Dremiks

by Cassandra Davis

  “That’s your problem Dwax. There’s no purpose beyond killing time. Here, drink more.” She poured him a drink from the nearly empty flask.

  Dwax lost the next hand so badly that even Tony felt sorry for him. “I do not believe your beverage is improving my game play, Commander.” He stared at his new hand and shook his head with exasperation. “I now wonder why Lieutenant Price always wishes to have such beverages at our games.”

  “Not supposed t’ improve your game, Dwax. Just supposed to make you stop caring about losin’.” Maggie tilted the flask back to empty it.

  Swede knew for a fact that she never slurred her words when drinking. If anything, her diction became irritatingly precise. He was concentrating so hard on his cards, while trying to figure out what she was up to, that he missed the captain walking into the room.

  Captain Hill snatched the flask out of the air above Maggie’s head as he softly called “Attention on deck.” Price and Guttmann jumped to their feet. Even Dwax stood—a newborn infant would have picked up on the ire evidenced by the captain’s tone. O’Connell couldn’t have stood if she tried, since the captain’s thighs were pressed to the back of her chair. She tilted her head further back to grin at him.

  “Evenin’, Cap’n. Fancy a game?”

  “Lieutenants! Quarters! Now! Honored One, please excuse my officers, they have duties.” He gripped Maggie below her elbow and physically hauled her to her feet. “With me, Commander.”

  O’Connell winked at Guttmann as she followed the captain out the door. He stared at her back and groaned. Oh hell, he thought. He ducked out of the room and muttered, “She is so screwed.”

  Beside him, Price grunted then belched. “Bullshit. All an act. She did it on purpose to piss him off.”

  Swede stopped walking and stared at his roommate, shock evident on his face. “Damn it, Tony! How many times do I have to tell you, she doesn’t work that way…”

  “Spare me. That flask was filled with water and a touch of rum flavoring—probably from the bakery supplies. She’s up to something. Anyway, I’m going to hit the head.”

  Guttmann was left snarling at thin air and running his hand over his itching chin.

  The captain made it back to his ready room without having to drag O’Connell with him. He sat behind his desk, squared his shoulders, and fixed the commander with the sternest expression he could manage. She stood at what might nominally be called attention, but there was an air of slouching disrespect that pervaded her posture. He waited, allowing the silence to heighten her discomfort—if she could still feel any. Having never seen his second in command drunk, the captain was unable to tell just how intoxicated she might be. He had to assume she’d consumed a decent amount of alcohol to be so blatantly rude to him in front of junior officers.

  “Aren’t you curious how I found you?”

  She shrugged indifferently, all the while staring relentlessly over his head. “Probably forgot to turn off my locator. Been drinking.” She grinned toothily.

  Her flippancy had the desired effect. The captain’s hands, folded on the desk, clenched in white-knuckled rage. “So I see. What-the-hell-were-you-thinking?” He fired off the question in staccato bursts, each word gaining in volume.

  “I was thinking I would join the lads in a card game. I sure as hell didn’t have anything better to do.”

  “What?” He whispered the question, too shocked to yell.

  “You heard me.” She stopped staring over his head. Her green eyes locked with his and didn’t blink even when his face contorted with shock and greater anger.

  “You are dangerously close to being confined to the brig, Commander.”

  She snorted.

  He stared. Then, he stopped himself and worked to control his breathing. She will not respond to bluster, he thought. “Commander, I can understand the need for companionship during this stressful period, but we, as senior officers, must strive to maintain shipboard decorum and policy. If we allow the rules to slip in an effort to improve morale, we only invite chaos and discontent among our people.”

  Maggie very slowly tilted her head to the side.

  She pursed her lips.

  “Tell me sir, did it hurt?”

  “Excuse me? Did what hurt?”

  “Did it hurt—when they cut off your balls?”

  He didn’t blink. He couldn’t. She’s gone mad was the only conscious thought that burned through the white hot anger. He surged up from his seat and was around the corner of the desk before he even realized what he was doing. Maggie stood her ground. She looked him up and down with such contempt that he was tempted to slap her just to erase the look from her face.

  “Have you lost your god-damned mind?” He shouted the question inches from her face

  “Have you lost your nerve?” She shouted right back. “You want to know what the hell is wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with you? Sweet Jesus, Captain, since when did you becoming a sniveling political lackey waiting for the scraps from those puking bastard’s table?” He tried to shout her down, and she just talked right over him. “Excuse the hell out of me if I decide to improve my morale by having a drink with the only men left in the officer corps. One of us has to have the balls to stop obeying dumb-ass rules made for political reasons and face the reality of the situation!”

  “Make one more inference regarding my manhood, O’Connell, and you won’t live to see the inside of the brig.”

  “Good! It’s about time you did something without asking permission or consulting a damn manual first. We’re at the ends of the damn universe, on our own, with no hope of relief or rescue. We’ve been lied to, conned, and thoroughly played, and you’re waiting to see what your idiot brother and that fat slug boss of his think up? They will get us all killed! Pardon me if I decide I don’t want to sit idly by and watch!”

  “So I should disregard all protocol and bury my head in a card game? I should get drunk off my ass and verbally assault another officer? I should just hope that my Daddy will swoop in and save my precious little ass one more time?”

  “The only one thinking about how my father will react is you! How long do you think your brother is going to keep us twisting in the wind? Let me take a trip down there and see exactly what we’re facing. We don’t have any facts to work with. We have nothing to work with! Doesn’t that bother you?!”

  His breath whooshed out and across the top of her head, as he was still standing far too close. “There’s a great deal bothering me right now Commander, and your behavior is at the head of the list.”

  What the hell does she expect me to do? Should I defy ISA command, civilian authorities, and the Dremikians just to land on that piece-of-shit rock?

  “You know, O’Connell, while you were busy being a petulant bitch, I was actually thinking about how to get out of this damn mess. I came looking for you to discuss it. Too damned bad you’ll be in the brig and unable to do anything to help the situation.”

  They both stood panting, at a loss for anything else to say. She wondered if she’d managed to goad him into action—the correct action. He wondered if an alien disease had attacked the logic center of her brain.

  O’Connell snapped to a proper pose of attention. “Pardon me, sir. I’ll remove myself to the brig to await Captain’s Mast.”

  Hill rolled his eyes and perfectly mimicked her indignant snort of a few minutes before. “The hell you will. I don’t have the time or energy to explain your presence in the brig to Trell or anyone else. You’re going to your quarters and you’ll stay there until your duty rotation. Tomorrow, we’ll see if it is even possible to send a lander to the surface.”

  “It is, sir.” She could barely contain the enthusiasm in her voice. “I’ve calculated the entry angles on the simulator over a dozen times. Just let us go take a look, sir. Maybe we can discover what the Dremikians are so afraid of us finding out.”

  “I said we’ll discuss it tomorrow, Commander. One last thing.” He tilted his head down and forward
until his nose nearly touched her forehead. “If I ever catch you at a card game with junior officers, or if I ever catch you drinking anything stronger that coffee on this ship, I will personally wring your stubborn neck and then throw you out an escape hatch. Is- that-clear?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “Dismissed.” He watched her go. When she was gone he finally allowed the full force of his temper to surface. Shouting a curse, the captain turned and kicked the corner leg of his desk. He very much wanted to punch something or someone. Three steps from the door, and a visit to his brother to do just that, Hill stopped. He stalked back to his desk and literally flung his body into his chair.

  When had he started letting O’Connell’s attitude matter? Since when had O’Connell had an attitude? For seven months she had done her best to act the very opposite of her reputation. Just when he needed her help—when he most needed an ally who shared his goals—she flaked-out on him. He leaned forward to rest his suddenly pounding head on the cool metal surface of the desk. A gleaming reflection off the confiscated flask caught his attention. He jerked open a desk drawer and dropped the flask inside. The ringing tone of metal meeting metal didn’t help his headache one bit.

  ***

  At 0900 the next morning, Captain Hill arrived on the bridge nursing an incipient headache that threatened to settle behind his eyes. He glanced up to see Ensign Robertson standing watch. Hill felt a moment’s sympathy for the young man. Robertson, as the son of a sitting senator, would have it hard now. Many of the crew and colonists harbored resentment against government officials, human or Dremikian. The logical assertion that the senator certainly couldn’t have known about any impending difficulties wouldn’t occur to those looking for someone to blame.

  The captain asked the young officer standing before him, “I thought Guttmann had the next watch?”

  “Yes, sir, that is to say, sir, he did.” Nate swallowed audibly. “He’s with Commander O’Connell, sir, fixing the lander.”

  “The… lander?” Even to his own ears, the captain’s question sounded a bit stupid. “Well, yes, of course. Ensign, the bridge is yours. Keep us in a stationary orbit for now.” Hill turned and strode to the vacuum tube.

  A short ride and walk later, the captain was staring dumbfounded at the chaos in the bay. Dr. Fortunas’ science staff carried crate-like scanners and sample cases into the lander while other crew members removed seats and gear from the craft. The small ship was shaped very much like a bulbous arrowhead with a large rear engine casing that tapered to a fine point at the nose of the craft. It was, according to anyone who had ever flown one, a dream to handle. Unlike previous intra-orbital transports, the new ISA landers were built for speed and maneuverability.

  It took the captain another searching look before he located Commander O’Connell. She was flat on her back underneath one of the lander wings.

  “Yeah, Swede, but will it survive the atmospheric friction? Sensor readings won’t do a bit of good if the sensor, or worse, the wing, burns up.” Maggie turned her head and noticed a pair of shiny black boots standing a foot away. She slid out from under the wing and grinned up at her captain. “Morning, sir.”

  Hill extended a hand and hauled her to her feet. He watched as she straightened her coveralls. “You have dirt on your face,” he said before peering inside the lander. “Making some modifications?”

  O’Connell scrubbed a knuckle over her face which only smeared the grease stain. “Yes sir. We needed more room in there for the box scanners. Fortunas wants as much information as possible.” She waved her dirty hand at the mass of crates. “Soil samples, barometric pressure gauges, rain water collectors, he wants me to carry just about the entire science department with me.”

  “And the weight?”

  Lieutenant Guttmann joined the conversation. “She’s meant to be a cargo hauler, sir. She’s nowhere close to the weight limit; there’s plenty of room to spare. We think.”

  Captain Hill shot a questioning glance at his engineering officer.

  “You see, sir,” O’Connell interjected. “The specifications as far as load were designed for entering an Earth-like atmosphere or for space travel. We just aren’t sure what kind of conditions I’ll be facing down there, so we’re fudging the numbers on the safe side—the very safe side.”

  Hill turned and moved away. He crooked his finger, gesturing for O’Connell to follow him. Swede gave her a reassuring wink and went back to examining the wing struts.

  “I recall sending you to your quarters last night.”

  “Yes, sir. But before that we discussed…”

  “I recall that.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and silently willed his headache to hold off for a few more hours. Somehow that didn’t seem likely with O’Connell intent on driving him insane. “I decided to send Price.”

  O’Connell gave a slight shrug. “Yes, sir, but I don’t trust anyone else to fly into that atmosphere. I’ve been studying the readouts for most of the last twenty four hours. I have some serious concerns about the pressure differentials and the wind gradients. You don’t want Price down there show-boating. To be perfectly frank, sir, I’m not entirely sure I can land at the designated landing zone.” Her tone and demeanor were picture-perfect contrite.

  The captain considered that shocking admission of doubt from the usually confident pilot. His fingers still itched to shake her like a rag doll. The pain behind his eyes throbbed into brighter awareness. “I’d like a science officer to accompany you. I believe that our original mission specs had two people in the lander. Who will you take?”

  “Specialist Mangoda would be my first choice, sir. He was Fortunas’ first choice as well.”

  “He’s a medic, not one of Fortunas’ group.”

  “Yes, sir, but he’s classically trained and will be as much of a help as any other scientist. Also, he understands the risks and has basic flight training. He can assist in an emergency.”

  “Are the Dremikian’s allowing the flight, sir?”

  He didn’t immediately answer, choosing, instead, to watch two crewmen drag a crate out of the way. “They aren’t not allowing the flight.”

  Shrewdly, she asked, “Do they even know?”

  “I informed Vice Chancellor Hill of our plans. I trust him to relay the information through proper diplomatic channels.”

  They reached the door leading out of the landing bay. Hill looked down at her and smiled to see that she had smeared the dirt on her face across her entire cheekbone. “You will take every possible precaution. No stunts and no side trips. When do you plan to depart?”

  Maggie wondered what his fleeting smile had been about even while she bristled at the implication that she’d forget her mission in favor of hijinks. “1300 hours, sir. That should give me the optimum window for atmospheric entry.”

  “Excellent. You and Fortunas can brief senior staff at lunch.” Before he left he dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “You had better bring Mangoda and the lander back in one piece. If you don’t, I’ll make good on my threat to send you out the air lock—without the benefit of a vehicle.” He nodded curtly to her. “Carry on, Commander.”

  ***

  Dr. Ruger tapped her tablet against her leg while she waited, impatiently, for Ben Fortunas to emerge from the officers’ mess. Even after the thorough briefing given by the chief scientist and Commander O’Connell, Cassie had serious concerns about the impending mission.

  Ben noticed his counterpart waiting for him and stifled a frustrated groan. “I do not think I can assuage your doubts any further. You will just have to accept that there are some medical unknowns regarding alien planets.” He placed his hand at the small of her back and applied gentle pressure to get Cassie moving down the corridor.

  “Such uncertainties get people killed, Ben.”

  “Commander O’Connell is an excellent pilot and a quick thinker. You should know by now that she will be the model of perfect landing mission technique. Pride alone will prevent her from
any… harmful errors.”

  Cassie snorted. “Pride will not help her if the barometric pressure causes an aneurysm. I still don’t accept that this mission is necessary, much less wise.”

  “You want a new home, don’t you?”

  “Yes, you know I do. But...”

  “But what? We cannot eliminate the threat to Dremiks without lorga and we cannot gather enough lorga to do that without landing on Dremiks. If O’Connell can get down there, gather more specific data, and set up the collectors, we should be able to start mining in a week’s time. If we don’t destroy or move that moon, it will destroy the planet. You know all of this.” He rubbed her back gently, not even realizing what he was doing. “Sometimes what is necessary isn’t always what is safe. Margaret knows that, and she will be just fine.”

  “I’m packing an extra med kit, just in case they need it.”

  “I would expect nothing less, my dear.”

  ***

  At 1300 hours, O’Connell made one last circuit around the lander. Her stride was shortened by the confines of her pressurized flight suit. Dr. Ruger insisted upon the additional protection against unknown pressure changes. With a final glide of her hand over the nose of the craft, Maggie slid inside the hatch and sealed it.

  She smiled at Mangoda as she took her seat and strapped in. “Ready?” She asked.

  “Yes ma’am. The pre-flight checklist is ready for your inspection.” Mangoda had more than completed basic flight training; he’d been certified as a shuttle pilot in the ISA before turning his career to medicine. He seemed perfectly at home in the co-pilot’s seat of the lander.

  The commander toggled the com switch as she buckled on her helmet—the helmets were another of the doctor’s demands. “Com check. Bridge this is Lander 1 please acknowledge.”

  “Roger Lander 1, this is the bridge. Your signal is five by five.”

  “Roger bridge. Initiating pre-flight countdown.” O’Connell checked her fuel gauge, pressure meters, and O2 levels. Then she checked that the navigational controls responded and that she and her co-pilot were firmly strapped in. “Bridge, Lander 1. Permission to bring engines on-line”