Not a Drill
by Dominic Bell
Fantasy story WINNER
Dave woke abruptly to the braying of the general alarm, cursing as he rolled out of bed and started pulling on the survival suit. 0600. That figured. Everyone but the two cadets would be doing their shift handovers on the bridge. The cadets worked midday to midnight to give both shifts of watch officers a chance to instruct or persecute them, depending on mood.
The alarm was still going, strident and deafening. No announcement yet of what the drill was about. He picked up his helmet and gloves and opened the door only to find himself smashed into the opposite wall, the corridor groaning and flexing around him, the alarm changing to the high pitched warbling of the depressurisation alarm. His ears stabbed with pain before the lockdowns slammed shut at each end of the corridor, sealing him in. The alarm cut abruptly. The ever present hum of the ship died away, leaving a pulsing silence as his battered ears recovered. Most of the lights flickered off. Reactor shutdown. Emergency power. Not good at all.
He looked down towards the bridge end of the corridor. The light above the door was bright red and flashing. Less than ten per cent nominal. He looked the other way. Still green towards the drive areas. He should report in. He pulled the earpiece from its pocket in the suit collar and triggered the button on the suit chest.
‘Bridge, do you copy?’ Nothing.
‘Anyone, do you copy?’ Still nothing.
He headed toward the bridge end door and checked the pressures. Nominal this side – outside 5 millibar. Open to space. Through the viewport he could see only debris and twisted metal. It seemed harder to move about. Usually the living quarters of the ship rotated lazily about the cargo grid, just enough to give the crew a comfortable 0.5 g, but it felt like more now. The impact of whatever it was that hit them must have increased the spin.