The first electronic map Dan passed was a shattered mess. The next one gave him directions to the medbay, but only after delivering a strongly worded suggestion that he turn back and call for assistance from the safety of his cabin. Ignoring the unsolicited advice, he followed the glowing, red guidance arrows which appeared in the carpet a few steps ahead of him. Twice he was forced to backtrack after his electronic guide disappeared behind sealed blast doors, but he eventually found what he was looking for.

As Dan drew closer to the medical, bay he heard a voice shooing passengers back to their cabins.  “If it is safe to do so, go back to your cabin and wait for assistance!" it said, repeating itself with such monotonous regularity that Dan assumed that it was coming from a computer. He was surprised to find it was coming from a real, live person, whose assigned job in this time of crisis was apparently to walk up and down a hallway and warn each approaching person that they should be somewhere else. Most of the passengers obediently turned around and tottered back to their rooms, but a few who were more severely injured or whose cabins were damaged had lined up along the corridor. “Several medical teams are making room calls, but only one is working from this office," the steward repeated, past caring whether anyone was actually listening.

The men and women waiting outside the medbay were so lost in their own pain and shock that they barely noticed Dan approach, but a few of them looked up. One man in particular caught Dan's eye as a potential problem. His coarse features were frozen in a stubborn expression which Dan immediately interpreted as 'alpha dog.' A woman who Dan assumed to be the man's companion had collapsed against the wall behind him, her bloody arm cradled in a makeshift sling made out of undershirts. They were next in line, a position Dan suspected they weren't about to give up without a fight; but he was on a tight schedule, and had no time to spare in foolish argument.

this could get ugly

he warned Bo, as he approached.

ignore them

Bo advised.

head up eyes forward

i have seen his type

bull through him

he will move

Dan took a deep breath, and didn't slow. I belong here, he told himself, steeling himself for a possible confrontation. They can't stop me.

Taking Bo's advice, Dan acted as if the man weren't even there. But unlike Bo, Dan wasn't a hundred and sixty kilos of angry-looking muscle, and the man shoved his hand away before it could touch the doorknob.

“Get in line, buddy," the man barked, folding meaty arms across his chest as he moved to block the door. “We were here first."

Dan shot him a mildly confused look which he hoped would defuse the man's aggression.

“Ship's business," he said tersely, trying his best to sound harried instead of nervous.

“Not dressed like that, you're not," the man challenged him. “Get in line or go back to your cabin."

“I'm not taking your place,' Dan said. “The captain sent me to ask the doctor one specific question, and then I'm out of here." Technically it was true...if they had been following strict chain of command...and if you stretched the definition of 'technically.' Dan pulled out his comm, and extended it to the man. “Captain Olsen's the first speed dial. Call him if you want, but hurry up. We're running out of time."

With a grunt of suspicion, the stranger rolled his eyes and shuffled a few inches to his left. “Fine, whatever. But tell them to hurry up in there. We're dying out here."

Dan nodded quickly, and shouldered his way into the medical office, catching the doctor's name from the engraved plaque on the door. Once inside, he saw that the small office was even more crowded than the hallway. Three white-coated figures bent over bodies lying on tables before them, and Dan could only assume that one of them was the doctor. “Doctor Gupta!" he called, hoping that one of them would respond.

“Not now," the ship's medical officer grumbled from her position at the center bed. “I'm busy." In full doctor-mode, she all but ignored Dan as she examined her patient's eyes with a small, brightly lit instrument.

“You're about to be a lot busier," Dan warned, trying his best to keep his voice low as he moved closer to the small, light-skinned woman.

“Then whatever you've got to say, I don't want to hear it." In spite of her words the doctor heard the urgency in Dan's voice, and after giving a few rushed instructions to her assistant she snapped off her scope and ushered him into a relatively quiet corner. Cramped to begin with, the medbay seemed even smaller with a dozen adult bodies packed inside. “What?" she snapped.

Dan explained their situation as briefly as he could, and was dismayed when Gupta started shaking her head before he finished asking his first question. She held up a fine-boned hand to stop him. “It doesn't matter how many people are on those shuttles," Gupta said, “we can't knock everyone out. I've got a few options in the pharmacy that might put down twenty or thirty people, but not for more than a few hours."

“Okay then, what about just keeping them calm? If nobody freaks out, how many more can we put in each shuttle?"

“Jesus, I don't know," Gupta said, sounding thoroughly frustrated. This wasn't anything she'd anticipated when she'd signed her contract. This job was supposed to be treating passengers whose biggest concern was forgotten medication or a bad sunburn. She wasn't supposed to be leading a medical unit at the front line of a war zone. “What are the shuttles normally rated for?"

Dan looked at her blankly for a moment before pulling out his comm and calling Lucas. “You there, yet?" he asked, purposefully discreet in case someone overheard them.

“Yeah," Lucas's voice was distracted. “I'm looking at the shuttle's baseplate." After a pause, “It's not very helpful."

Dan was confused. “What's a -"

Doctor Gupta grumpily pulled the comm out of Dan's hand, and spoke to Lucas directly. “Look for a CO2 sequestration figure. Probably in grams per hour." Dan couldn't hear Lucas' response, but whatever he said sent Gupta's hand flying to her notebook to jot the figures down. “What's the carrying capacity, and what's your transit time going to be?" She wrote those figures down too, then snapped off the comm without comment, and handed it back to Dan.

After some basic math they had their answer. “I can't tell you an exact number," she said, wearily pushing a strand of hair over her ear, “because that depends on the size of the people. With this group?" she shrugged her shoulders. “My best guess would be...Fifty in that shuttle. Maybe ten more, if you can get some good scripts from your old ladies. Even then, the air's going to be pretty rank in there by the time you can vent to atmosphere."

“That's our target, then," Dan said, grimly. “Sixty per shuttle." As his eyes wandered to the others in the room, a thought occurred to him. “How are we going to secure the gurneys? Do the wheels lock?"

Gupta sighed, and lowered her voice. “Your compassion will kill you," she said, quietly. “This is triage. We have to take the people most likely to survive, and leave the rest behind." Her eyes were hard with resolve, but still managed to look pained.

Dan looked at the others in the room, for the first time realizing that the bruised and bleeding people around him were, for all intents and purposes, already dead; they simply didn't know it yet. She was right. If they were going to survive, he was going to have to ignore the injured in favor of the healthy. He took a deep breath, and tried not to feel like a callous shitheel for writing them off like that. “We need you to load a shuttle with all the medical supplies you can manage," he said, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, and unable to meet the doctor's eyes. “We don't have much time, so you need to hurry. And whatever happens, you've got to be on that shuttle."

***

Victus by his side, Bo walked out onto a landing overlooking the promenade. The acrid smoke that hung in the still air and burned their eyes and lungs was testament to how badly the ship had been damaged. He knew all too well that any ship that couldn't clean its own air supply was doomed.

Most of the surviving passengers had been released from their cabins, and those who weren't prohibited by their injuries had gathered in this central meeting spot as they'd been taught during the evacuation drill. From here they should have been escorted to their assigned lifeboats in orderly groups, but that wasn't going to happen today. All they could do now was mill around in small groups, raid the food concessions, and fan the flames of each other's panic.

Bo threw out his chest, raised his voice, and did his best to cut through the din of chattering passengers milling around below them. "Can I have your attention please!" he barked, then waited for quiet.

Once the crowd had stilled, Bo continued. "My name is Bo Taylor, and I think I can get us off this ship." That statement finally caught the attention of the few people who had persisted in chattering, and he soon stood in the center of an unnatural, ringing silence that was all but impossible on a functional spaceship.

"I'm sure you've got a lot of questions, but the less you talk, the greater chance we have of getting off this ship alive. You've probably heard that we came out of the ring pretty close to a colony world, but the lifeboats were damaged, and the tenders weren't designed to land on a planet. There are shuttles onboard which can make the trip, but they're stuffed full of supplies for the colony."

Some voices raised in concern, and Bo had to shout to be heard. "If anyone nearby you is talking, make them shut up!" he yelled, then waited patiently while the crowd policed itself. He almost enjoyed watching passengers cajole their noisy shipmates into silence. One young man was persistent enough to require a solid knock on the head by his companions before he stopped shouting questions. He stood silently, glowering at Bo as he rubbed the back of his skull.

Bo continued. “We can fit about sixty people into each of those ships, so that will get most of us down to the surface. Each ship took days, or even weeks to pack, and we've only got a few hours to make enough room for those sixty people. This means we're going to have to cooperate to get the job done. We can do it," he stressed, “but we'll have to work together."

He paused, and looked at Victus. “Should I tell them the captain's plan?" he asked, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. “Some of them might not help if they think there's an easier way out."

Victus considered for a moment. “Allowing them to make an informed decision is ethical."

Bo sighed, wondering how many workers this was going to cost them. But he knew Victus was right, and he turned back to the crowd of expectant people milling below them. “You need to know that the captain thinks that his crew might be able to restart the damaged engines," he said, his voice expressing his doubt. “I don't believe they can do it, but you should know it's a possibility."

A few people shook their heads, and wandered away from the group, but the majority stayed where they were. “Who's got any experience with loading equipment? Forklifts, cranes, that sort of thing?" Bo felt encouraged when a dozen hands shot up. "Good! Go now, and meet us outside the load master's office in the landing bay.

"The rest of you, listen up! We'll need all of your help if we're going to make this happen. If you have any experience that might help in the unloading of the ships, please wait ten minutes, and meet me in the landing bay.

"Everyone else, unless you're elderly or feeble, I expect to see you down there in twenty minutes to help strip those ships. If you can't help us unload, bring food to those who can. Choose leaders, and coordinate with each other."

He looked over the remaining group of people one last time, and lowered his voice so the people in the back had to strain to hear. "Get this straight, people. This is no time to hold back. You're working for your supper, here. If you don't pitch in and help, you'll probably die out here." He turned, and walked back to the elevators, Victus following in his wake.

Once they reached the hanger, Bo squared his shoulders, walked past his first group of helpers, and strode through the loading officer's door. The inside of the landing bay was easily the largest area of the ship, but even its vast space was filled by the dozen large colony shuttles. There was no crew member in the office, which came as no surprise. He didn't expect that anyone would be manning his post at a little, wood-grained, plastic desk while their ship was about to ram a planet.

Bo quickly rifled through the desk, and found the key cards to the unloading equipment. “Who has experience with forklifts?" He tossed the numbered plastic squares to the waiting men, and pointed them to the recharging bays ringing the hanger. "The loaders are over there. Get 'em going as fast as you can!"

He jogged to the first shuttle, and examined the bay door controls. They had been security tagged to prevent theft, but that hardly mattered now. Bo ripped off the tag and pulled open the metal box protecting the door's controls. A second later he cursed low under his breath. "Shit, everything's in French!"

Dan pushed him gently aside and studied the panel. Bo looked dubious. "Since when do you speak French?"

Dan answered him distractedly, his attention on the panel. "I don't, but I took a year of Latin in school, so maybe I can... There! That one." He pointed at a large blue button bearing an icon that looked something like a soda machine tipping over on top of someone.

Bo shrugged and pushed it, and was rewarded with the sound of pneumatic locks disengaging. He looked down to see Dan grinning back at him.

told you

Bo rolled his eyes.

you guessed

As the bottom-hinged door slowly lowered to the deck, the contents of the shuttle came into view. Bo whistled softly through sharp, white teeth. "Damn. They weren't kidding when they said it was jammed full." He tried not to sound discouraged, but he knew that some of what he was feeling must have crept into his voice.

From stem to stern, roof to rafters, this shuttle's hold was jam-packed with what Bo recognized as a disassembled landing grid. Designed for military use, grids like these could break down into smaller pieces that fit inside whatever cargo bay needed to carry them. In this instance, the plates were about three meters square, and had been stuffed into the module like a fat man in a leotard. The cargo container had been designed to be unloaded only after it had reached the ground and had been detached from the shuttle. Getting all the pieces out while it was still locked in place was going to be interesting, to say the least.

"Okay," Bo boomed out to his impromptu unloading crew, trying his best to sound upbeat, "here's the plan. Only pull out enough of this shit to make room for sixty people, then stop, and move to the next one. Don't throw anything out you don't have to. Got it?"

He looked around to see nods of agreement. "Make sure the deck is clear, and whatever's left inside is restrained. We don't want our passengers to be killed by shifting freight."

One of the younger men standing in front of him motioned for Bo's attention. “Where they all gonna sit?" He asked, in a deep Alabama drawl.

This gave Bo pause. “Good question," he said. He was forgetting that most of the passengers didn't have the strength and endurance of a military varius. “Anyone have any bright ideas?"

“The theater's full of seats," an older man suggested almost instantly. “They're hardly acceleration couches, but they're better than nothing."

“Not a bad idea," Bo said, nodding his head thoughtfully. “The ones I've seen were built in a row, so they'd only need to be bolted down in a few spots each. But I imagine it's going to be a challenge getting them back here."

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Take a couple of people and go scout it out, and see what you'll need to make it happen, then get back here, and recruit as many people as you need to get the job done. You've only got a few hours, but we're going to have a bunch of warm bodies who want to earn their passage. Keep 'em busy!"

The man immediately turned, and jogged out the door, no doubt motivated, Dan thought, by the looming disaster. “What about restraints?" he asked, before the rest of the group dispersed. “We can't have people banging around loose."

A black man beside him pointed at some large restraint nets that bulged over odd cargo that would most likely never finish the journey to its rightful owner. “What about those?" he asked. “Bet we could cut those apart for the webbing."

A scrappy woman to his left looked doubtful. “They've gotta have some rope around here somewhere," she said. “It'd be a lot faster than trying to pull that stuff apart."

The man looked unhappy that his idea had been summarily dismissed, and Bo stepped in before conflict could erupt. “Go find something sharp to separate the webbing," he directed the man. “If you can't find something to cut them with in here, go swipe some steak knives from the buffet. Get anyone you can to help, if you need to."

He turned his head to the woman. Bo's direct gaze could be unsettling under the best of circumstances but this woman didn't so much as flinch. “Go try to find some rope that will do the trick. If you haven't found anything in thirty minutes, come back here and help…" he looked expectantly at the man. “What's your name?"

“Samar," the man said, standing up straighter under the scrutiny.

Bo turned back to the woman. “Help Samar cut the webbing, and find some way to fasten it to the chairs. Doesn't have to be pretty," he reminded them, “just has to get the job done."

To the rest of his small crew, he said, “Okay, let's go! Dan, get all of the cargo box doors open." He pointed to the array of loaders, parked at their charging stations. “If those key cards don't work, come back and let me know. Now, move!"

Five minutes after Bo's crew began their work, the yellow and black cargo loaders were scuttling around the shuttle like ants around the carcass of a beetle, each one dipping in to remove a small piece of the puzzle, then pulling out to find someplace to drop their prize before returning for another bite. The other passengers had divided themselves between the shuttles, and were picking out as much cargo as they could, while returning any of the material they thought might help keep them alive on a pioneer world. Bo marveled at how, against all odds and expectations, it appeared to be proceeding smoothly.

That sense of communal harmony evaporated when Tolliver strode into the cargo bay, trailed by three robust-looking men in the matching dark blue coveralls worn by the extraterrestrial construction crew. Dan thought it odd that, despite his understanding that most of the construction gang was varius, the men Tolliver had chosen to bring with him were all sapiens. He had to wonder if the director might be a slight bit bigoted. He jogged over to greet Tolliver, but before he could say anything the other man exploded. “What the fuck do you think you do?" he shouted, his eyes bulging crazily. “You can't just rip away what you feel like!"

“We're not-" Dan started, but was cut off.

Tolliver's thick accent was growing even more impenetrable. “I see it myself! You have no idea what you do!" He pointed at the pile of rejected material mounding beside the shuttle that had a large, sloppy number six spray-painted on the nose. “That crate is full with medical supplies. That one is incubator for meat animal fetuses." He stared at Dan incredulously. “You want to eat, don't you think?" The men behind him looked furious.

Dan felt flustered but was determined not to show it. “I'm glad you're here," he improvised. “This is the sort of help we need from you." He put his hand on Tolliver's back, and guide him gently toward the shuttle he'd been working in. “You and your men can identify this stuff faster than we can, so if you each get in a shuttle, you can point the unloaders toward the least critical crates."

Tolliver broke free, and whirled to face Dan, his jaw jutting out defiantly. For a moment Dan drew back, convinced that Tolliver was going to lose control and punch him in the face. “You don't get it! We didn't bring that shit a hundred light years because of want - we need it! All of it!"

Dan braced himself for the hit, preparing to get physical with this man if that's what was going to be necessary to get as many people as possible off the ship alive. He balled his fists, and had opened his mouth to argue when Tolliver was yanked away from him by a peeved varius. Even more surprising than Tolliver's sudden departure was the fact that the varius who pulled him away had not been Bo, but a mammoth ursine wearing a jumpsuit emblazoned with the cruise line's logo. Dan couldn't help but notice that the jumpsuits which fit the rest of the crew like generic sacks hugged this man's contours like they'd been specially tailored for him, making his bulk look even more imposing.

The ursine pinned the Scandinavian man against the curve of the shuttle's belly with a single handpaw, a hold which left Tolliver's boots dangling a half-meter above the deck. It was just the right height for the ursine varius to stare him in the eyes. “Leave the man alone," the varius told him, calmly. “He was doing a good job until you showed up, so either help us or go away."

“What name are you?" Tolliver demanded, determinedly spitting out words against the pressure holding him against the hull. “I'll have your job for this!"

The varius didn't do him the favor of looking cowed. “My name is Dante," he said, his pleasant demeanor not changing in the slightest. “I'm contract labor, so you can yell my name to anyone who'll listen to you. Now, are you ready to play nice?"

Tolliver didn't answer until Dante gave him a single shake, not hard enough to hurt the man, but sufficient to rattle his teeth, and restore his perspective. “Fine," Tolliver spat, “put me down, and maybe I can keep your boss man from killing us."

With that, Dante ever so gently put Tolliver back on his feet, and brushed non-existent lint off the shoulders of his shirt. Dan knew that it was a sop to help restore Tolliver's ego, but the other man didn't want it. The instant his feet touched the deck, his back stiffened in outrage.

Dante moved even closer to Tolliver, then leaned forward, towering over the shorter sapiens and stopping any dispute before it could start with a blunt but imposing claw shoved in Tolliver's face. “Now be polite," he warned, in the tone one might use with an adored but misbehaving child. “We don't want you to get thrown out on your ass, do we?" He smiled and gently tapped the tip of Tolliver's nose with the thick, black claw before turning and walking away.

Tolliver was too proud to show fear by shrinking away from the enormous ursine, but the moment contact had ceased he turned on his heel, and put a little distance between himself and the offending varius. “You," he barked at Dan, who had been quietly watching the show from the doorway of the cargo pod. “How many of our shuttles are you raping?"

“Twelve," Dan answered, blandly. “That's all of them, as far as I know. You ready to get to work?"

Tolliver didn't bother answering him. “Dickerson, give your help in shuttles one, three, and five," he told the first blue-clad man. “They're mostly carrying the landing grids." He turned to the rest, and pointed to them in turn. “Kennedy, you get four and six, Edward, you take eleven and seven. There's much medical equipment in there, so… “ Thinking about it for a moment, he changed his mind. “Never mind, I take that one myself. Do two, eight, and nine instead. Put as much farm equipment as you can into shuttles where the grids used to be. Jollie, you get ten and twelve," he told the last man, “There's a lot of different stuff in there, so put as much of what you take out into another shuttle. Keep everything you can!" he yelled, at their retreating backs.

Tolliver was alone now, and Dan offered him an olive branch. “Thanks for helping," he said, dusting off his hands, and looking toward the remaining cargo. “What's next?"

Tolliver couldn't restrain his contempt. “Ask Kennedy" he said, turning his back on Dan and walking quickly toward shuttle seven. “You're his problem now."

Kennedy, Dan thought, looking at the man Tolliver had assigned to his shuttle. I guess that's his name… Kennedy was a swarthy, dark-haired, heavily built man who stood a few inches taller than Dan. Despite the man's fierce looks he seemed considerably calmer than his leader, and being with Bo had taught Dan a thing or two about dealing with imposing-looking people. “Dan Blocker," he said, holding out his hand. “So where do we start?"

Kennedy shook Dan's hand immediately and without rancor. “I don't know what he's so pissed about," he said, gesturing to the pile of cargo Dan had helped remove. “Most of what you pulled out isn't all that important." He glanced at a crate labeled 'E-I-C-2137' and whistled. “But where you fucked up, you really fucked up."

Dan didn't bother defending his mistake. “Yeah, well… If I'm gonna fuck up, I try to fuck up as big as possible." He nodded toward the crate. “What is that, anyway?"

“Embryo incubator." Kennedy gave the crate a muscular heave, and rotated the pallet so the forks of the loading truck could pick it up, and return it to the ship. “Nobody would have died," he said, “but you would have pissed a lot of people off." He clambered up the ramp into the cargo container, and rubbed his hands together. “Now, let me show you how to decode the markings on the crates so you can match it up against the manifest."