Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [46]
Ben Zoma put a hand on the ensign’s shoulder. “Are we good?”
“We are,” Paris confirmed.
“Good work,” said the first officer. Then, glancing at the others, he said, “Don suits and check phasers.”
It took a couple of minutes for everyone to do that. As it happened, McAteer took the longest. But then, it had probably been years since he even looked at a containment suit, much less confirmed the charge in a phaser pistol.
“Ready?” said Ben Zoma, his voice sounding tinny as it came to him over his helmet’s receiver.
Everyone nodded in their helmets. Even the admiral, though he was the highest-ranking officer aboard and could have led the mission himself, if he had wanted to.
“All right,” said Ben Zoma. And he depressed the stud on the control panel that would open the shuttle door.
As it slid aside with a soft exhalation, it revealed the supply vessel’s hatch cover, which had six sides and was made of the same dark metal alloy as the rest of the ship. There was something protruding from it that was clearly intended to be a handle, indicating that the aliens had appendages not a great deal unlike Ben Zoma’s own.
He turned to Chen, then Ramirez. “Open it.”
The two security officers slipped their phasers into the appropriate slots on the exterior of their suits. Then they advanced to the hatch door and bent to the task of turning its handle in a counterclockwise direction.
Of course, it might not have been designed to rotate in that direction. It might not have been intended to rotate at all. But it certainly seemed to be the required approach.
For a moment, nothing happened, leading Ben Zoma to wonder if their expectations had led them astray. Then finally, the handle turned, and they heard a distinct clunk—suggesting that the hatch’s locking mechanism had disengaged. Chen and Ramirez looked at each other, then pulled.
With a slight puff of equalizing gas pressure, the hatch door swung open. As Ben Zoma had anticipated, there was an airlock beyond it—dimly lit and cylindrical in shape—and a similar door on the far side.
Hunkering down, he entered the lock. Then he gestured for the rest of the team to follow. When they were all inside, Chen and Ramirez pulled the hatch door closed behind them and relocked it with an interior handle.
A moment later, Garner and Horombo started working on the opposite hatch. This one yielded more easily than the first, perhaps because they were turning it with more confidence.
As the hatch swung aside, all Ben Zoma could see beyond it was darkness. He stuck his head through the opening and confirmed it—nothing but darkness in every direction. But then, the ship was unoccupied. Why waste energy on illumination when there was no one there to benefit from it?
Activating his palmlight, Ben Zoma took a few quick stabs at the place. It seemed immense. His beam traveled a long way before it finally hit something solid.
And even then, it wasn’t a bulkhead. It was a sprawling terrain of squat, cylindrical containers. But that was good news. It meant they were in the vessel’s main cargo hold.
“Come on,” Ben Zoma said. “Let’s take a look around.” And he moved out into the benighted expanse.
One by one, the others followed—first McAteer, then Paris, and finally the security officers. Their palmlights sliced through the darkness like knives through fat, dark flesh.
Fortunately, the soles of their containment suits were soft and padded, unlike the soles of their boots. Otherwise, they would have announced themselves with every echoing footfall.
Not that there was anyone there to hear them. But eventually, there would be. At least, that was their hope.
Ben Zoma checked his tricorder. The news it gave him could have been a lot worse.
“Heat,” said Garner, reading off her own device.
“And breathable air,” Horombo added.
“Don’t get too comfy,” Ben Zoma warned them. “That could all