she said coldly. “That groaning you hear? The rumbling? Those are my internal structures giving way. I have just a few internal compartments left that haven’t been compromised, and the main corridor running the length of my body is largely intact. Go. Now. Before it’s too late. Before there’s no crew left to save.”

Henricksen thought for a while, thinking
Serengeti’s
words over while the chuff of the fans and Finlay’s soft singing filled the bridge’s silence. “And what about you?” he asked bitterly, eyes returning to the camera. He hitched at his arm, wincing as even that small movement caused him pain. “We’re just supposed to leave you here on your own, is that it? Abandon you? Leave you adrift? A dying hulk like
Osage
?”

“Not alone,” she told him. “I’ll have the robots to keep me company. And perhaps, in time…”

She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. The robots might be able to fix her, at least, enough of her to send out a distress signal. Then again, they might not.

“There’s comms in the lifeboat.”

“Useless right now.”

Too much interference. Too much of
Serengeti’s
own body blocking the signal, getting in the way. And not enough power in
Cryo’s
communications package to reach across the darkest depths of space.

“You break free from me and get away from here, Henricksen. Get close enough to human settled space and someone will hear you. Maybe…maybe…”

“We can call for help. Send help back
here,
if it’s not too late,” Henricksen added with a grimace. “I hope so,” he said softly, looking directly into the camera. “I truly do.”

Henricksen took a last look around the bridge as he stepped down from his Command Post for the last time. He walked over to Evans and fumbled one-handed for the badge of rank at Evans’s neck, the metal nameplate on his chest, did the same with Kusikov, and then tore apart the Artillery station to get at Sikuuku’s body. He stared at Sikuuku for a long time, as if trying to memorize his face. And then he carefully removed his nametag, plucked the insignia from Sikuuku’s collar, reached inside his jacket, cupping his hand around a seashell pendant dangling from a leather cord strung around Sikuuku’s neck. Henricksen hesitated, as if wondering if he should leave it, then lifted the necklace away, settling the cord around his own neck before tucking the pendant away beneath his uniform shirt.

Henricksen buttoned up Sikuuku’s jacket, pressed a hand to his chest. “Goodbye, old friend,” he whispered, and then turned away, moving on to Tsu.

Her badges and nameplate were missing.
Serengeti
spotted them winking dully in Finlay’s cupped hand.

Henricksen frowned at the blank spaces on Tsu’s uniform, the bits of metal Finlay held. He reached to his collar and plucked his captain’s badge from one side, pinning it to Tsu’s jacket. “Captain stays with the ship.” A quick look at the camera as he leaned close, placing his lips next to Tsu’s ear. “Watch over her for me, Tsu. Keep her safe ‘til I return.” A touch at Tsu’s collar, straightening the little bloodstained star, and he turned to Finlay, squatting down beside her. “Finlay. Hey, Finlay.”

Finlay didn’t seem to hear him. She’d let go of Tsu’s fingers, trading her friend’s hand for the tiny data recorder Tsu entrusted to her at the end.

Serengeti
zoomed in on its screen as a flickering image appeared: the smiling Indo-Persian face of Anoosheh, who sent Tsu all those messages from home.