Cleanup on Deck 7
Claire Simpson
“Attention, all hands. We have an incursion on deck seven, starboard. I repeat, an incursion on deck seven, starboard. Initiate emergency procedures. Red alert.”
Being on her first tour of duty, Janitor Grade One Nakata still had a tendency to get lost in the endless corridors of the Lightspeed Warrior. So when the announcement came over the comms she had to double-check the signs to see where she was. ‘Deck 7: Starboard Aft’. Great.
What did the janitorial manual say about Arachnid incursions? Get back to base, stay out of the way, prepare for major clean-up operations afterwards. That was it. Seventeen pages about shifting unruly grease spots and nothing about what to do when a breach happened in front of you.
The growing shadows on the wall ahead were not the cavalry riding in to save her, judging by the shapes. Nakata dived blindly for the nearest door and hurled herself through, slapping at the button to close it behind her.
A store cupboard. Fantastic. She could never find the damn things when she needed them and now she was stuck in one. Better try to settle her breathing and hope they didn’t figure out she was in here. “Nakata.” The communicator at her waist crackled. Janitor Grade Two Dimitrov. “Report in, Nakata. Where are you?”
“Deck seven, starboard aft,” she whispered, trying not to attract the attention of anything outside. “I can’t really-”
“Say again, Nakata.” Dimitrov didn’t do quiet. “Where the hell are you?” Nakata lifted the communicator and spoke as loudly as she dared. “I’m in a cupboard on deck seven, starboard aft,” she said. “There are hostiles right outside. I’ll join you as soon as I’m-”
There was a sudden screech, claws scraping down the outside of the door. They’d found her.
“Did you say a cupboard?” barked Dimitrov.
“Be quiet,” Nakata snapped. “There’s one right outside the door. If you want to be useful, get a squad from Military down here.”
The noise from outside was setting her teeth on edge. Nakata shut off her communicator (technically a class five offence, but that only mattered if she survived) and put her hands over her ears. If she was lucky, someone would come to clear out this section before the monster out there figured out how to open the door.
There was a jaunty bing and the door began to slide open. Nakata dived for the button on her side to close it, but a massive clawed hand caught the edge of the door and forced it open.
She’d seen ’Racks on news reports, and in training videos, but nothing quite compared to having one towering over her in the flesh. It was forcing itself through the doorway, teeth and razor-sharp claws advancing while the grotesque bulk of its abdomen stayed out in the corridor. Nakata shrank into the furthest corner, though she couldn’t escape its reach. The rancid stench of slime and death clogged her lungs.
This was it then. Janitor Grade One Nakata, tragically killed in action during the first incursion of her first tour of duty. Another statistic in the unending war, mourned only by the brother she’d left planetside. Another piece of paperwork for Dimitrov to bitch about.
As the creature studied her with compound eyes, some desperate survival instinct kicked in and Nakata grabbed the only weapon she could use from one of the shelves, pointed it at the beast and squeezed the trigger.
The bottle of Shini-Brite gave a pathetic squeak as it squirted a thin stream of liquid in the monster’s face.
There was a single moment of stillness, during which Nakata closed her eyes and accepted her fate. There was a hiss and an almighty shrieking.
The liquid was fizzing where it had touched the ’Rack, the powerful grease-cutting action working overtime on the alien slime and burning through the skin beneath. The monster was clawing at its own face, trying to clear the froth away. Nakata gave another experimental squirt and it shrieked louder, scrabbling backwards out of the door, leaving behind the fresh scent of pine.
One corner of Nakata’s mouth lifted in a smile. There were plenty of bottles in here, so she grabbed several and jammed them into her belt before taking one in each hand. Then she stepped daintily through the door, giving the writhing mess in the corridor one last squirt for luck.
It was time to get back to work.
………………………………………………
Claire Simpson writes code by day and stories by night (or at least that’s what she claims to be doing when she’s actually on Twitter). Congenitally incapable of doing nothing, she also sews, crochets and favours a peaty single malt if you’re buying.
Story Competition
Sharpen your bluetooth-enabled iquill and dip into your jar of ink made from finest Jovian squid. On the next page we’ve a specially commissioned artwork from Dumfries artist Stephen Pickering, and we’d like you to write a science fiction story inspired by one or more of the panels.
The prize for the best story is £80, a print of Stephen’s artwork and a 4 issue digital subscription to Shoreline of Infinity. The story will be published in Issue 3, of which the winner will also receive a printed edition. We’ll also do an interview with the winning author to run alongside the story.
Maximum word count: 4,000 words.
To submit your story please do so via the website at www.shorelineofinfinity.com
The deadline is midnight UK time (GMT) of 21st December 2015.
Get cracking.
