“Maybe Captain Macao was right. This is a bad idea — a very big mistake.”
Lancer took their time responding.
She gritted her teeth. The little, private shuttle was on direct line of sight approach for the shuttle deck at the rear of the cruiser. She held position, counting the minutes, impatiently waiting for a response, guessing that they had to clear out a few dozen people from the bay before they could depressurize and open the doors.
Just like at Four, getting everyone to safety had priority.
Finally, a masculine voice called back, over the COM, “Chief Miller of Lancer Shuttle Deck Control to Trader One, switch to autopilot. Captain Macao does not permit manual landings.”
“Roger, switching to autopilot,” she confirmed as her left hand flew over the flight console computer and the right released the manual controls. The autopilot system engaged flawlessly.
“We’ll take control on three…One, two, three.”
Dana felt the moment, that little bump, when Lancer took over guidance of the forward motion, and she could sink back in the pilot’s chair, watching very carefully as the shuttle deck computers guided the approach. She kept her hands at the ready, ready to switch back to manual and take over if any glitch should occur, an old habit that was hard to shake. “Never much trusted the auto-guidance,” she grumbled.
Shuttle Deck Control set the ship down between two smaller, boxy, Star Service shuttles on the deck turntable. The bay doors closed and the deck pressurized.
She was home.
“Trader One, bay clear for egress. Shut her down.”
Cartwright acknowledged, “Aye, shutting down,” then powered off all the systems, and went through the normal post-flight checklist. Only when satisfied that all was well did Dana release the safety bar and vacate the pilot’s seat.
She quickly retrieved her single duffle bag of gear from the storage locker, moved aft and pounded the wall control. The hatch slid open to the left, the ramp descended and she stepped down onto the deck.
After dropping her gear bag, she swiveled, taking a long, slow look around.
Nice! Real nice! I would love being assigned to work down here. No wonder Denton was disappointed not getting the assignment to Navitor.
A pert, young woman, barely past puberty, with a bobbing, blonde ponytail, and wearing a form-fitting casual gray uniform, rushed in from the corridor through the nearest double hatchway. The girl carried a padlet in her left hand, and a collar pin voice-badge in the other.
“Sir? Mister Cartwright?”
Dana cringed at the form of address, but looked up as the Yeoman approached and responded, “Yes, I’m Cartwright.”
“Yeoman Warren, sir, I will be your secretarial assistant during your assignment aboard Lancer,” the little, blonde bombshell twittered, offering to affix the voice-badge.
Dana took it from her and did the task herself, clipping the shiny, gold circle with the letter ‘L’ in the middle — the Lancer ship logo — to the left sleeve of her overalls replacing her old one with the numeral ‘4.’ The device activated and announced in a very mechanical, masculine voice, “Cartwright, Dana January, logging.”
After a moment, the badge beeped twice, signaling a connection.
Warren forced a smile. “Welcome aboard Lancer, Mister Cartwright.”
Dana sighed. She didn’t feel welcome, only irritated. “If you are to be my secretary, Yeoman, you will cease to use ‘sir’ and under no circumstances address me as ‘Mister.’ Just call me Dana. Is that clear?”
Unexpectedly, and with great boldness, the Yeoman countered, “With all due respect, sir, the Captain requires we use a consistent from of address. All officers of command rank or higher shall be addressed by their rank, or as Mister or simply, sir. All below command rank shall be addressed by name, preceded by Mister or simply, sir. It will all be explained in your orientation briefing. Do you have any gear, sir?”
“This is it,” Cartwright groaned. “I travel lightly.” That wasn’t quite accurate — the gear bag weighed about as much as she did — but there was no point quibbling over it.
“That’s all? Okay, then, sir, I have orders to show you to your quarters. They are on Deck Six, near the auxiliary bridge. You have only 77 minutes until your bridge shift.”
The Yeoman whirled and started back toward the double doors.
“If those are your orders,” Cartwright answered, throwing up her hands in defeat, slinging the duffle-bag over her back and falling into step alongside.
They took a lift to Deck Six, rounded some corners and then the Yeoman announced, “This is it.”
Dana touched the door release and peered inside. “Solo cabin?”
“Yes, sir, your rank, as Chief of Circuitry, allows for a full-sized cabin,” the Yeoman assured. “Uniforms have been delivered and are hung in the closet.”
“Where is this orientation?” Cartwright asked, dropping the gear bag onto the deck at the foot of the full-sized bunk.
“Deck Two, Briefing Room Two, sir, at 0800. Would you like me to come and fetch you before hand?”
“I can find the way there,” Dana assured.
“Do you require an escort to the Main Bridge?”
She chaffed and responded, “I can manage. Dismissed.”
The Yeoman bolted, like a race horse out of the starting gate, only too eager to get away — or so it seemed — and the door to the cabin slid closed.
Dana sank down onto the foot of the bunk, thoroughly exhausted from the tension since Captain Janz Macao had appeared in the viewport of the little shuttle down at Four.
“This is a gigantic mistake.” She repeated it over and over, while staring up at the pleasant, marbled pattern on the overhead tiles. “Time?”
The computer responded, “Eleven hundred twenty-two.”
“Eek!”
Dana jumped up from the bunk, unpacked her few personal effects and carefully placed her treasured trio of William Shakespeare collector’s edition, hand-crafted, leather-bound books on the boxy desk. Next to them, she set down the padlet Captain Macao had given her with transfer orders assigning her to Lancer for a one year tour of duty, and her reader padlet.
She slid out of the gray, flight-suit overalls and into a fresh, two-piece, red uniform from the closet. Then Dana swore. “Fane! This is easily two sizes too big!”
It would have to do for the moment; no time to run down to supply and requisition the proper size. She stuffed the pant legs into the tops of her boots so she wouldn’t trip over them, and rolled up the sleeves of the shirt. While affixing the voice-badge to the collar, she called up the deck plans on the desk viewer. Memorizing the location of all the lifts, and other pertinent information, Dana then started for her cabin door.
Next stop, the Bridge…with five minutes to spare.
Captain Macao wasn’t there when Cartwright stepped off the lift and onto Lancer’s Bridge for the first time. The reception could hardly be considered welcoming.
Those officers present went through the formalities of introductions, albeit, reluctantly. Every single man addressed her as Mister Cartwright.
She didn’t need her empathetic senses to register the cacophony of emotions coming from the all-male command crew. First Officer Dan Nichols scowled and complained, “I’ve only just been informed you are replacing Commander Brandt.”
Dana felt a pang of sympathy, however brief, and answered, “I was only informed a little under an hour ago myself, Commander.”
Nichols shrugged and pointed her toward a station, with a look of disdain.
She glanced that direction, took a cursory look around and then took her station. A countdown clock on the console read 00:61:20.
“One hour to departure…are we ready?” Mister Nichols asked from the helm.
“Aye, sir,” responded Bryant at navigation.
Communications Officer Nishada advised, “Engineering, Deck Twelve, sector three, reports a malfunction in computer circuitry. Repairs ar
e under way. They say it should be finished on time, but an inspection is required and Chief Mansfield is unavailable.”
Dana called up the repair order, traced the location on the deck plans, memorizing the schematic. She turned to her immediate superior and volunteered, “I’ll take care of it, sir. Everything up here is complete.”
Off in an instant, she actually felt glad for the opportunity to tour the lower levels of the ship. No amount of studying engineering blueprints could make up for walking the real thing.
A half-dozen workmen were bent over the console with the problem. They all took two steps back when Dana questioned them.
Though small in size, she used a tone of voice that left no room for conjecture. “I’m Lt. Commander Cartwright, your new C-O-C.”
She took in a few of the surprised expressions before settling in at the console to perform the inspection. The tracer seemed to take forever. Then it stalled entirely.
Dana went to the viewer at that station to call up the schematics, pointing out to the men their error.
The circuitry had been jury-rigged. It might hold for a short while, but it wouldn’t last.
“Unacceptable…redo it,” she ordered. “Advise me on the Bridge when it’s complete.” She started for the door.
“Sir?” The young Ensign began to protest, “We’re too close to…”
“Better get it done right while we’re still here at Four, than to have something go wrong in the thick of things, Ensign. You have fifteen minutes remaining until departure.” She spun on her heels, “Get to it.”
All the way back up to the Bridge, Dana was frowning. Big L emitted an odd, droning sound — something it shouldn’t have. Something was out of phase or alignment, though she could only make an educated guess. Might be a problem with the fuel injectors. Maybe some of the crystals were misaligned or slightly defective in size. Perhaps something else had been jury-rigged. Dana decided she’d have to run a thorough diagnostic, once they were underway and had plenty of time to research the problem.
Something else troubled her. Being an empath, she was accustomed to feelings and sensations coming from members of the crew. She had the N-link on a cord about her neck. It could block out most telepathic thoughts, but empathetic sensations it could not curb.
Big L had a strong, discordant, vibratory energy field of its own. She found it troubling.
“Get used to it, DD,” she chided, riding the lift back up to the Main Bridge.
CHAPTER NINE
Janz Macao stepped off the lift and onto the Bridge, quite preoccupied with a dozen matters on top of the latest foul-up by Fleet Operations. Lancer’s orders were: return to patrol until further contact. The whole mission depended upon venturing deep into the borderlands among the outer colonies, which could take many days travel, yet their orders were to return to patrol.
What in hell is wrong at Star Service Ops?
He shook it all off, and focused on his command crew.
“Time, Mister Nichols?”
“Seven minutes to departure, sir,” First Officer Nichols advised from the helm, obviously ready.
Macao glanced around the remainder of the bridge stations and accepted nods, until his eyes fell on the chair at Circuitry, where his new, replacement officer should have been. Where Cartwright wasn’t…
His expression turned sour, seeing the vacant chair. His new C-O-C was not at ‘his’ post.
Macao aggressively crossed the octagonal Bridge, standing beside the command chair, demanding, “Status?”
“All stations ready except circuitry, Captain,” Nichols returned, without lifting his head from his console.
“Fane,” Macao muttered, sinking down in his own chair.
Dana Cartwright felt the chill as she returned to the Bridge a moment later.
“You’re late, Mister Cartwright. We are five minutes to departure.” Macao scowled as he swiveled the command chair to face her. “When I give an order, I never expect to repeat myself, so mark well. There are three standing orders on my bridge: Never be late, there shall be no squeamish females here, and lack of experience gains no sympathy.”
He swiveled to face forward and punched the communications button. “All hands, this is the Captain. Secure all stations. Status reports due from all departments. Report to…Mister Cartwright on the Main Bridge. Departure in two minutes…”
Macao thumbed the off button and rose. “Mister Nichols, take us out once Circuitry reports ready. I’ll be below, with Chief Gordon.”
Dana proceeded to her station; whatever protest she might have given would only have reached the lift doors. Captain Macao was gone, leaving only his haunting and humiliating accusations hovering in the air.
Not one, of all the Bridge officers, looked her way. No one would meet her gaze.
Too embarrassed…They should be, she decided. As would the Captain, once she set him straight.
However, she’d learned one rule of thumb from her years in the Star Service, ‘never embarrass a superior officer in public,’ unless, of course, it couldn’t be helped.
After a six-hour shift, her anger and indignation would subside. She’d log a request, via the Captain’s yeoman, to discuss the matter in private. If he didn’t recant the citation, she’d use all the proper channels and submit a formal protest.
I have never, ever, been late for duty, she stewed as she monitored Big L’s departure from Station Four. And I hope to the Universe I never, ever, will be.
First Officer Nichols called commands back and forth to them all and soon Lancer was up to full speed. Dana shrugged off a nagging bit of nervousness when she caught a last glance as Station Four vanished amid the star field on the aft view screen.
One year tour of duty, she mulled, and already off to a wonderfully piss-poor start.
CHAPTER TEN
To Doctor Patel’s utter annoyance — though he masked it carefully — Captain Macao paced the length of the main medical ward multiple times, muttering and grumbling. He allowed the rant to continue, knowing how very much the Captain needed a confidante.
“A bloody female!” Janz continued, mumbling, “They replaced a trained warrior with a bloody female. Are they deliberately sabotaging this mission? Fane! I can’t believe the incompetence at Operations.”
Patel watched his Captain pace, eyes following to and fro, while standing at the instrument cabinet sorting new additions to the inventory. The Doctor was especially glad to have an updated, portable neuro-scanner with spinal weave capabilities, though he wasn’t fully rated on that model.
“She had the blasted gall to show up on the bridge late, though I gave a direct order to be there promptly.” Macao balled his left hand into a fist. “Incompetence everywhere I turn!”
Lancer’s Chief Surgeon diagnosed the situation: signs of agitation, stress and physiological exhibition of anger. He bit back an instinctual response. Macao would not appreciate anything along the lines of ‘give the girl a chance.’ So he offered, “I can find her unfit for duty, sir.”
Macao frowned. “Too late for that…Station Four has already assigned her to take Neville Brandt’s place, and we had to get under way. There’s no time to find a replacement for the replacement. We’re already behind schedule for this mission. Fane! I’ll just have to…” The Captain paced straight out of the infirmary without completing the comment.
Patel heaved a sigh, recalling past incidents with replacement crewmen. Lancer’s new C-O-C would, no doubt, last one short mission. “Maybe…” Macao had a reputation of being hard on staff.
The Doctor closed the cabinet and took a few moments, folding his fingers together, employing a meditative technique to diffuse the negative energy the Captain riled up. Patel liked his domain to have a balanced, healing feel. His term for the technique was ‘mellowing.’ It didn’t work on Janz Macao.
Macao scoffed at such things, though fully trained in all the Alphan techniques of a 33rd degree Master of the Elect. Clearly, he no longer practiced. Perhaps i
t was time to suggest a return to the ‘inner’ arts.
Patel strongly believed that the mental health benefits of yogic breathing and meditation far surpassed other pastimes, like wrestling and the more martial of martial arts. He called up on the desktop viewer the Star Service file on Lancer’s newest crew member, and perused the details with interest.
“Cartwright, Dana January…No relation to Admiral Barrett Cartwright? Good. Enturian/Earth-Human hybrid? Well, isn’t that fascinating. I’ll need to brush up on the latest medical journals.” He dug deeper, accessing the details of her medical history beyond the main page of her personnel record and scowled, “Wait! Not a hybrid…an Enturian/Galaxean and Human…a tribrid! Well, now, that’s an abomination! A product of a genetics lab experiment, no doubt. Humph,” he snorted, but digging a bit deeper was disappointed to see: birth records sealed.
His Earth-human sensitivities found the mixing of human DNA with that of alien races to be a very dangerous thing. In fact, Patel had been on the Medical Board demanding that such experimentation should be banned. Some of the resultant embryos were outright freaks. Rather than destroy, he believed there should be no such experimentation whatsoever.
He pronounced, “This Dana Cartwright is quite an oddity — brilliant, but an oddity. She has an IQ that is truly extraordinary, however, the file holds some interesting personal details. Perhaps the Captain’s reservations are justified.” He read further, “Trained as an Eridani empath, a certified, first responder EMT and…a surgeon — a neuro-ophthamologist and a transplant surgeon.” Patel’s eyes widened. “She gave up a stellar medical career to become a circuitry Mech-Tech? What? Why?” He had to know.
Patel logged a request, via her yeoman, to report for a required physical, even though Station Four had just done a thorough exam.
“How’d she know?” Ensign Landers groaned, downing a second shot of Tritian gin to celebrate the end of a long and brutal shift.
Dana Cartwright Mission 2: Lancer Page 5