The Dark Ship

by Phillip P. Peterson

  “Then enter hyperflight, Lieutenant Rutherford,” Irons commanded.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Within a few seconds, the stars disappeared from outside the cockpit windows. They were surrounded by the endless blackness of hyperspace. At least the hyperdrive seemed to be working.

  “Maneuver completed.”

  “I don’t like this,” Green said.

  “Explain yourself, if you have something to say.” Irons’ voice was irritable.

  “Yes, Sir. The horizon hasn’t stabilized. I can see big gradients here. I’m worried the hyperdrive might have been hit.”

  “And what does that mean for us?”

  The engineer didn’t answer for a long time. Jeff turned around in his seat and saw Green bent over his console.

  “Lieutenant Green?”

  Green sighed. “I can’t say. I can’t see where the problem is exactly. Maybe in the projector unit of the converter or in the control electronics. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll hold out, maybe not.”

  “What about the other systems?” Irons asked.

  “Unchanged.”

  “Life support system?”

  “The pressure is stable. Everything OK.”

  “All right,” Irons said after a few seconds. “Lift combat alert.”

  Jeff pressed a field on his console and the red light on the bridge changed to a reassuring, warm white. Then he unlocked his helmet. There was a hissing noise as the pressure between the cabin and his space suit equalized. Jeff pushed the visor up and breathed in the equally stale but cool cabin air. It smelled as if someone had been welding or had detonated some firecrackers. It was the typical smell of space as he knew it from exercises, and a clear indication that the hull of the spaceship had been hit. But the ship’s self-repair system and the three mechanics had done a good job.

  Jeff turned around and his eyes met Joanne’s. The blond navigator smiled at him and nodded. Yes, they’d made it. At least for today. Somehow, they’d make it back home. Jeff turned back round to his console and changed the mode of his location holo. A long line stretched from the left edge of the hologram to the right, passing close to a few stars. It was their course. A small symbol indicated their current position. They hadn’t covered much of the fifty-six light years to Sigma-7 during the first few minutes of their hyperspace flight. It would be a long eight-and-a-half hours.

  2.

  “Thank you, Captain!” Major Irons said as Jeff put a cup of steaming coffee on the console in front of him.

  “Sure,” Jeff mumbled, and sat back down in his seat. With a push of a button, he let the onboard computer know that he was back at his station.

  “OK,” Irons said. “Corporal Owens, you can take a break, too. But remain on standby. Lieutenant Rutherford, how are the crew?”

  “Private Short regained consciousness, after I injected him with a stimulant. The other nine crew members are all fine.”

  Irons nodded. “Good, then you can take a break, too.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Joanne said. A few seconds later, Jeff heard her footsteps receding behind him, and the bulkhead moved aside. After it had closed behind the two crew members, he was left alone with Major Irons on the bridge. Green had already left with Finni half an hour ago to look at the damaged hyper radio.

  Jeff felt washed out. They had set off on their mission from the space base above Sigma-7 over twelve hours ago. The night before he’d been so agitated, he’d hardly slept at all. He was beyond tired, but adrenalin was still pumping through his body. He doubted the coffee would make things any better. His hands trembled as he reached for his cup.

  “Still feeling nervous?”

  Jeff turned to his superior. “Yup, you could say.”

  The major smiled at him and nodded. “It’ll pass. The first mission is always the worst. After that you know what to expect and are mentally better prepared.”

  Jeff saw things differently. For the first time in his life, he had been a whisker away from death. They were the only one of five ships to have survived the mission. He was pretty sure he would be feeling far more nervous before the next mission.

  Forty-nine missions to go—basically I’m already a dead man!

  “I can’t imagine ever getting used to it,” Jeff responded.

  The major suppressed a laugh. “Believe me, you will. In fact, you can even become addicted to the adrenalin kick.”

  Jeff frowned at the major, who was still smiling. Is that what the major was? Addicted to the adrenaline rush of near death? Is that why he was always so calm and matter-of-fact—because he was secretly enjoying it all?

  The major seemed to have guessed what he was thinking. “No, Captain Austin, I’m not in it for the kick. I don’t go looking for danger. I’m just as afraid of death as you. But between missions you inevitably think about death.” He paused a moment, searching for the right words. “You think about so much—about death, about life, about the point of it all. And above all, about your place in the middle of all the chaos. But after about the thirtieth mission, something goes ‘click’. I’ve heard it from other experienced officers, too. Suddenly you stop thinking about it, because you come to the conclusion that humans, with their limited mental faculties, can never grasp the meaning of it all, anyway. Then you stop driving yourself crazy between flights. Finally, you can sleep again.”

  Jeff looked at his superior for a long time as he mulled over his words. “Are you saying that you’ve resigned yourself to dying?”

  Irons chuckled. “On the contrary. I’ve resigned myself to living. And death is an integral part of life. We all have to die, and it can get us at any moment, whether you’re in combat or riding your motorcycle. My best friend was a bomber pilot in the Orion Offensive. He volunteered for the most dangerous missions until he received an honorable discharge.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died of a heart attack. Shortly after his return to Aldebaran-6.” He sighed. “And I guess you heard about my son?”

  Jeff nodded. Everyone on board knew the story. Irons had a wife on Lambda-3 and their son had died from Caroll’s Fever. He had been born with it. After the war broke out, the only drug that could help him was no longer available, and the four-year-old boy died painfully from the degeneration of his nerve cells. “Yes, I heard about it. What was his name?”

  “Jack. But do you see what I’m getting at?

  Jeff hesitated. “I guess it gives me something to think about.”

  Irons laughed again and made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “I’m going to tell you something: people die. Without this war and also because of this war, even if they’re not sitting at the helm of an interstellar bomber.”

  “But—we’ve lost four ships,” Jeff blurted out. “Forty people died. And that’s just on our side. Do you think the sacrifice was worth it?”

  Irons exhaled slowly. “You were at the briefing. We have to clean up the sector so that we can advance on the heartland of the Alliance.”

  Jeff shook his head. “I know that. But that’s not what I mean.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “I mean: what price … how many victims … was the Acheron 4 base worth? The forty men and women we lost? Would the destroyed bases have been worth a hundred of our soldiers? How do you measure human life against strategic advantages?”

  The major gave him a long hard look, then whooped with laughter.

  Jeff grimaced. What was so funny about his question?

  The major answered before Jeff had time to retort. “Once again, it’s the academic in you speaking. Although perhaps you’re studying the wrong subject. Instead of a historian, you should have become a philosopher.” The major laughed again and wiped the tears from his cheeks.

  “I think those are legitimate questions,” Jeff said, making sure to keep his voice neutral and not to sound offended. “Military conflicts need to be processed and evaluated. Ethical questions need to be considered in addition to strategy.”r />
  Irons groaned. “Where did you pick that up?”

  “Excuse me?” Jeff couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice now.

  “A sentence as polished as that must have come from one the textbooks you were forced to read at the Academy. It sounds like an existential justification of your profession to a court of inquiry.”

  Jeff shrugged helplessly. As far as he knew it wasn’t a quote from a textbook. But of course, it was possible that he’d absorbed it in the early days of his studies and that the sentence had been slumbering in his subconscious until he needed it. “You may be right, but when this war is over, there will be analyses and studies written about it, and ultimately about every single mission. And then questions will arise as to whether the goals achieved justified the loss of human life and materials. In the history books—”

  Irons bellowed with laughter again. The scars on his left cheek turned his face into a grimace, but his eyes radiated warmth and friendliness. Jeff realized his commander wasn’t laughing at him but at the situation they were in. “Captain Austin. How about we win this war first and then worry about how it goes down in the annals of history? If we lose, it’ll be Alliance historians writing the history books.”

  “In the end it will all boil down to the same thing.”

  Irons shook his head adamantly. “Ask your professor. In the end, history is always written by the winner. I’ll give you an example: What did we do today?”

  Jeff knew it was a rhetorical question so he didn’t reply.

  “I’ll tell you: we destroyed a planet with our Quagma bomb. Not only did we eradicate a military base, we turned a whole planet—that at some point might have produced life—into a bunch of atoms.

  Jeff still didn’t know what the major was getting at. “Are you trying to say the Alliance would present us as war criminals if they won?”

  “As I said, the winner writes the history books. We committed atrocities—”

  “—that the Alliance committed, too,” Jeff interrupted him.

  The major shook his head. “They’ll dismiss the murders they committed as a necessity provoked by us. Just as we will, except the other way round. But think ahead a hundred years, when both the Empire and the Alliance have made way for another regime. How will this conflict be seen then?”

  Jeff remained silent.

  “If it’s a more sensible society than ours, it will criticize both our deeds and those of the Alliance, and dismiss both sides as barbarians,” the Major said firmly.

  “That would mean that you hold this conflict and our actions in contempt, Major,” Jeff concluded.

  Irons shook his head again. “We’re at war. We’re fighting for our lives and our freedom. Of course the stakes are high. We have no other choice.”

  “Then I don’t understand …”

  “All I’m trying to say is that there is no such thing as objectivity. If you survive the war and go on to write your books, you’ll do so from the subjective perspective of the winning side. Perhaps your history book will remain the standard work of the Imperial universities for several centuries, like Gibbons’ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire—it’s possible.” Irons smiled at him. “But someday the perspective will change again. The conflict will be romanticized or a more objective view will emerge. Who knows? But your work will land on the rubbish heap of history, or it will be read as an example of an outdated perspective and will be picked apart in lectures.”

  Jeff looked out of the window at the endless darkness of hyperspace. He felt as if he’d been slapped in the face. He’d never thought of it like that. He’d committed himself to serving as an officer in the fleet because Nimitz University on Tau Ceti-4 was the holy grail for historians, and if wanted to study military history there, it would stand him in good stead if he’d served in the military. Even as a child he’d been fascinated by old maps and historical battles, and pored over books about long-ago wars. He had never regarded himself as a strategist, only as a historian. In fact, his dream had been to write an important book, which in future would become a standard work at universities. He wanted to create something for posterity. But Irons was right. Most books in the Imperial Military Library on Tau Ceti-4 were less than a hundred years old. And it wasn’t as if people before 2400 hadn’t been interested in history. It was just that the old works had become outdated.

  Jeff could feel Iron’s hand on his shoulder and turned around to look at him.

  “Some day you’ll return to your books and write about this war, because I’m assuming we’ll win. But until then, you’re in a much better position: you can help shape the present instead of just writing about the past. When the war is over, you yourself will be part of this history. Your name will appear in the records and documents and prove you were part of the mission we just successfully completed. Here and now you’ve made history, and you can be proud of that.”

  Jeff looked at Irons wordlessly. He was right. On his first mission, he had actually become part of human history. He nodded tentatively and Irons pulled his hand back to his own armrest.

  “And if you don’t mind me giving you some advice …” he continued.

  Now what?

  “Don’t write about this war!”

  Jeff lifted his shoulders and let them slowly sink back down. “Why not?”

  “By participating in this conflict, you’re biased. You will never be able to write neutrally and objectively about the battles of this war. Whether you like it or not, whether I like it or not, we have blood on our hands. Today we destroyed an entire planet and we have no idea how many Alliance soldiers and civilians were on that base on Acheron-4. And nobody knows how many lives we’ll wipe out with our bombs in the next few weeks and months.”

  “I think I can preserve my objectivity,” Jeff replied, but he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice.

  Irons laughed. “Would you yourself consider a mission a failure? Would you admit that you wiped out a planet and its inhabitants in vain? That you murdered, without—”

  “Murdered? Hold on, we’re defending—”

  Irons shook his head firmly. “No. We didn’t defend anything today. The mission against Acheron-4 is part of an offensive campaign.”

  “That we had to carry out to win the war.”

  Irons snapped his fingers. “To win the war. That’s right, we want to win the war and not just defend ourselves. You’re already whitewashing these missions, Captain Austin. And you will continue to do so—even more so when the war is over, as you’ll want to morally justify your actions. Forget it! Write your memoirs about your involvement in the war if you want to write about it, but don’t try and write an objective textbook. Focus your career on the Punic wars or the three World Wars, but not on …” He shrugged. “… whatever this war will be called in ten years’ time.”

  Without even having to think about it, Jeff knew that Irons was right. He had already murdered people. He would never be able to write objectively about this conflict. But maybe writing his memoirs wasn’t such a bad idea. If he did it well, he could incorporate an overview of the conflict into an account of his own experiences. Fridtjof Nansen had done something similar in his book about his Arctic expedition. On the other hand, Jeff was just a small cog in the wheel of this war. Who would even buy his book?

  Irons must have noticed he was lost in thought. “Don’t lose sleep over it. First you have to survive the war, you’ll still have plenty of time to think about it after.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the whining of a siren. A warning light immersed the bridge in a deep-red light. Even before he could look at the status message on his monitor, Jeff noticed something in front of the cockpit windows. Something that ought not to be there: stars. “We’ve left hyperspace.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Green stormed onto the bridge, brushing a hand over an ugly brown stain on the front of his combat suit. Joanne came up behind him looking concerned.

  “Stop cursing and give me a sensible
report,” Irons demanded calmly.

  Jeff switched the system controls back to Green’s console.

  “We’ve left hyperspace!” Green’s voice went up an octave with surprise.

  “I can see that for myself,” Irons retorted. “But why?”

  “That piece of shit has switched itself off,” Green said after several long seconds. “For safety reasons—the Casimir Converter couldn’t keep the horizon stable anymore.”

  Another status message appeared on Jeff’s holoscreen in red letters: “The Penning trap!”

  “I see that! Fuck!”

  Irons spun on Green and gave him a withering look.

  “Voltage is sinking again!” Green said.

  “Send your people to look at it!”

  “Yes, Sir!” Jeff could hear Green talking into his mic with the mechanics in the crew’s ready room.

  “The damage appears to be worse than we thought,” Jeff said.

  Irons frowned. “Yes, so it seems. Lieutenant Rutherford!”

  “Sir?”

  “Do we have enough antimatter to reach Sigma-7 if we eject the faulty cell?

  “No. That won’t work.”

  “Do we have another target we could fly to if we eject the cell?”

  Joanne slowly exhaled. “Karim-6. There’s an advanced positioning station.”

  “Without a maintenance base, I’m guessing?”

  “Correct.”

  Jeff rolled his eyes. Then the ship couldn’t even be patched up. They would have to wait for a tender, and at this stage of the war that might take several weeks. If they flew to Karim-6, they would be stuck there for a long time, sharing oxygen and food with a crew who would be far from thrilled to host them.

  The major must have been having the same thought. “Lieutenant Green, have you had any feedback from your men?”

  “Give me a moment, Sir.”

  On the other hand, if the mechanics didn’t get the hyperdrive to work again, it wouldn’t make any difference whether they reached Karim-6 or not. Then they would have to spend years crawling back home at a snail’s pace.