Savage By Nature Read online

  It was a simple enough apparatus, connecting the shuttle to the Research Vessel. From a spectator’s perspective, the Samum might appear like a bumblebee amid a field of sunflowers—nearly impossible to discern. To Felina’s eyes, the umbilical bridge wasn’t unlike the others they had crossed from shuttle to space station earlier during this spatial excursion. Basic metallic platform with thin, slightly curved bulkheads; the only difference were intermittent spaces between steel beams, offering a glance outside.

  It wasn’t as beautiful a sight as one might expect. A handful of perpetually inaccessible stars, not even copious enough to lose oneself in. Besides, this was merely a small step to the giant leap that was their progress from Earth to the USRD Manticore.

  Looking out any of these reinforced glass windows—more like portholes—was simply a reminder that they weren’t on the vessel just yet.

  Crossing it took less than two minutes for the former Samum passengers. They were each giddy with excitement to be here, enthusiasm in their veins and muscles, urging some along quicker than others.

  Felina was among the three to reach the Manticore umbilical bay door first, although it was anything but a race. The others calmly stopped behind them, and their wait for this massive steel door to lift into the ceiling took nearly half a minute. As the pneumatic inner workings of the door shrieked and hissed routinely, it gave way to a docking foyer of the Manticore. Given, the colossal vessel featured three of these points, two portside and one starboard, so no single one was more pristine or special than the others.

  To Felina and these documenters, however, this was the only one they would ever dream of entering through.

  This laughable arrogance aside, Felina didn’t hold it in high expectations. Fortunately so, too, as it wasn’t the most appealing foyer she’d stepped foot in since disembarking Earth. The bulkheads were monotonous and gray, the floor consisting of steel grating, exposed networks of pipes and cables composing the ceiling, wire-caged fluorescent fixtures, and a mild greasy odor.

  Most important were the men and women standing there to welcome the documenters aboard.

  “On behalf of myself, Captain Liam Keyes of this vessel, and my leading officers, I genuinely welcome you all aboard the USRD Manticore.”

  The man who spoke first stood foremost as vanguard of the assembly, each one of them featuring uniforms with the USRD logo printed on the left breast, directly above a hand-stitched Manticore title. This particular Keyes, the announced Captain of the Manticore but not its actual navigator, wore a high-collared all-white uniform with gold embroidered trim around the shoulders, cuffs, and down a buttoned center.

  Felina guessed 6’2” based on her own 5’8” and those surrounding him. His voice was imperious but his tone respectable, his eyes a cool steel-blue not unlike the vessel he commanded. His hair whitened with age, eyebrows densely the same, face scarred by mild wrinkles and severe crow’s feet. He looked his age, sixties, but appeared healthy as an ox. Felina judged his smile as sincere, and appreciated his in-the-flesh welcoming.

  This, opposed to the previous space stations’ boarding-parties, a group of crewmembers headed by a lead officer but never more than one and certainly not the Captain himself.

  With Captain Keyes’ verbal welcoming, Felina and the other documenters officially boarded the Manticore. Behind them the umbilical bay door sealed shut, which would—in due time—reopen for the Samum crew.

  “May I speak for United Systems myself when I say that I am glad to see you all here, today,” Keyes said. “I genuinely hope that you enjoy your stay, and that—over the course of the next ten days—you won’t be dissatisfied in the least by the Manticore, its crew, or its achievements. And I assure you, we are nothing but a plethora of achievements aboard the Manticore.”

  No words necessary to respond to the Captain, only cordial nodding from most.

  “But enough of my babbling, as I honestly have a propensity of doing,” Keyes resigned. “Allow me to introduce to you my leading officers, then you all can return the pleasure.”

  With a nod, Captain Keyes stepped aside and his assembly of cohorts introduced themselves accordingly. Each man and woman took a significant step forward, shoulders back and chin up, as if this was a military establishment. Their voices resonated with pride, respect, and authenticity.

  “Elena Cassel, Ensign.” The upper-thirties woman had a fairly deep voice for such a lean but tall frame. Her face was angular, with high cheek bones and a cleft chin. Felina believed she was attractive on a subtle level, beauty in obvious strength. Her black hair came in curls down to hover above her shoulders, clear from her face and those dark brown eyes.

  After she receded, an imposing-voiced black man stepped forward with the gist of a drill sergeant. He had the gung-ho blood in him for sure, Felina guessed ex-military—Earthbound or United Systems, she couldn’t reckon, although either seemed fitting. His uniform was more security-apt than military, however—matching navy long-sleeved top and slacks, but with black elbow and knee-guards. A thicket of black hair as dense and hoarse as his tone roofed his upper lip, not unlike the artificial helmet on his head. This said, Felina recognized the military influence but not its presence—no shaved heads, buzz cuts, enforced athleticism, or profanity-laden voices thrown at their faces.

  “Imam Ikabu,” he said, louder than the Captain had been. Felina guessed the man was bordering fifty years old, although his energy suggested half that. “Head of Security. They like to call me the LP Man.”

  “Alright, Ikabu, that’s enough,” Keyes smirked briefly.

  As Ikabu receded, someone a few paces behind Felina made the obvious inquisition.

  “What’s LP?”

  “Loss prevention,” Cassel interjected Keyes and Ikabu before their voices could collide. Her hands were held behind her back, feet together and chin up. Her uniform was a white polo tucked into the waistband of her gray slacks. “We stay on our A-game at all times, and he won’t have to decipher any losses.”

  “Um, what kind of losses?” another documenter asked, making Felina roll her eyes.

  “Monetary and itemized, usually,” a third documenter said, this time unintentionally interrupting Cassel. He flashed a hand of apology, then nodded as if warranting the continuation.

  “Right, well…carry on, shall we?” Keyes said, seeming a bit agitated already. He gave a nod to the third person present, wearing an off-white jumpsuit uniform. She stepped forward, more timidity in her demeanor than the others, including the fourth and last person to her left, just standing there seeming as if bored. This woman, however, was also the youngest—Felina guessed mid-thirties at most, with dirty-blonde hair tied back into a close-knit bun. She had acute features such as a small nose, thin lips, and almost mouse-like yet diminutive ears. Her smile was cordial, her presentation the least rigid.

  “Clara Fischer,” she said with a startlingly assertive voice, “Lead Field Practitioner.”

  The Captain, appearing prideful and pleased, nodded to her before she receded back in line. Felina began to feel a shift of concern, their subtlest of actions suggesting a possible façade. Or, more possibly, Felina was just naturally paranoid and suspicious.

  More to the point, always inquisitive.

  A quality trait among those in her position.

  “Thomas Asher,” announced the last individual, “Science Officer aboard Manticore.”

  These names rang a bell in Felina’s head, in accordance with the crew manifest she’d studied, but the faces were fresh. She anticipated unprecedented personas from each in the days that awaited her aboard the vessel.

  This man already piqued Felina’s interest, as well as her unease. He had a peculiarly indifferent expression since they first boarded the Manticore through the now-sealed bay door behind them. He was about 5’10” with an average physique and minimal wrinkles, suggesting an upper-forties age despite a significant vitality discernible in his hazel eyes. His presentation became austere upon stepping forward, bu
t previously he had been just the opposite. He wore a high-collar white uniform, matching top and slacks, but without the buttons of Keyes’.

  Speaking of whom, everyone’s attention shifted to the Captain as he walked in front of the others to arrive at Asher’s left side, between him and the nearest bulkhead.

  “Asher here will be your ‘tour guide,’ for lack of a better phrase,” Keyes said with pride, “over the next few days. He is not only privy to every detail about this vessel’s research projects but leads them himself and is a particularly thorough man. Unless it interferes with the direction of Manticore or its non-scientific staffing, Asher here has final say. If I am personally unavailable or incapacitated for whatever reason, Ensign Cassel is temporarily in charge. I trust you all can easily understand these facts during your stay, and genuinely appreciate your adherence to USRD SOP.”

  That’s the third time the Captain has said ‘genuinely’ in the past five minutes, Felina mused, simply escalating her mistrust.

  “As is, I imagine you’re all both very hungry and very tired.” Keyes tugged at the even bottom hem of his shirt, straightening out impossibly more so than it had been. He ambled away from Asher, who receded back in line with the others. “So this isn’t a recommendation, but an enforced suggestion—”

  Felina thought, rolling her eyes subconsciously, so it’s an order, just say it.

  “—we’ll visit the secondary cafeteria adjacent to the Infirmary, this way we can have more privacy from the rest of the crew who can, let’s just say, be rather raucous during those times of repast…and get some rations in your systems, as well as get to know each other a tad better than those ID cards dangling from your necks.”

  Without question or objections, supposing they even had rhyme or reason to pose any, Felina and the others followed in suit, behind the Manticore officers. As Captain Keyes led them down the dull corridor, his voice added an echo to be heard off the walls and over their heads.

  “Afterall, we are men—not savages.”

  2

  Felina couldn’t help but be wowed by the Manticore’s interior. Beyond the docking foyer, beige auto-doors opened vertically with such smoothness and speed it was as if they hadn’t even been there to begin with. The bulkheads widened to grant passage to sleek corridors with soft-white motifs and fawn floor panels. Only the thresholds were tangibly metallic, making the rest of their walk considerably quiet.

  On occasion a crewmember would pass by with a hologram PDA cradled against their chest, feet carrying them with haste while their gazes typically studied the documenters in curiosity. Even beneath their urgent steps the floors remained subliminally present, undoubtedly pleasing the documenters’ aesthetic views of Manticore.

  The ceilings were composed of LED panels that offered a comfortably bright white light which permeated the vessel. Their tour was minimal as they were led to what Keyes had called ‘the secondary cafeteria,’ a small mess hall bordering the Manticore’s main Infirmary. They turned a corner and spotted hologram signs hung from the ceiling thirty feet down the corridor, on their right, indicating the Infirmary. About twenty feet prior to it was the small cafeteria, accessible via two sets of auto-doors an arm-span apart.

  Keyes stepped aside cordially to beckon the others in ahead of him. The doors vanished into the ceiling lintels with a quiet whoosh, permitting access. The documenters followed the lead of the four USRD officers, divided into two through either door.

  Gradually, they funneled into the small cafeteria.

  Felina, during their traversing of the corridors from docking foyer to here, had fallen back through the group. Her attention was stolen by the impressive aesthetics of the Manticore, and here—even in the Infirmary-neighboring cafeteria—such appeal wasn’t relinquished.

  “Welcome to the Manticore’s secondary cafeteria,” Captain Keyes announced overzealously as he entered last, the auto-door closing behind him. “Or, as some of my rather sarcastic crewmen call it, their own private refectory. This said, the main cafeteria is a mess hall of more appropriate size given the caliber of this vessel. It’s about four times more capacious than this one, which is only about twice as big as most crew’s quarters. Its typical attendees, as I’ve been told, are Infirmary workers—that is, assistants of Fischer here—and most of the scientists on board, excluding Asher himself.”

  At this mention, the documenters—including Felina—curiously turned their heads to raise their eyebrows at Asher.

  Ten judgmental gazes seemed to rouse Asher pleasantly than discontentedly, which was strange enough, or at least that’s how Felina perceived it.

  “Oh, I just prefer an enclosed environment. If I could,” Asher added with a tilted chuckle that quickly faded, “I would have my repasts by work in the labs, but that’d be an overt protocol breach. So, I usually retire to my quarters and eat by my personal terminal.”

  “Thomas Asher, always on the job, a man of his duty to the USRD,” Keyes said proudly, as if speaking of a favored child. Felina glimpsed Cassel roll her eyes ever so subtly as they all still stood around the center of the room.

  The secondary cafeteria, indeed small, probably had a maximum seating capacity of twenty-four. There were two rectangular tables with provided chairs, and a small round one between these but nearest the self-serving counter. The ceiling was fairly low considering the higher reaches of the corridor and the decent size of the room.

  It was empty at the time, present company excluded.

  “Let’s get some food in your systems, shall we?” Captain Keyes said elatedly. “The good kind, not the questionable rations you may have received aboard Columbus and Dingir.”

  Felina recalled the tartness in her throat, and her stomach rumbled not in disgust but out of hunger for what the Manticore might have to offer. If there was any indication of truth to Keyes’ words, then she wouldn’t mind abandoning her typical overanalyzing thought process in lieu of adequate consumption.

  Keyes’ officers took a seat at one of the longer tables, leaving, which was accompanied by ten total chairs. Four on both sides and one at each of its ends. Given, this only left six chairs for the documenters, which was four shy of the necessary—plus Captain Keyes, but he was already ahead of them on that.

  While the documenters took the lead to serve themselves at the counter, Keyes gathered a few chairs from the other tables.

  Felina appreciated the simplicity of the self-serving counter, not terribly disparate from Columbus and Dingir. However, the food quality was evidently higher—everything appeared to be fresh and well maintained. No liquid-conversion meals, gelatinous sauces, or preservative-laden meats. Refrigeration systems regulated what needed to be served best cold, while integrated heaters did the opposite for the rest.

  The documenters moved down the stainless steel counter with their trays in-hand, a bundle of utensils securely cradled under the right lip. They eagerly used the supplied ladles, tongs, and serving spoons to transfer food from individual partitions onto their trays.

  Eventually Felina and the others returned to the company of the Manticore personnel, filing into individual seats. Chairs were aluminum-framed and leather-cushioned while remaining incredibly lightweight. Those that had been aboard Columbus were clunky plastic relics which reminded Felina of when she was a child at school back on Earth. Dingir, while an iota of quality higher than its low-orbit brethren, was still home to ungainly chairs and stiff cushions.

  Such little things Felina had noticed during this voyage.

  Trivial in comparison to the bigger picture, whatever projects were underway on the Manticore with so much funding and support from the USRD.

  Nevertheless, a book might not be judged by its cover but it certainly wasn’t to be overlooked entirely.

  Manticore’s proverbial cover was proving to be of impressive standards. The aesthetics of its interior outweighed the banality of its exterior, offering passengers both a professional and calm atmosphere. This was important to the confidence, morale
, and disposition of its collective crew.

  And if this tiny mess hall was any indication of quality for the vessel’s primary cafeteria, Felina had high expectations.

  Afterall, for the Manticore, everything was in high expectations. If the other documenters didn’t have this mindset, they might want to reevaluate their priorities and why exactly they’re here, not to mention where.

  And, perhaps most importantly, how.

  Without the USRD’s extensive funding and support, the Manticore would become another training vessel. They wouldn’t scrap it as fast as other previous failures or shortcomings, due to its construction and crew expense.

  What a waste that would be.

  All of this rummaging through Felina’s mind as she took her seat squeezed between two of the four other female documenters at the table, she acknowledged a simple fact.

  She was genuinely overwhelmed.

  ‘Genuinely.’ The word now made her smirk.

  “Enjoying yourself…Miss Sabartinelli?” Ikabu asked, leaning forward to squint and discern her ID tag.

  “Um…I’m sorry, I was just lost in thought.” Felina readjusted her voice to clear her throat, shake off the smile, and unfurl her utensils. She felt all eyes on her briefly before they fleeted elsewhere, scattered across the faces of everyone present.

  “Better that than lost onboard,” the Captain said, drawing Felina’s piqued gaze and just about everyone else’s. He had taken a seat at the head of the table, to Felina’s right, his back to the serving counter. As he spoke, a smirk weaved in and out of his aged features. “I’ll admit, the Manticore’s size and intricacy can be overwhelming at times. It took myself nearly an entire week to fully adjust to its mapping, although some have better orientation than others. Our crew of technicians, for example—men and women who worked on it during its construction, and some even after—seem to know it like the back of their hand. The Manticore has become a second skin for them, they could navigate its corridors blindfolded. I, frankly, still occasionally get lost in certain areas, if I risk the adventure of wandering in my off-hours. But, I am so often corrected by a friendly crewmember—”