Rolling his shoulders, Nick loomed over the steward. “I’m not getting undressed on the damn hangar deck.”
Backing off, the other man seemed flustered. “Perhaps I can borrow a crew jacket, sir.”
“Fine. Anything you want, but make it quick.” Nick was rapidly losing what patience he had.
Dashing off, the steward returned in a minute with an SMT jacket for Nick to throw over his shoulders, hiding some of the worst bloodstains from public view. Then, and only then, was he able to follow the rest of the passengers off the hangar deck and up toward the passenger levels. The SMT escort didn’t try to make small talk. Fine with me. If I’d been sure where I was going, I’d have preferred not to have a guide anyway. Too conspicuous. Nick tipped the guy a few credits for doing absolutely nothing, handed over the now-stained crew jacket and finally got rid of him, closing the portal of the assigned cabin gratefully.
Standing in the middle of his suite, Nick did a slow 360, frowning. Too soft and luxurious by half, even here on the Third Level. At this rate, what First Level must be like! Not that Nick cared. He threw his kitbag carelessly onto an oversized chair in the corner.
Walking to the bar, Nick smiled wryly, evaluating the plush accommodations. I’m going to go crazy in comfort for the next ten days, cooped up in this place, but I’ve got my orders, straight from the base commander’s own lips.
Nick’s frown grew deeper, remembering his last conversation with the base commander, which had not gone well. Called me a burnout, blamed me for the last mission going south, when it was his failure to send the extraction team. Acid burned in Nick’s gut. Then he pulled some kind of a fast one, getting me on this damn cruise ship, with a bunch of civilians. Wanted me off his base. Well, I’ll testify at the review board all right, for damn sure.
Throwing his ruined clothes in a heap on the blue gray carpet, Nick flopped on the too-soft bed, deciding not to remember anything else about his time on Glideon, the Review Board, or his disastrous last mission. Or that prick of a base commander. Scowling, Nick rose, stalked to the bar, and poured some excellent Suavarian brandy, with a chaser of Taychelle vodka, straight.
Merciful, if drunken, oblivion closed in, deep enough to blot out for one night the recurring nightmares about the slaughter of his Special Forces team by the enemy. Nick sprawled across the bed, half dressed. The glass, partially full, rolled out of his hand and splattered the expensive vodka on the lush carpet covering the deck.
CHAPTER TWO
Nick came suddenly awake, sitting up, momentarily confused by his surroundings and the unfamiliar, soft bed, before falling onto the pillows again. Screwing his eyes tight shut, rubbing his temples and then the back of his neck, he tried to relieve some of the hot pain from his truly stellar hangover.
“Ship, I need headclear, fast,” he said, clearing his dry throat and hoping his stomach would stop its contortions. Was I actually mixing Suavarian brandy with Taychelle vodka last night? What, was I trying to kill myself?
“Calculated dosage coming up on the bedside server now, Captain Jameson,” answered the AI ganglion assigned to this room and his wellbeing. “Do you wish a consumable or an inject, sir?”
“Inject.” Why is the damn thing asking me – there isn’t time to wait for a consumable, my stomach wouldn’t tolerate it anyway. An inject was his only hope of not disgracing himself right then and there and losing whatever his poor gut had left. Grabbing the gleaming inject as it popped out of the retro nightstand’s top, he slammed it into his left bicep and leaned against the pillows with a groan. Within ten seconds the headclear had taken hold and he felt halfway human. Best invention in the Sectors, bar none.
“Ship, remind me not to do that again,” he said, more to himself than to the AI.
“The name is Nebula Dream.” Icicles couldn’t have been colder than the Ship’s voice.
Great, an AI with attitude. But then, what else would be expected from the premier luxury liner in the Sector?
The Ship talked on. “You may choose to have my access display to you in holographic form at any time. There are hundreds of sentient or abstract templates from which to choose, or I can attempt to customize. Whatever you prefer –”
“No. Access to remain audio only.” The last thing I intend to do on this trip is spend a lot of time interfacing with some damn hologram, no matter how customized. The luxurious features of this ship are going to be totally wasted on me. Nick threw the used inject into the trash receptacle, grinning. “Don’t talk to me, got it? Unless there’s an emergency.”
“Define emergency.”
“If you’re planning to self destruct, okay?” This conversation was going on a lot longer than he wanted already. This AI, top of the line or not, isn’t too smart.
“As you wish, Passenger Jameson.”
Did he hear faint disappointment in the AI’s reply? Nick shook his head. A possibility, of course, with a fully developed, civilian AI running the Nebula Dream. Not my job to care. Let the ship’s Interface Officer handle the issue. All Nick wanted at this point was a hot shower and some fresh clothes. He headed barefoot toward the dressing room and bath beyond.
“Passenger Jameson?” The AI’s voice was soft but still intrusive.
Head down, Nick kept walking. “Now what? I told you –”
“You have communications, sir.”
Who the hell would be sending me anything? If it had been military communications traffic, there would have been priority handling instructions. And an AI as efficient as this one wanted to be would have followed those orders to the letter. “Display messages,” he said, retracing his steps to sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing futilely at the kinks in his neck muscles. Damn it, I need a hot shower. Whoever had called him better not be expecting a prompt response, not if they wanted him to be civil. Headclear was a stellar inject, got rid of the headache and nausea efficiently, but did nothing for the residual, general misery of a major hangover.
Emptying the communications queue didn’t take long. There were three messages from the Ship itself, advertising the shows in the theaters on Level B. Nick skipped past those. Maybe in another day or two he could relax enough to want to watch the famous Tilingqit Acrobats or the SMT Comettes Dance Troupe, but he wasn’t ready yet.
The next message was a bit more interesting. The SMT Board of Directors had sent each person on the delayed shuttle a voucher for 1,000 complimentary gaming credits at the Casino Level, by way of apology. What would the kids who’d been on the shuttle make of credits? Well, their parents deserved the extra credits, for keeping the kids entertained and relatively quiet during the long wait. Fleetingly, Nick thought about the D’nvannae Brother – was he allowed to gamble? And the beautiful business traveler – was she the type to set foot in the casino? The all-work-and-no-play profile, definitely. Probably had three or four miniAI’s set up in her cabin by now and wouldn’t leave her travelling office all cruise. More’s the pity.
The Board had sent him 5,000 extra credits and a request to keep the dagger.
Nick shook his head with a wry grin. Too late for the afterthought. He had no need or desire for such a toy weapon in any case. But neither did he want to cause the wife further dismay by sending her the dagger, if she didn’t want it. He should probably try to find Helene, the shuttle attendant, and see about retrieving the thing. Be a handy excuse to call her. But did he want to contact her? Nick groaned and rubbed at his left temple again, where the headache was threatening a comeback. Too many things to think about right now. He rose from the bed. “Anymore, Ship?”
The AI cleared its nonexistent throat. The voice lowered and became more resonant. “The Captain of the Nebula Dream, Jedwr S. Bonlors, would be honored to have Captain Nicholas L. Jameson as his dinner guest in the Captain’s Dining Room on the fifth night out from Glideon.”
Nick was less than thrilled by this dubious honor. By the fifth night, the captain must figure he’ll be running out of things to talk to his high-class passengers
about. Probably hopes by dragging in an honest-to-goodness Special Forces operator, new topics of conversation will present themselves to amuse the other guests at the table. Bad idea.
Shutting his eyes for a second, Nick visualized himself describing his last disastrous mission to a table full of Members of the Board types and giggling ‘Lites. What a nightmare. Still, on the Nebula Dream, Bonlors was in charge, thus making the invitation a command. “Ship?”
“Yes, Passenger Jameson?”
Stripping his slept-in clothing off, Nick considered the shirt. Not suitable for dinner at the captain’s table. This allegedly free trip is going to put a dent in my credit balance. “What’s the price for you to generate a dress uniform for me?”
The AI named a more or less reasonable amount. Nick authorized it to go ahead and then he escaped into the shower, refusing to enter into anymore dialogue with the chatty Ship.
Refreshed, changed into a new set of civvies, Nick ventured out into the wide corridors of Level Three and found his way to the dining room. Each passenger level boasted full meal
service at all hours, so even though it was approaching midday, Terra Standard Time, Nick was able to have a big breakfast. Most of the food was real, not reconstituted. He pretty much had the place to himself, which was fine with him.
The afternoon dragged. Once Nick had walked all the way around Level Three and then done the same tour of Level Two, he was bored and more convinced than ever the trip was going to be a form of mental torture. Retreating to his cabin, he ordered a holo overview of the Ship’s amenities. Not being interested in the duty-free shops, the fantasy adventure environment, any of the entertainment, or most of the other described attractions, Nick decided to go visit the gym on the Fourth Level. He could burn off some nervous energy with a good workout on the variable grav apparatus.
When he got there, the place was deserted. The two attendants were more than happy to have a passenger to assist, to break their own boredom. As they were setting up the grav parameters for him, the junior attendant, Easton, told Nick he’d already heard rumors before the next voyage the gym was either going to be deleted or drastically downsized.
“The crowd traveling this kind of ship isn’t interested in working on their muscles, staying toned the old-fashioned way,” said the head trainer dismissively. “Don’t know why SMT believed they would be.”
“Yeah, well, at least we’re getting good flight pay for this trip,” Easton retorted. “And a free cruise out of the deal, even if we do end up back on Glideon, right where we started.”
“Can’t complain about being overworked, eh?” Nick laughed with them.
“Hardly,” the older man answered with a derisive snort. He adjusted a parameter on the grav bar setup and nodded, walking away. “I’ll be in the office, if you need me for anything.”
“I think he’s got a stash of some feelgood, he goes into his hole of an office so much.” Guffawing at his own sally, Easton went on, “Personally, I’m taking advantage of this trip to meet people, maybe better my deal. Become a private trainer for some rich celebrity, you know? What I want is to hook up with some of those Socialites. Watched them come aboard late yesterday.”
“Yeah, they were on the shuttle I was on.” Nick hoped to cut off the conversation. “We had some minor trouble getting off Glideon in time.”
“I heard Captain Bonlors was ready to go nova over it, too. Well, you’re all set there, have a good workout.” The trainer readjusted the parameter his boss had just set and ambled off.
“Thanks, I plan to.” Shaking his head as he adjusted the equipment properly, Nick glanced after the departing Easton. Well, maybe he would fit in with the Socialites as far as partying, but he’d never be accepted by them. Not living on a trainer’s pay and tips, while they have generational billions at their disposal to play with.
Dismissing Easton and Socialites alike from his attention, Nick worked out for an hour or so. Then he’d intended to cool down with some anti-grav flex training, but the attendant told him the facility was unfinished.
“Sorry, sir,” Easton apologized off-handedly, breaking the news to Nick. “You could try the beach, on Level Five.” The attendant at least tried to be helpful. “I understand swimming in liquid water is similar to anti-grav?”
“The two are only vaguely similar,” Nick said. “But I guess swimming will have to do. Thanks for the suggestion.” Adding a moderate tip to the charges he was signing for, Nick gave the billing unit back to Easton.
Taking the shortcut directly from the gym to the huge aquatic complex on Level Five, Nick discovered it too was in a partially finished state, lacking a number of the features the Ship had raved about in its holos, but he didn’t care. The main pool area, which took up three-quarters of the level, had been designed to imitate a beach on Tahumaroa Two, combining actual soft, white sand and water with a holographic ocean and sky – enough for him, in his present mood.
This area of the ship was more popular with the leisure class of passengers than the gym had been. Maybe Easton should ask for a change of duty, become a lifeguard. Too bad the guy couldn’t swim. Dropping his blue and white SMT towel on the sand, Nick realized the mother and two children from the shuttle were there, busily constructing an elaborate sand castle. Taking off his military-issue sweat pants and folding them into a neat square on the towel, Nick noticed a flock of the annoying ‘Lites. They were at the other end of the “beach,” playing some boisterous game, throwing each other into the water as violently as possible.
Oh yeah, the gym rat was definitely wasting his time on Level Four, in the deserted training facility.
Diving expertly under an incoming three-foot wave, completely at home in the water, Nick swam out to “sea” until a sonic barrier alerted him he’d reached the end of reality, about to smack into the hologram generator. It wasn’t nearly enough of a workout for him, but Nick was getting used to the Dream’s facilities falling short of his expectations. What do I know, after all? I’ve never traveled on a luxury liner before. And never will again. Doing a somersault in the warm “ocean,” he scanned the shore, treading water.
Several of the ‘Lites were chasing each other along the sand. As Nick watched, two of the Inner Sector youths stumbled into the family party, crashing on the sand castle. The young men got up, apologizing to the woman, who was gesturing angrily, upset. The kids went to work rebuilding. Rolling over onto his back, Nick floated on the waves for a minute or two, gazing at the holo sky, thinking it would be more realistic with a few birds, maybe some clouds. Had SMT skimped on their artistic design fees to the holo-generation firm?
Tiring of the whole thing, Nick dove under the water, coming up stroking smoothly, heading to shore.
He focused in on the beach scene as he swam. Mother still arguing with the ‘Lites who had so rudely invaded her family’s space. Boy rebuilding sand castle. Where’s the girl? Continuing his swim to shore, he scanned the beach, more as something to do than because he was genuinely concerned. But as he got closer and closer to the shore, and failed to locate the child, he grew uneasy.
There was a lifeguard tower in the center of the beach area, but Nick remembered he hadn’t seen any actual SMT employees on duty when he strolled onto the sand.
Suddenly, the woman broke off her argument with the ‘Lites, who scampered away, fleeing to their own party. Panicky, wide-eyed, she called out something Nick couldn’t hear and waded into the water up to her knees.
Swearing under his breath, Nick stepped up his pace.
Trying to help his mother, the boy pointed excitedly at the water. He ran to the edge of the waves, grabbing the big teddy bear his sister had been carrying on the shuttle.
Now Nick was stroking full speed, convinced the toddler had indeed ventured into the water. As soon as he was in close enough, he stood, searching for any sign of the child. She’d been wearing a vivid green one-piece playsuit; he vaguely remembered noting it as he passed them on his way into the water.
> A flicker of color off to the left caught his eye. It took Nick less than thirty seconds to reach the limp toddler, floating unconscious in the gentle waves. The playsuit had evidently been designed to provide some flotation support, but she must have swallowed too much water, or breathed it in.
Nick carried her to the beach in three rapid strides, laying her gently on the damp sand, just above the waterline. “Call the Ship for help,” he yelled as the mother and boy ran toward him. Afraid to waste time waiting for a med team and their equipment, which could dry her lungs in seconds, he commenced the old-fashioned mouth-to-mouth resuscitation techniques. The child might not have time to wait.
Nick was peripherally aware of the ‘Lites crowding around him, drawn by the excitement of it all. The mother was on her knees next to him, weeping and getting in his way, trying to hug the child while Nick worked over her. One of the Inner Sector girls came and knelt beside the distraught woman, pulling her away from the toddler.
“Give the man room, mamma,” she urged in the artificially high, sweet voice the ‘Lites used, but at least she alone of all of them was doing something useful.
Suddenly the child coughed violently. Just in time, Nick moved out of the way as she retched up an amazing quantity of water. Turning her over, he patted her back. She cried loudly, calling pitifully for her mother, who broke away from the Socialite and gathered up her child, both weeping copiously.
“Med team!” shouted an officious voice. “Med team! Make way, clear out, we’ll take over now, sir.”
Pushed out of the way by the zealous Nebula Dream medics, he allowed himself to be replaced, keeping a watchful eye for a minute, and then, deciding they were annoying but competent, he went to pick up his things further down the beach and leave.
Wreck of the Nebula Dream Page 3