Starship

by Michael D. Resnick

  “I don't disagree. But any man who can beat a warrior-caste Polonoi with his bare hands knows how to use them.”

  “They are a little different from normal Polonoi,” agreed Pampas.

  And indeed they were, reflected Cole. All Polonoi were heavyset and muscular, but what differentiated the warrior caste was that their sexual organs, their eating and breathing orifices, and all their soft vulnerable spots—the equivalent of human bellies and midsections—had been genetically engineered so that they were on the warriors' backs. They were built to win or die. For a warrior-caste Polonoi to turn his back on an enemy was to present that enemy with all his vulnerable areas, whereas their fronts were heavily armored with bony plates and were practically immune to pain.

  “Still, it was a lucky blow, sir,” continued Pampas.

  “I hope to hell you're being modest,” replied Cole, “because I want a man with what I take to be your physical prowess on our boarding team.”

  “Boarding team, sir?”

  “If we're not going to blow the enemy out of the sky, and we want to appropriate its cargo, sooner or later we're going to have to board it,” said Cole as if explaining it to a child. They can't really be this dumb, he told himself; they just haven't started thinking like pirates. “Would you have any problem killing a pirate with your hands or your weapons?”

  “Not if he wanted to kill me, sir.”

  “What if she weighed a hundred and ten pounds and looked as young and pretty and vulnerable as our Ensign Marcos?”

  “Put a weapon in her hand and Ensign Marcos can squeeze the trigger just as easily as a five-hundred-pound Torqual can, sir. I don't have a problem with defending myself.”

  “Okay, you're hired,” said Cole.

  “I could stay on duty here until we spot a pirate ship, sir,” suggested Pampas.

  Cole considered it, then shook his head. “Who the hell knows when that'll be? I want you fresh. Besides, if the weapons are working now, they'll be working when we come across a pirate ship. I'm sure anyone you've trained can handle any minor adjustments that are needed.” He paused. “I wish we had a gym for you to work out in, or a target range. But the Teddy R has barely got enough room to turn around in, so just keep yourself in shape as best you can in that tiny exercise room.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Pampas, sensing that the interview was over and saluting.

  “And try to get out of the habit of saluting.”

  “Like I said, sir…”

  “I have my reasons, Bull,” said Cole. “We've gotten rid of the Republic insignia on the ship. We've already jettisoned all our military uniforms. If we board a pirate ship, and they've got someone hiding out of sight, waiting to take a couple of potshots at us, there's only one way he's going to know who to kill first—and that's whoever it is that everyone else salutes.”

  “I hadn't thought of that, sir,” said Pampas. “I'll do my best not to salute, sir.”

  “Or to call me sir,” added Cole. “I ask it of the bridge personnel, but they're not going anywhere. I'm going to demand it of the boarding parties.”

  “Yes—” He stopped himself just in time.

  “Fine. Pick your successor, clear the name with me or Forrice, and kiss this section good-bye at the end of your shift. And make sure all your hand weapons are in working order.”

  Cole turned before he could see if Pampas saluted him again, and walked to an airlift. He rode it up to the bridge, where Braxite, a Molarian, and Vladimir Sokolov, a tall blond man, were on duty.

  “Captain on the bridge!” shouted Braxite, jumping to attention. Sokolov, who was working the computer consoles, stood up and saluted.

  “Knock it off,” said Cole wearily. “Has anyone got anything to report?”

  “Lieutenant Mboya left orders that I was to continue the charts she started making,” said Sokolov. He uttered a brief order to one of the computers in a language that seemed to be all numbers and formulae, and a moment later a three-dimensional star chart filled the space above his console. Another order and seventeen stars glowed a bright yellow and began blinking on and off.

  “Each of these systems has one of the most populated worlds on the Inner Frontier. Fourteen are oxygen worlds, two are chlorine, and one is ammonia. The distance separating the two farthest apart is about three thousand light-years.”

  “That's not much, given the size of the Frontier,” noted Cole.

  “People tend to congregate together, sir,” said Sokolov. “Especially out here, where there are so few of them.”

  “What about trade routes?”

  Another incomprehensible command from Sokolov, and some seventy-five flashing purple lines popped into existence, each leading from one world to another. More than half the lines went directly from major mining worlds to unshown worlds of the Republic.

  Cole turned to Braxite. “Anything on spaceliner routes or schedules?”

  “Just what's posted, which anyone in the galaxy can access,” answered the Molarian. “But I can't find out which ones travel with Republic warships as escorts, and each ship has so many fare levels that it's impossible to figure out which has the most affluent set of passengers. The luxury cruise ships, the ones with gambling and entertainment, never venture outside the borders of the Republic, and while they don't have military ships protecting them, they each hire mercenary ships for protection. Most of them also hire former police and military officers to patrol the ship itself. All incognito, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Cole. “Well, we didn't want to rob any innocent parties on spaceliners anyway.”

  “An observation, sir?” said Sokolov.

  “Yes?”

  “If they're amusing themselves on a gambling ship during wartime, how innocent can they be?”

  “I don't know how innocent they are, Lieutenant,” answered Cole. “But if they've got mercenary ships and police guarding them, they're too well-protected to interest us. We'll stick to pirate ships.”

  “There figure to be a few thousand ships in this general area”—Sokolov waved a hand toward the seventeen flashing systems and about half the trade routes—“at any given moment. How will we pinpoint the pirate ships?”

  “We won't.”

  “Then how will we—?”

  “We'll let them find us,” answered Cole. “Tell Slick I want to speak to him.”

  “In person, sir?”

  “No, that's not necessary.”

  “In private, then? I can have him transmit his image to your quarters.”

  “Right here is fine,” answered Cole.

  “Coming right up,” announced Sokolov, and suddenly Cole found himself facing the full-sized holographic image of the Teddy R's only Tolobite. It was a squat, shining, bipedal being. Its skin, smooth and oily, literally glowed. Its upper limbs were thick and tentacular, more like an elephant's trunk than an octopus's legs. There was no neck; the head grew directly out of the shoulders, and was incapable of turning or swiveling. Its mouth had no teeth, and seemed equipped only for sucking fluids. Its eyes were very dark and wide-set. No nostrils were evident. Its ears were mere slits at the sides of the head. It actually did possess most of the features that seemed missing or inadequate, but it possessed a unique one as well: a Gorib—a living, thinking symbiote that functioned as a protective second skin that filtered out all germs and viruses.

  Cole found its name unpronounceable, as he did most aliens', so he had dubbed it “Slick” because of its shining false skin, and as far as he was concerned, Slick was the most valuable member of the crew, because its Gorib enabled it to function for limited durations in the vacuum of space or on the surface of chlorine and methane worlds, without any chance of an equipment malfunction, because except for the Gorib Slick wore no protective suit.

  “You wished to speak to me, sir?” asked Slick in heavily accented Terran.

  “Yeah. Remember when I had you climb outside and replace the ship's Republic insignia with a skull and crossbones right after we esca
ped?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We were celebrating, and I wasn't thinking clearly,” said Cole. “In the cold light of day, it's obvious that the very last thing we want to do is advertise the fact that we're pirates.”

  “Do you want me to just remove the skull and crossbones, or replace it with something else?” asked Slick.

  “You'll be replacing it.”

  “What with, sir?”

  “Hold on a second.” He turned to Sokolov. “You're of Russian descent, right?”

  “God knows how many centuries ago, sir.”

  “Can you give me a Russian name or location?”

  “How about Stalin?”

  “No, New Stalin's a major Republic world,” responded Cole. “Try another.”

  “Samarkand?”

  “That'll do.” He turned back to Slick's holograph. “Wherever you remove a skull and crossbones, I want you to replace it with a logo for the Samarkand Cargo Lines.”

  “A logo, sir?” asked Slick.

  “Mr. Sokolov will create a batch of them for you. I'll want it on the front and back of the ship, and you might as well put it on all four shuttlecraft as well. Can you get it done today?”

  “Probably,” said Slick.

  “If it's a strain on your Gorib, you can do it over two Standard days,” said Cole.

  “The Gorib can handle it, sir. It just depends on how long it takes me to remove the skulls and crossbones. The old Republic insignia was partially worn away from the handful of occasions the ship had entered various atmospheres to land—but the skulls and crossbones have never been subjected to that kind of heat or friction.”

  “Well, get started as soon as possible, and let the bridge know when you're done.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Slick, ending the transmission.

  “Remarkable being, that Slick,” said Cole admiringly. “Give me fifty like him and I could conquer any chlorine world in the Teroni Federation.”

  “Or the Republic,” added Braxite.

  “Or the Republic,” agreed Cole. “They're peas in a pod.”

  “Whatever a pea is,” said Braxite. “And whatever a pod is.”

  “Sir,” said Sokolov, “I take it you want me to create a logo or an emblem for something called the Samarkand Cargo Lines?”

  “Yeah,” said Cole. “Once you've got it done, make it up in a dozen different sizes, each big enough to cover the skulls and crossbones just in case traces of them remain. Slick will bond them to the ship. Make sure they can handle heat and friction if we have to set down on a world.”

  “An oxygen world?”

  “Any kind,” answered Cole. “We don't always have a choice.”

  “I'll get right on it, sir,” said Sokolov. “Do you want me to show it to you before I make a bunch of them up for Slick?”

  “What do I know about designs?” said Cole. “Show them to Lieutenant Mboya. She's got the most orderly mind on the ship.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sokolov went to work on his computer, and Braxite turned to Cole. “Would I be correct in assuming that we plan to pose as a cargo ship to attract pirates?”

  “A cargo ship in distress,” said Cole. “If we were just a cargo ship en route to a destination, they couldn't be sure they could catch us, so they'd probably shoot to disable us—and at those kind of distances and speeds, who knows? What they think of as a disabling shot could be off by two seconds of a degree and blow us all to hell. Much better to give them a ship that's already disabled.”

  “We can't be the first ship to think of this, sir,” said Braxite. “I'll bet the Navy does it all the time out on the borders between the Republic and the Frontier.”

  “I doubt it,” said Cole. “The pirates have no reason to board a Navy ship. They'd blow it to bits from a safe distance.”

  “Then a cargo company that's tired of being hit—”

  “Look,” said Cole, fighting back his annoyance. “The Inner Frontier covers something like a quarter of the galaxy. We've been here, traveling at light speeds, for more than twenty Standard days, and so far we've seen three ships. I don't know where all the pirates are. Four Eyes doesn't know. Now, unless you know, it makes more sense to entice them to come to us than the other way around.”

  “I apologize, sir,” said Braxite. “I didn't mean to be argumentative.”

  “There's nothing wrong with questioning orders that don't seem to make sense,” replied Cole. “Unless we're being shot at, at which time I'd really appreciate some blind obedience.” He paused. “I'm getting hungry. Tell Mr. Odom to meet me in the mess hall.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cole left the bridge, walked over to the airlift, rode it down a level to the mess hall, walked past three tables that were in use, and took an empty one in the back. A moment later Mustapha Odom, the ship's chief engineer, and the only crew member allowed to work with the nuclear pile, entered, spotted Cole, and joined him.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Cole, ordering a sandwich and a cup of coffee from the menu that suddenly appeared in midair. It vanished when his order was complete and he found himself facing Odom again. “At some point, tomorrow or in the next few days, we'll want to convince another ship that we're disabled. We have to assume they're not stupid, that their sensors are going to go over every millimeter of the Teddy R before they try to board us. We're going to need to keep the life-support systems working. If the light drive is dead, is that possible or does it look too suspicious?”

  “No problem. We've got an emergency power reserve for life support and for the infirmary, too. I think just about every ship does.”

  “I don't want to just float in space waiting to be approached. That smells too much like a trap. If the light drive is dead, can we travel at sublight speeds?”

  “You'd be traveling at light speeds even with no drive,” answered Odom. “The only time we really need it is to accelerate or brake. Once you're at the speed you want, there's no gravity or friction to slow you down.”

  “That won't do,” said Cole. “If they wait too long, we'll be able to reach a planet. Hell, if we're faster than they are, they might never be able to catch us even if we've theoretically blown the light drive. I need them to think we're a sitting duck, there for the taking, totally helpless.”

  “Let me think about that, sir,” said Odom. “What else?”

  “If our weapons are functional, is there any way to fool an enemy's sensors into thinking they're not?”

  “None.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Cole. “I'm not thinking clearly.”

  “Sir?”

  “If we turn off all power to the weapons systems, they'll read as if they're dead, won't they?”

  “Yes,” said Odom, smiling. “But they won't be dead. You can activate them on a second's notice.”

  “Yeah, that should work,” said Cole. “Hopefully we won't need them, but you never know. Now, if the life-support systems are on, can the communications systems be functional?”

  “Internally? Absolutely.”

  “How about the subspace radio?”

  “Right now it's powered by the nuclear pile, but if that stops working, I'd have to rig it to run off the emergency system.” He paused. “Are you sure you'll need it?”

  “How are we going to broadcast an SOS without it?” asked Cole.

  “Okay, I'll take care of it.”

  “Any way we can hide the fact that our small arms are functioning?”

  “Not with our burners and screechers, sir,” answered Odom, referring to laser and sonic pistols. “They run off battery packs, and nothing that happens to the ship's pile would affect them. Pulse guns, perhaps. Have you got any projectile pistols on board, the kind that shoot bullets?”

  “I sure as hell doubt it.”

  “Too bad. How about knives?”

  “They're not standard military equipment,” said Cole. “I suppose we can rob the mess hall—but I'd hate to put a kitch
en knife up against a burner.”

  “Like I said, let me think about it. Maybe I can come up with something.”

  “I'm open to suggestions,” said Cole. “Just remember: We have to assume that our prey isn't stupid, so we can't pretend we've all got some new alien disease or anything like that. It's got to be something that not only makes sense, but happens often enough that they don't become so suspicious they just decide to walk away from it.”

  “All right,” said Odom. “Give me a couple of hours to think about it.”

  “Where'll you be?” asked Cole.

  “Right here.”

  “Don't you need access to your computer?”

  “Why?” asked Odom. “I know everything it knows. Besides, you're asking me to improvise, and computers aren't very good at that.”

  I just hope we're a little better at it than computers, thought Cole as he left the mess hall.

  Cole lay back on his bunk, reading a book on the screen that hovered just in front of him and trying to ignore the miscoloration on the ceiling. Suddenly the text vanished and Sharon Blacksmith's face appeared.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You've been talking to everyone else all day,” she said. “I thought you might care to let the Chief of Security know what your plans are.”

  “Since you've doubtless been observing and recording me, you already know,” said Cole. “So what's your real reason?”

  “I'm bored.”

  “Cherish the feeling,” said Cole. “Once the action starts, you'll probably remember your moments of boredom with great fondness.”

  “I know,” she said with a sigh. “But this isn't like the war with the Teroni. No one's going to fire on us just for being the Teddy R. Once you start playing dead in space, it could take days, maybe weeks, before anyone approaches us.”

  “It'll take less than a day,” he assured her. “If the pirates don't come, some well-meaning do-gooder will try to rescue us.”

  “That doesn't make me any less bored.”

  “If this isn't the preface to a sexual proposition, I can give you something to do.”

  “What?”

  “We'll need a boarding party of half a dozen, so I want you to start picking out some names. Once we attract a ship and subdue their boarding party, we still have to board them and come away with something valuable enough to make it worth the effort. However many they send onto the Teddy R, they'll leave more aboard the ship. It won't be any cakewalk, subduing them and appropriating whatever they've got.”