Fleet of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  Sh'aarl't, Bishop, and Lotor sat at one of the game tables in complete silence. Sten took his full cup from the slot and sat down beside them. Lotor gave him the news.

  "They washed Victoria today."

  Sten jumped, and the soup splashed, unheeded, in his lap.

  Bishop answered the unasked question. “She failed the gee-test."

  "No way,” Sten said. “She was a clotting gymnast. A dancer."

  "Evidently,” Sh'aarl't said, “vertigo is not uncommon—even in athletes."

  "How many gees?"

  "Twelve point something,” Bishop said.

  "Clot,” Sten swore. Even mild combat maneuvers in a ship with the McLean generators shut down could pull more than that.

  He realized that all of them spoke of Victoria in the past tense. Phase One may have been sadistic in some ways, but when a candidate was disqualified, he was immediately removed. Sten was a little surprised that the three had any idea at all on what had flunked the woman.

  He also realized that with Victoria, their talisman for possible graduation to the next phase, gone, none of them felt any hope of making it.

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  CHAPTER TEN

  THE BULLETIN DISPLAY in the barracks’ lobby was known, not inappropriately, as “The Tablet of Doom.” Sten read the latest directive as it flashed for his attention: 1600 hours, this day, all candidates were directed to assemble in the central quadrangle. He wondered what new form of mass torment the IPs had devised. There were, after all, only a few days left in Phase One, and there were still survivors in the program, including Sh'aarl't, Bishop, and Lotor. Then he caught the kicker.

  DRESS UNIFORM.

  Sten was in a world of trouble. He had been quite correct hiding his ribbons upon entering the school. He noticed that those with more decorations or rank than the IPs felt appropriate seemed to get far more than their share of attention and harassment. Thus far, in spite of Mason's evident personal hatred, Sten had managed to run somewhat silent and somewhat deep.

  Oh, well. All good things seize their bearings eventually.

  "My, don't we look pretty, Candidate,” Mason crooned. “All those ribbons and bows."

  Sten had considered not putting the medals on. But he knew that under the current circumstances it was an offense of basic regulations for a soldier not to wear the decorations to which he was entitled. It would be just like the IPs to look up everyone's record jacket, then check chests or sashes for exactitude and use any difference to bust another candidate out.

  Sten yessired Mason while marveling at Chief Instructor Pilot Ferrari. So much for the theory that fat slobs only get promoted to warrant officer. That might be his current serving rank, but Ferrari was now wearing the stars of a fleet admiral, with decorations banked almost to his epaulettes.

  Sten noticed, in spite of his awe, that there appeared to be a soup stain just above Ferrari's belt line.

  "If I'd known you had all those hero buttons, Candidate,” Mason went on, “I would have given you more attention. But we still have time."

  Fine. Sten was doomed. He wondered how Mason would nuke him.

  Minutes later, he found out.

  Ferrari had called the class to attention and congratulated them. The formal testing was complete. Any of them still standing was successful. All that remained was the final test.

  "Do not bother,” Ferrari said, “going through your notes and memories in preparation. The end test we are quite proud of, not the least because it has everything yet nothing to do with what has gone before. You have twenty-four hours to consider what such an examination might be. We find that suspense is good for the soul. The test, by the way, will be administered singly. Each instructor pilot will choose candidates, and it is his responsibility at that point."

  And now Sten knew how Mason was going to get him.

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  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE AIRCRAFT—at least Sten guessed it was an aircraft—was the most clotting impossible collection of scrap metal he had ever seen. It consisted of a flat metal platform about two meters in diameter, with two seats, two sets of what Sten thought to be controls, and a windscreen. The platform sat atop two metal skids. Behind it was some sort of power plant and then a long spidered-metal girder that ended in a side-facing fan blade. Above the platform was another fan, horizontal to the ground, with twin blades each about six meters long. The device sat in the middle of a wide, completely flat landing ground. Two hundred meters in front of the aircraft, a series of pylons sprouted.

  Sten and Mason were the only two beings on the landing field. Sten turned a blank but—he hoped—enthusiastic face toward Mason.

  "We got a theory here in flight school,” Mason said. “We know there are natural pilots—none of you clowns qualify, of course—and also a lot of people have flown a lot of things.

  "No sense testing someone for basic ability if we put them on their favorite toy, is there? So what we came up with is something that, as far as we know, nobody has flown for a thousand years or so. This pile of drakh was called a helicopter. Since it killed a whole group of pilots in its day, when antigrav came around they couldn't scrap-heap these guys fast enough.

  "You're gonna fly it, Candidate. Or else you're gonna look for a new job category. I hear they're recruiting planetary meteorologists for the Pioneer Sectors."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Not that we're unfair. We're gonna give you some help. First you get two facts: Fact number one is that this helicopter, unlike anything else I've ever heard of, really doesn't want to fly at all. It won't lift without bitching, it glides like a rock, and it lands about the same if you don't know what you're doing. Fact number two is it's easy to fly if you're the kind of person who can pat his head and rub his stomach at the same time."

  Sten wondered if Mason was making his notion of a joke. Impossible—the man was humorless.

  "Next, you and me are gonna strap in, and I'm gonna show you how the controls work. Then you'll take over, and follow my instructions. I'll start simple."

  Right, simple. Ostensibly, the few controls were easy. The stick in front controlled the angle of the individual fan blades—the airfoil surface—as they rotated. This stick could be moved to any side and, Mason explained, could make the helicopter maneuver. A second lever, to the side, moved up and down, and, with a twist grip, rotated to give engine speed and, therefore, rotor speed. Two rudder pedals controlled the tiny fan at the ship's rear, which kept the helicopter from following the natural torque reaction of the blades and spinning wildly.

  The first test was to hover the ship.

  Mason lifted it, lowered it, then lifted it again. It seemed easy.

  "All you got to do is keep it a meter off the ground."

  He told Sten to take the controls.

  The helicopter then developed a different personality and, in spite of Sten's sawing, dipped, bounced the front end of the skids on the field, then, following Sten's over-controlling, reared back ... then forward ... and Mason had to grab the controls.

  "You want to try it again?"

  Sten nodded.

  He did better—but not much. Power ... keep that collective in place ... real gentle with that stick.

  Sten didn't prang it this time, but the required meter altitude varied up to about three.

  Sten's flight suit was soaked with sweat.

  Again.

  The variable came down to plus or minus a meter.

  Mason was looking at Sten. “All right. Next we're going to move forward."

  Mason moved the helicopter forward about fifty meters, turned, and flew back, then repeated the whole maneuver.

  "I want you to hold two meters altitude and just fly down there in a straight line. I'll tell you when to stop."

  The helicopter porpoised off. He scraped his skids twice, and his flight toward those distant pylons was a sidewinder's path. Mason took over and put Sten through the same routine three more times. Sten
had no idea if he was about to be trained as a pilot or a weatherman.

  The next stage took the helicopter all the way down to the pylons and S-curved through them. The first time Sten tried it, he discovered he had straight and level flight somehow memorized—the helicopter clipped every single pole as it went down the course. By the fourth try, Sten managed to hit no more than four or five of them.

  Mason was looking at him. Then Mason signaled—he had it.

  Sten sat back and, per orders, put his hands in his lap.

  Mason landed the ship back where it had started, shut down, and unbuckled. Sten followed, stepping off the platform and ducking under the rotors as they slowed.

  Mason was standing, stone-faced, about thirty meters away from the helicopter. “That's all, Candidate. Report to your quarters. You'll be informed as to your status."

  Sten saluted. Clot. So much for the Emperor's ideas about Sten.

  "Candidate!"

  Sten stopped and turned.

  "Did you ever fly one of these things before?"

  And Sten, through his honest denial, felt a small glint of hope.

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A DAY LATER, Sten's name, as well as Bishop's, Sh'aarl't's, and Lotor's, went on the list: Phase One. Accepted. Assigned to Imperial Flight Training, Phase Two.

  In Phase Two, they would learn how to fly.

  There should have been some kind of party. But everyone was too tired to get bashed. Of the 500 candidates, fewer than forty had been selected.

  According to the clichés, graduation should have been announced by the IPs lugging in cases of alk and welcoming the candidates to the thin, whatever-colored line.

  Instead, Sh'aarl't, Sten, and Bishop split a flask of herbal tea while they packed. All they wanted was away.

  Waiting near the sleds that would take the candidates to their ships were Ferrari and Mason.

  Again according to clichés there should now have been understanding on one hand and acceptance on the other. But Mason's expression was exactly that of the first day—he looked as if he was sorry that any of them had made it. And he turned an even harder stare on Sten.

  Sten returned it.

  Clot forgiveness and understanding—he wanted to meet Mason in an alley behind a hangar sometime and give him a scar to match the first one. Preferably across the throat...

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  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE LABEL “the Fringe Worlds” suggests some sort of geographical or political cohesiveness to the spattered cluster that occupied space between the Empire and the Tahn System. There was almost none.

  The cluster had been slowly settled by Imperial pioneers. They were not the radicals or the adventurers who had explored, for instance, the Lupus Cluster. They were people wanting things to be a little more simple and peaceful. A large percentage of them were retired military or civil servants starting a second, or even third, career. Others wanted a chance to establish themselves in comfort as small manufacturers or business people.

  But if there were no hero pioneers, there also were none of the villains that pioneering creates. Not, at least, until the expansion from the Tahn empire brought new, and somewhat different, immigrants.

  What government there was in the Fringe Worlds mirrored the settlers themselves. Whether confined to a single world or including a half dozen or so systems, it was generally some species of parliamentarianism, ranging from mildly liberal to mildly authoritarian. Since prospective tyrants went elsewhere, what armed forces existed were somewhere between customs police and coastal guards. The only unifying political force the cluster had was an economic summit that met to iron out modern problems every five years or so. It was a backwater cluster, content to remain as it was.

  Until the Tahn.

  The Tahn who immigrated into the Fringe Worlds were financially backed by their leaders, as the Tahn birth rate and political ambitions clamored for Lebensraum. These were true pioneers, looking for more. Since their culture encouraged communal economics, they naturally had an advantage over the ex-Imperialists. And so the situation escalated into violence—riots and pogroms.

  The Imperial settlers were there first, so they had a chance to modify the government. Tahn were not permitted extensive freeholds. They were excluded from voting. They were physically ghettoized into enclaves either rural or urban.

  The Tahn settlers’ resentment was fed by the Tahn Empire itself, which wanted the cluster added to its holdings.

  The revolutionary movement was not only popular but well backed by the Tahn. And the Empire had done little to solve the problem. After all, backwater areas with minor problems—riots, no matter how bloody, are not as bad as active genocide—get minor attention.

  The Imperial garrisons assigned to the Tahn worlds were fat and lazy. Instead of being peacekeepers, the officers and men tended to agree with the settlers. The Tahn, after all, were different—which meant “not as good as."

  There had been a brief time, not long before, when the confrontation between the Empire itself and the Tahn might have been prevented. Some of the more farsighted Tahn revolutionaries had recognized that if the confrontation occurred, they were liable to be crushed in the middle. Very secretly they had sent the head of the organization to Prime World.

  Godfrey Alain had been murdered in a plot that was aimed against the Emperor himself. Final negotiations between the Empire and the peace faction of the Tahn Council had also ended in blood.

  The war drums were not even slightly muted, especially on the Fringe Worlds.

  But no one in the cluster seemed to know how close Empire wide war was.

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  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE DUSTY GRAVCAR sputtered feebly over a country lane. It was an elderly design: long, boxy, with an extended rear cargo area. And the way it was balking, it was plain that it had been under constant and varied lease since it had left the factory.

  The salesman hunched over the controls seemed as weathered and as old as the vehicle. He was a large man with a broad, friendly face and bulky shoulders that strained at his years-out-of-date coveralls. The man hummed peacefully to himself in an off-key voice timed to the sputtering McLean drive engine. As he drove in apparent complete ease and relaxation, his eyes swiveled like a predator's, drinking in every detail of the landscape.

  This was poor land, pocked with rocks and wind-bowed clumps of trees. It seemed to be one dry gale away from becoming a permanent dust bowl.

  During the course of the day, the salesman had skimmed past a half a dozen sharecropper farms tended by a few hollow-eyed Tahn immigrants. He had hesitated at each place, noted the extreme poverty, and gone on. None of them were places where a normal being would have even asked for a friendly glass of water. Not because of the hostility—which was real and more than apparent—but because if it had been given, it might have been the last few ounces of water left on the farm.

  In the distance he spotted a sudden shot of green. He shifted course and soon came upon a large farm. The earth seemed comparatively rich—not loam, but not rock either—and was heavily diked with irrigation ditches. In the middle of the spread were big shambling buildings surrounding a small artesian pond. This would be the source of wealth. Several people were working the field with rusted, creaking machinery.

  Still humming, the man eased the gravsled to a stop next to a cattle guard. He pretended not to notice the instant freezing of the people in the field. He casually got out under their burning stares, stepped over behind a bush, and relieved his bladder. Then he struck a smoke, gazed lazily about, and walked over to the fence railing. He peered with mild interest at the men and women in the field—one pro judging the work of others. He gave a loud snort. If he had had a mustache, the honk would have blown it up to his bushy eyebrows. The snort seemed to be both a nervous habit and a comment on the state of things.

  "Nice place,” he finally said. His voice hi
t that perfect raised pitch that a farmer uses to communicate to a companion many rows away.

  The group drew back slightly as a middle-aged Tahn, nearly the salesman's size, strode forward. The salesman smiled broadly at him, pointedly ignoring the others who were picking up weapons and spreading slowly out to the side.

  "Wouldn't think you could grow kale crops in these parts,” the salesman said as the Tahn drew closer.

  He looked more closely at the fields. “'Course they do look a little yellow-eyed and peaked."

  The man stopped in front of him, just on the other side of the fence. Meanwhile, his sons and daughters had half ringed the salesman in. He heard the snicks of safeties switching off.

  "Next town's about forty klicks down the road,” the farmer said. It was an invitation to get the clot back in the gravcar and get out.

  The elderly salesman snorted again. “Yeah. I noted that on the comp-map. Didn't seem like much of a town."

  "It ain't,” the Tahn said. “Next Imperial place gotta be two, maybe two and a half days go."

  The salesman laughed. “Spotted me, huh? What the hell, I ain't ashamed. Besides, being a farmer is the only citizenship I claim."

  The man stared at him. “If you're a farmer,” he said, “what you doin’ off your spread?"

  "Gave it up after eighty years,” the salesman said. “You might say I'm retired. Except that wouldn't be right. Actually, I'm on my second career."

  The farmer's eyes shifted, checking the positions of his brood. He inspected the horizon for any possible Imperial reinforcements. “That so?"

  Death was whispering in the salesman's ear.

  "Yeah,” he said, unconcerned. “That's so. Sell fertilizer gizmos now. My own design. Maybe you'd be interested in one."

  He pulled out a much-used kerchief and honked into it. Then he looked at the kale fields again. He noted some blackened areas in the distance; this was just one of many Tahn farms, he understood, that had been hit by roving gangs of Imperial settlers.

  "Wouldn't help with the withering, but one of my fellas sure as hell would take the yellow out."