The Derelict (or, The Suff in Space)

2428 AD

Nov 29, 2023

This is my second contribution to The Suff, SubStack’s very own urban legend. I intended to write something for Project Blackwater but couldn’t quite shake the Suff.

'We're approaching the derelict. Helmets on salvagers,' Captain Perot's voice squawked over the radio. Red lights turned to green and the engines fell into a gentle hum. Perot guided the Herald by hand the last few hundred kilometres.

Hatham watched the approach on a small screen at the back of the cargo bay, he donned his helm and twisted it shut, the seal hissed and the HUD flickered on to confirm. Abby, Garth, and Max all did the same and each voice crackled through one by one. 'You forgot to tie your hair,' he said to Abby.

She blew a strand of blonde hair from her lip, 'Yeah, well, too late now.' She shook her head and the loose strands fell back, hitting the cushion surrounding her ears. 'Least I don't have Max's beard.' Abby looked over and laughed, his beard was smashed against the glass like a mangled ball of copper wire.

'Price I pay for being so handsome,' Max's voice was muffled by the hair.

'Sure, and I look stellar on the Pink Avenue catwalk,' Hatham said. 'Check your weapons and tools.' The four did with practised ease and lined up at the rear of the ship.

'Less chatter once we board,' Garth said.

'Yes, sir,' Abby mimicked her voice from boarding school.

Garth sneered back at her, 'Don't come crying to me when some rogue shoots at us but you don't hear me warn you because you're too busy gabbing and then your brains end up across the wall.'

Abby huhuh'd, 'You should learn grammar because I have no idea what you said.'

The Herald crunched into the derelict ship and the airlock countdown began. 'Just shut up,' Garth said.

Abby offered a mock salute.

Max cleared his throat, 'We all know why we're here.'

'Yeah, the Qing Corporation wants its freighter back,' Abby quipped.

Max sighed and shared a frustrated glare with Garth, 'Untrue and unhelpful. The Emerald Weaver is an interstellar freighter used to haul all manner of goods, products, people between the stars. Qing Corp. don't care about any of that, any and all solid cargo is to be ignored. If it's useful to us on the Herald by all means stash it, but not to fence. Our first and only job is to locate an administrative console and make a data backup. This may take an hour or a whole day.'

'Do we know what we're looking for?' Hatham said. The countdown pinged one minute.

'No. Our contractor was unwilling to divulge such helpful information. We will have to make a dump of the whole system.'

'It'd be quicker to rip out the servers,' Abby blew at a loose strand of hair.

'That is an option but the databank is likely locked down due to power outages. The Emerald Weaver has been out here for six years. Qing Corp. are aware that their data may have deteriorated in that time.'

'As I said last week, we don't have the explosives to penetrate a databank,' Garth said.

'That's why we have this,' Max held up a datastick barely larger than a toothpick. 'Access to the Emerald Weaver's top level systems. Full access.'

'You didn't mention that in the first briefing,' Hatham said.

'Didn't have it. Qing Corp. sent it through just before we set off.'

'They must really want this data.'

'Exactly, and if any data escapes they know who leaked it so we won't be keeping copies.'

The red seal around the hatch flashed green and Garth cranked the handle. The half-metre thick door swung inward to reveal a rust red tomb of an airlock. The glass looking into the Emerald Weaver was smeared with grime. 'Everybody in,' Garth said.

'Happy hunting,' Captain Perot's voice crackled over the radio. 'I'll be here. Waiting. Don't be too long, the dark between stars gives me the creeps.'

Garth sealed the Herald side of the airlock and the system began its second countdown. 'Do we know what went wrong?'

'A few logs made it back to Qing HQ mentioning computer malfunctions and strange shadows appearing on the screen. For the most part they seem to have shrugged it off and chalked it up to engine failure,' Max said.

'If it was engine failure then why wait years to salvage? Not like the Qing are short of cash, ships, or employees. Now that I mention it why hire us?' Abby said.

No one had an answer. The light flickered green and Garth opened the hatch into the Emerald Weaver. He stepped aboard, rifle raised and lit up the room with the torch. 'Clear,' he twisted a copper coloured band on his wrist and a holographic map of the ship appeared over his wrist. 'Nearest admin console is on this floor and less than a hundred metres from us, talk about luck.'

'That's if the map's accurate,' Hatham prowled to the nearest door and peered through the window. The helmet made his breathing echo while his heart thumbed. 'Any chance for some light?' he asked himself and began tapping on the door terminal. The screen flickered to life but warned him all but essential systems were offline. 'What do the Qing think is essential 'cause it's not life support.'

'Quit cluttering the airwaves,' Garth barked. The former soldier peered through a window leading towards the prow of the ship and made a sound of surprise. 'No bodies. Weird,' Garth said.

With a few taps Hatham had all the doors on the derelict unlocked but lights were out of the question. The generator was running on fumes, or whatever Qing starships burned, and the only system drawing constant power was the databank. 'I think this ship is unique. Built for whatever data it holds.'

'Well let's find it. Get out and get paid,' Garth said.

'What data is worth that much?' Abby said.

'Weapons,' Garth said.

'That's your grug brain talking,' Abby shook her head again. Blonde strands clung to the glass of her helmet.

'Need I remind you of Koshti and your little... puzzle problem?'

'Keep the airwaves clear,' Abby sneered.

Garth snickered and replaced Hatham at point. He opened the door and let his torch reveal the hallway before advancing. Panels had fallen from the ceiling, cables looped down through the gaps, bulbs had smashed against the steel grates, and rust had set in along the top and bottom edges of the walls. 'No bodies,' Garth whispered. He turned to Hatham, 'Could anyone have survived six years out here?'

'Doubt it. If they'd diverted life support to one room and gathered all the food, maybe? But you'd want the room to be the engine room or water purifying and they aren't close together in any design I've seen. Even then six years? Maybe one guy could survive?'

'Alone for six years. I'd shoot myself,' Garth said.

'Could be a girl,' Abby added.

'That's as likely as ghosts existing,' Garth began his advance into the hallway.

'Ghosts do exist,' Abby pouted.

Hatham kept a finger hovering over the safety button, his heart pounding and certain something must have crippled the ship beyond a malfunction. No corporation became as dominant as Qing without making some enemies but would someone willingly sacrifice themselves to scupper an interstellar vessel. Hatham was doubtful. An engineer in port, or a fuel tech, was the most likely culprit but anything done before flight would have been found by sensors either human or machine. They passed a closed door and all Hatham could see was his own reflection. He peered closer and pressed his head torch to the glass. Desks and chair lay beyond coated in a thin layer of dust preserved in a sterile tank. An odd shadow stood behind one of the chairs. Hatham cupped his hand on the glass and squinted. The shadow moved, jolting across the room in a blur. Hatham yelped and staggered back, 'Someone in there.'

Garth spun around, rifle first, 'Get back. Max on my right, Abby behind, safeties off.'

The three took position while Hatham slunk behind Max taking deep breaths and closing his eyes. It's nothing he told himself again and again but it was no good, his heart wouldn't stop hammering.

The handle clicked and the door swung inwards. Garth flicked his rifle torch from one end to the other, finger on the trigger, and said, 'Clear.' He paused then added, 'What did you see?'

'Something ran across the room,' Hatham's mouth was like dehydrated ration crackers.

Garth entered and made a loop of the room while Max and Abby offered cover, 'Well there's no other doors and the vent is sealed. Empty room. I told you ghosts aren't real,' Garth lowered his rifle and rolled his shoulders when he exited. 'Admin console is fifty metres astern. A short ways down here then a turn left. No more detours.'

Hatham opened his eyes to a shadow standing before him, wispy fabric covered a man with too long arms and too short legs. He wasn't wearing a helmet or even a spacesuit. Hatham blinked and the shadow was gone. A chill crawled down his spine and a voice whispered, 'Sssuuuuff...'

'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?' Garth snapped. 'If you're getting space sick, just say so and head back to the Herald because I haven't got time to deal with you right now and baby sit these two let's get the data and get out.'

'Hey!' Abby cried.

Max shrugged.

Garth grunted, 'On me.' He marched down the hallway peering down the iron-sight of his rifle.

Hatham followed at the rear checking behind every other step. He couldn't carry on like this, either he was space sick and would have to blow a fortune on some spa planet or maybe he'd seen a ghost and have to check himself into a psych facility. Either way, his options were bleak.

Garth spun to his left and flicked his torch left and right, 'Clear.' He disappeared round the corner. The ex-soldier screamed a curse and his helmet crashed into a wall panel.

'Garth!' Abby shrieked. She ran after him, her rifle spat three rounds before a trail of black fabric engulfed her. The cloth of her suit vanished and the remaining plastic, metal, and glass collapsed into a mound at her feet. Abby was nowhere to be seen.

'Suff...' the shadow glided towards Max. It grinned madly and its too long arms reached out to grab him. Bullets tore through the shadow but none hit home and the shadow surged at him.

Hatham screamed and ran back down the hall, 'Perot! Perot! Get the ship ready for take off. Decompress the cargo bay. Purge the air.' Max had stopped firing.

Elgar's Dream of Gerontius flooded through the radio. 'What?' Perot shouted over the ancient orchestral sounds.

'Purge the cargo bay! We have to go!'

'Alright, alright,' the hatch to the cockpit slammed shut and a short hiss sounded as the rest of the Herald vented its atmosphere.

'Suff... er... ing,' the shadow's tortured voice carved through Hatham's mind. The radio was reduced to garbled static.

Hatham entered the air lock and slammed the door shut. He spun the lock as far as it would go and began to open the hatch to the Herald. He peered over his shoulder but there was nothing there. He opened the hatch and a gasp of air brushed past him strong enough to send a chill down his leg. Once inside he sealed the hatch, 'Perot get us out of here.'

'Is everyone on board, I only see you?'

'Get us back to Talos. They're dead,' Hatham's breathing went erratic, his mind swam and he collapsed to the deck in fits of tears.

'What the hell happened out there?' Perot screamed. The Herald detached from the Emerald Weaver and the engines spun to maximum in the direction of Talos.

A crackled whisper echoed through the ship, 'Suff...'

Thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this story please consider supporting with a like or upgrading to paid.

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For those who have yet to read my first Suff story it can be found here.

Happy reading,

Redd