by David Gunner
“Very well, I’ll inform enviromentals. Also, can you do anything about the hard link to the sensor tower. The wireless is serving, but this junk is causing so much interference it looks like we forgot to pay the cable bill.”
“The sensor hard link is a dry dock job as the whole structure is twisted so bad even Skinny Finny can’t fit in the crawl spaces.”
Canthouse had no idea who ‘Skinny Finny’ was, but if whom he presumed to be a very slender man couldn’t gain access to the sensor tower then the structure must have received even more damage than he thought. A difficult thing to believe as the last report indicated the sensor tower had been skewed twelve degrees to starboard, stripped of much of its armour and physically looked as if a giant had taken the ship under his arm and tried to twist it free with pliers.
“Understood. Anything you can do with the motives?”
“No, sir, they’re toast. All four coil assemblies will need to be replaced before they’ll take a light again.”
“Then we’ll work with what we’ve got. Good work, Mr Penton. Pass my thanks to your crew.”
Canthouse closed the link and chewed on his top lip as he gazed at the view forward, which was nothing but a tumbling green murk. He stood and moved to speak to Palmer, a marine commander who had volunteered to fill the empty operations officer slot, who stood behind Guimar noting her actions and asking the occasional direction as he watched her work.
“Anything to report?”
Palmer grimaced as he slowly shook his head in the negative. He bore the frustrated look of an intelligent person completely confounded by a seemingly mundane task.
“No. No matter what we do we can’t get the e-band to reach more than two hundred meters. We’ve plenty of power, the signals getting out but nothings coming back. We suspect the signal is being distorted or reflected away from us by this muck.” He tipped his head toward the main screen where the deep green mist swirled like blooming algae. “It’s much denser than the last cloud with far fewer of the thinned out areas we saw last time. And we’re actually encountering drag, if you can believe it. I think it’s what’s causing all those low tremors that keep shaking the ship.”
“Drag! Atmospheric drag?” Canthouse said, his head tiled and face contorted from disbelief.
“Yeah. I know, it’s hard enough to believe even when you see it. Guimar can you pull up that data on …”
Guimar sat like a flesh covered mannequin, her face expressionless as her slim pale fingers worked in anticipation of Palmer’s line of inquiry. A plan view of the Bristol appeared on the screen with various contour lines deforming and reforming as green swirls cycloned past her rugby ball shaped hull.
The first officer watched the fast forwarded video in awed fascination as striations he could only presume to be lightning forked about the forms of hurricanes, some large ponderous vortexes that ambled past at extreme senor range, others - smaller, grouped together like agitated bees that pin-balled about within the confines of their own local attraction as they skipped across the surface of the shields leaving sparkling turmoils in their wake.
“My God! Weather in space.” Canthouse said in sober wonder. He glanced at Palmer, “We are recording this?”
Palmer crossed his arms and gave a noncommittal shrug, “What we can. We lost most of the port dorsal sensor array during the last event. But what we’re getting is good data. To avoid a system lockup like last time we’re filtering it directly to the storage drives and just skimming off what we need as we need it.”
Even before he asked, Canthouse knew the answer to his next question, “With all this data do we have any idea where we actually are?”
Palmer responded with a grim shake of the head.
“Nothing from the Dogfish?”
“Not a recognisable peep since we sent it out yesterday. There was a brief energy emission from its set trajectory somewhere to the rear port quarter about eighteen hours ago, but as we don’t know what’s out there it could have been anything. And to be honest, LC, if we’re at Trent and this is all there is then there’re bigger issues than us making it back.”
Canthouse glanced behind to where the bickering voices of two engineers working on a redundant console were arousing attention. They stopped the moment they noticed him watching. “It’s better to not think about more than we have to at the moment. We still have the radiation encroaching, and though the chief is doing what he can the shields are only slowing it down, not holding it back. That reminds me, Guimar could you send a priority to enviromentals to double up on radiation protocol, we need people moved away from the most affected areas with those that need to be there suited up and inoculated with Remfine. Is there a problem gentlemen?” Canthouse called to the engineers whose bickering had escalated to forceful shoves and weighted tools brandished in raised hands. The two men were the colour of murder and looked as guilty as schoolboys caught with cigarettes to their lips.
“York: over there, Smith: finish that console and piss off back to engineering.” The first officer indicated their new positions with the stab of a finger. One man packed his heavy metal tool case, a hard corner jabbing into the man remaining, who in turn swiped an ankle with a wrench as the other moved to his allotted position. Evil sullen looks passed between the two as they parted.
Palmer stifled a wide yawn and rubbed his head and face with both hands. He looked severely fatigued, as did all the crew, with every man jack working double shifts to bring the ship up to a minimal state of readiness, which was doubly important given their current situation.
“That’s not the first time this has happened of late.” Palmer said as he followed the reappointed man with his gaze. “The whole crew’s on edge with increased incidents all over the ship since we arrived here. Callows has detained two in his hen houses, with others confined to quarters, which just places them amongst the off watch.”
Canthouse gave Palmer a considering look, “Paul, I need to ask –“
“Sir, may I take a minute to use the services?”
Canthouse glanced from Palmer to Guimar, “Uh, certainly, SPO. Please …”He indicated her leave with a gesturing hand.
Senior Petty Officer Guimar face fell as she slinked past the two command officers like a frightened animal.
The two senior officers followed her briefly as she bypassed the head located on the bridge, a move Canthouse never commented on as many of the female officers shunned the communal bridge facilities in favour those located in the WREN crew area.
“She’s an odd one that one.” Palmer said nodding after her, “A capable officer but she hardly speaks, rarely answers direct questions and won’t look you in the eye for love nor money. I’ve honestly no idea how she got this position.”
“Her father was the French Ambassador to England.” Canthouse’s tone carried all that needed to be known. “She’s also the one that Stavener kidney punched.”
“Guimar!”
“Yes.”
“He also put you on your arse a couple of times, didn’t he?”
“Ha!” Canthouse said in an unintentionally loud voice at the memory. “Yeah, that too. God … He did it just so damn easy, too. No strain, no Kung Fu cries. Just a grip of the wrist and I was on my arse in the other direction. He gave poor Raulin a shot to the throat that dropped him like a slashed lamb, too. But you’re distracting me and there’s something I need to ask you.”
Guimar moved briskly, her quick step fuelled by her rising anxiety at the misinterpretation of Canthouse’s benign signal to pass as a flurry of male arrogance, She bypassed the bridge head facilities, instead moving to the rear door with her head tilted against a hunched shoulder and her mind poisoned by chauvinistic thoughts and personal belittlement in what was to her a foreign naval service. The last thing she remembered hearing was her name mentioned followed by laughter, which freed the muzzle from a long battled depression as the door slid shut behind her.
Three hours later.
First rate Susan Waterhou
se entered the mess busy with off-watch personal and those grabbing a hurried snack before hurrying back to their posts. She scanned the room and located the object of her search sitting at a table with sub-lieutenant Henry Raulin and Chief engineer George Roberston. Waterhouse moved through the flow of people to where the three men were enjoying each others company, with Raulin miming a finger to his throat, his eyes bulbous and tongue protruding and pretending to choke when she arrived at the table.
The two other men watched her curiously as she bent and spoke quietly into Stavener’s ear, he sat unblinking as she spoke with his countenance changing from a cordial civility to one of dismal understanding. He nodded to the first rate, who left, and he made his excuses to his companions and followed after her.
Stavener paused in his step on entering the conference room, where what section chiefs who could attend sat around the oval table, with Canthouse and Palmer leaning against the far wall. He stared suspiciously around the group of men without committing himself to the room, all of whom stared back with equal misgiving.
“This isn’t an intervention, is it? Because I swear I’ll never touch the stuff again.”
“Close the door, sit down and shut up,” a thoroughly humourless Canthouse said as he retrieved his tablet from the table. Stavener sat himself next a very morose Hewton who never acknowledged his presence.
Canthouse flipped through his notes on the tablet before laying it back on the table and tapping it thoughtfully. “Gentlemen, I was planning on calling this meeting tomorrow, but –“
“Sir, if I may interrupt with a quick question?” Penton asked.
Canthouse looked momentarily caught off guard as he stared at the engineer, “Make it quick, Chief.”
“How’s the commander? No one’s heard anything for some days and we’re all a bit curious.”
The first officer moved awkwardly as wanting to avoid the issue, “Unfortunately, I have little to report on the commander’s state. He’s alive and the doctor says he’s physically well. He’s still taking his meals, but as to how he is emotionally or mentally I can’t say. I tried to visit but the doctor advised against it, so I’ve no real idea.”
“Well, if you do get the chance, if you could pass on our regards, we’d appreciate it.”
“I will, Chief.” He nodded his appreciation of the gesture. “Now as I said, I initially wanted to hold this meeting tomorrow, but an unfortunate event has demanded it be brought forward. Oh! There’s something I’m forgetting. As you’re all aware I’m currently the Bristol’s only command officer, a station that is unable to be filled by one man and as such has been more than personally taxing. Mr Hewton has been filling in when I’m off duty, but the highly variable duties of the munitions and weapons systems demand the majority of his time, so it has been a matter of primary cause for me to locate a substitute command officer whose skills and experiences are up to the job. Long story short I’ve selected Marine Commander, Paul Palmer as my second officer. You all know and respect Paul, so his Marine seniority is just an added bonus.” Canthouse held a hand up on seeing the questioning looks. “Yes I know it’s unorthodox for a Marine officer to command a navy ship, but there are rights, and even precedents if you’d believe it. So without further adieu, Commander, Paul Palmer.”
Palmer remained where he was by the wall and accepted the cheery clapping of the small group with a smile and bob of the head.
As the men settled, the first officer appeared to fidget uncomfortably, his face somewhat ashen as he stood with his fanned hands pyramided against his stomach as he reviewed his tablet.
“Now, it’s sad to say that I have to follow some good news with some tragic, but unfortunately that’s the way it is. At 13:30 this afternoon, Senior Petty Officer, Christine Guimar was found dead in her quarters by her bunk mate. It appears she took her own life by pistol shot. Though there was a note, no clear reason has been found as to why she did this. However, the situation doesn’t appear to involve any other person and is not being treated as suspicious.”
The group hummed with concern, surprise and conjecture with several of the men raising their hands in question.
Stavener remained quiet with no show of interest or emotion. He slid down his chair and crossed his arms and stretched his legs in apparent imitation of Hewton, whose eyes were moist with what skin visible above his full beard tinged pink from emotion. Hewton slowly turned his great bear head and gave Stavener a murderous look. Stavener unfolded his arms and pushed upright again.
Canthouse raised a hand to quiet the concern, “Please, Gentlemen, I’m as shocked and stunned as everyone else. Despite a recent emotional outburst on the bridge, Guimar has always been a capable officer with an exemplary record and no history of any such problem during her tours preceding this one. She will be missed.”
A man raised his hand. Canthouse stared with concealed distaste at Michael Hunts, the enviromentals duty officer. Hunts was a thin scrap of a man with a huge Roman nose set high on a perpetually starved street urchin face set in countenance of eternal malignity, with a sloping forehead and no chin. He was a whining cringing man whose reputation for driving his people hard, a tendency to find fault and place blame had ensured that even after nineteen years of service, he had never risen above Petty Officer.
“Are you sure it was suicide?” Hunts said in a state of shrill disagreement. Canthouse closed his eyes at the idiot man’s outburst; he had purposely not used the word suicide for the baggage that came with it and the scandal that followed. “I mean. How many murders have there been on this ship? There was that munitions girl, and Hempsey and Cummings; now this? Is it those three monsters that killed them all that did this? What if they’re free! I think we should be told what’s happening with them.” His watery eyes were wide, his face gaunt and thin combed over hair bobbed over his bald palette as he nodded to goad the others into a response.
“There will be no incitement here, Mr Hunts!” Canthouse said in a low livid certainty.
“Then where are they?” Hunts said lowering his arm. “They were found five days ago and nothing’s been said about them since. How do we know we’re safe if we don’t know what’s happening and things like this keep occurring? I think we need to –“
“They’re dead!”
Every eye turned to Hewton and Canthouse looked destroyed. He stood like a statue, his face drained of all colour, thin lipped mouth hanging open and eyes fit to burst from their sockets at this most incredulous betrayal. Those present at the close of events in the small room had sworn, and had then been ordered, not to divulge what took place during the final acts of the mad men in that room when one of them appeared to have broken open some sort of chemical container and they had all asphyxiated. The official line was to be they were still being held there for trial on Trent, with each sworn man taking a turn to receive the delivered meals and allowing no one else in.
Hewton bowed in his seat with his fingers interlaced over his stomach and his head forward in mournful resignation. A single tear fell from within the vast facial hair to form a small damp spot on a grey uniform thigh. He slowly raised his head to reveal misery wet red eyes, a crimson face and beard beslobbered by spit and mucus.
“They killed themselves. They finished having their fun with the women and opened some sort of chemical device. Gassed themselves they did. The monsters. Gibbering like apes, they were. Hollerin’ and thumping themselves on the chest as they slung shit at the window, some of it their own. We couldn’t open the door and they’re still in there. Best place for them.”
He turned so he could see Hunts who drew back from his grizzly stare, “So they can’t be your killers as they’re dead, see. This sweet thing took her own life. Life being what it is on this ghost train.”
The room was still as Hewton pushed himself upright and moved to the door. “Tom!” Canthouse called after him as he left the room.
Canthouse turned to Palmer, “Paul if you could finish the briefing whilst I catch up with Mr He
wton.” He caught up with Hewton several meters down the narrow passageway. “Tom, wait!” he gripped a steel forearm to halt Hewton who appeared to swell with rage as he turned his misery to face him. Canthouse took a step back.
Hewton’s eyes burned like coals amongst the black mass of facial hair, his skin was crimson and his trembling frame a boiler fit to explode. But he realised his friend’s discomfort and the fire dimmed.
“What’s going on, Tom? We’ve experienced tragic crew deaths before, so why is this one affecting you so muc -”
“I knew her, LC.”
“Guimar?”
“Aye. I Knew her before the Bristol. Knew her like no other. She was a sweet, delicate thing looking for strength. But she was never careful …and my wife. I requested a transfer for a long duty, but she used her papi’s influence to follow me here, despite me begging her not to. And now this terrible thing has happened.” Hewton fell into a long despondent silence.
Canthouse simply stared, his face a collision of ambivalence, “I never knew.”
“No one did. What’s the point of a secret affair if people know, eh?” Hewton flushed from what he had said and added, “Sorry.”
Though he couldn’t spare him as a resource, Canthouse asked the only thing he felt he could, “Do you need some time?”
“just a little, sir. Just to get my head right.”
“Take what you need,” Canthouse managed a genuine smile of compassion for a man he very much respected.
Hewton nodded, only to pause as he turned away. “What’s going on, LC? Why are we jumping from worse to worse? What comes when we jump from this place?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Canthouse watched after his friend until he exited the corridor, and with the sounds of the conference room emptying he turned back. He waited until the men had filed past and approached Palmer who waited at the door. Palmer tiled his head to indicate someone remained inside, and both men entered to where Stavener sat pivoting his seat.