by Rolf Nelson
Some drills are simple: run down a passageway with a rifle.
Corporal Kaminski stands at the front of a line of soldiers, wearing light armor and carrying a rifle at port arms. Harbin slaps him on the shoulder and Kaminski runs down the passageway, deftly ducking and jumping at the threshold of each open hatch. But his rifle would hit the sides of the hatch if held at port arms, so he must also swing it up into “present arms” position before each hatch, then back down again after. When he reaches the end of the passageway, he turns down the stairs.
Harbin slaps the next soldier, a recruit in uniform and helmet, but no armor, carrying an obviously fake training rifle. He runs forward and passes the first hatch imitating Kaminski’s jump-duck-present-arms motion, but he flubs the second. The dummy rifle is still at port arms across his chest when he tries to jump through the hatch, clotheslining himself, and he falls heavily backward onto the deck.
Harbin looks at him, closes his eyes, and shakes his head. The recruit stands up unsteadily and tries again, more carefully and much more slowly.
Up in Engineering, Stenson watches while one of his mechanics pulls an old and damaged, soup-can-shaped part from its mount inside an access hatch. The mechanic pushes a much cleaner similar part into place, then gives Stenson a thumbs-up.
Stenson flips a switch, then watches the mechanic dive for cover as the new part explodes with an arc of electricity and a puff of smoke.
Well away from sounds of the men hard at work, at the end of a small, dark access tunnel, Quinn sits, smiling happily, in a cubbyhole no more than a meter on each side. The screen in front of him shows the pretty figure of a schoolmarm. The schoolmarm shows him pictures and words: English, Hebrew, Greek, Cyrillic, Kanji, something like runes. Next to the screen are a dozen small sockets, empty, protected by dust covers. Painted on the wall, but barely visible, is the number “5”.
A soldier sprays the side of the ship with a pressure washer. The difference between the cleaned and uncleaned is stark: smooth grayish metal revealed beneath a century of accumulated layers of drab dust and the colorful wisdom of youth. Slowly, the ship starts to look more like a real machine than a wreck in a fever-dream.
Allonia expands her work in the hydroponics room, planting large racks of greens, cleaning, organizing, and making it look cheery, bright, warm, and wholesome. As does she, in her simple, practical, and comfortable clothing. Quinn, similarly dressed, “helps” her by playing in the dirt off to one side, alternately filling small starter pots and building a small dirt castle in a large tray.
Stenson, now wearing a helmet and body armor, looks cautiously around the engine room, then carefully flips the switch. Nothing happens for a few moments, and he starts to smile and relax. Then a part across the room blows up and sends debris flying.
Helton stands at command position in the clean and polished bridge. He pulls the chair out from under the console and gently takes a seat. He leans back, flips a switch off to one side, watches the screens light up, and grins like a kid in a candy store.
Stenson is concentrating on several screens full of readouts when Helton walks into the Engineering Command Center. It’s a long, cramped, toolbox and machinery and control-panel filled room on the top deck, right over the cargo bay.
“So, how’s progress?” Helton asks.
“Ah, just the person I wanted to see. You know what? I think, thanks to a few local geniuses and things not being quite as bad they first looked, we might just get this thing flying again.”
“Really? You’re sure?”
“I’m not sure about anything here, but–”
“How long?”
“Good question,” Stenson replies.
“… Do you have a good answer?”
“Well, there are some things about the ship I still don’t get, like what that thing is,” Stenson points to a nearly featureless bit of black metal protruding from the ceiling, “other than an analog 200 amp engine part that seems to be important but isn’t on any of the schematics and doesn’t fit with anything I know about on a theoretical basis. But what I have determined is that a lot of these systems are in usable, or least fixable, condition. A lot of the peripheral stuff just needed oil, new gaskets, cleaning, replacement chemicals, and so forth. Even the drive cores seem to still be mostly balanced and in surprisingly good shape for their age. For a lot of the worn parts, we can just print out little widgets to replace them. With a couple of parts that are very hard to get around here, I believe I can get her in the air again. Can’t promise anything on performance, though.”
“What sort of parts?”
Stenson hands him an e-reader. “Here’s the list. At least one pair of mil-spec turbo encabulators so we can get two drives up; preferably three matched pairs, or an impossible matched six-pack. Some other things. I’m pretty sure they could be found at the big boneyard at Eridani II. Not very expensive ‘cause they are an old style, just hard to find.”
“That’s not too far from here. Maybe a ten day round trip. I’ll see if I can find someone to head over that way and pick them up.”
“Outstanding. Still got a lot to do even without them, so no hurry. I’m hoping to get the landing struts functioning soon, so we can raise her up and get at some under-side systems.”
“Any other major items on the front burner?”
“Major? Not really. Until she can fly nothing is major. Some parts of the ship are still inaccessible, but they don’t appear to have any critical systems or things needed to train people on. Got a lot of oddball parts that we’re just pushing around until we know where they go, like those mystery cylinders.”
“So, everything’s copacetic?”
“From a mil-spec view, this stuff is about as kosher as a Christmas ham for Pongal during Ramadan, but they sort of seem like they want to work. Hell, someone even tried to mount both a Sokolov drive and a Harmon drive on each core. One on each end, with a bizarre helical twist between; I’ve seen theoretical studies on such ideas, but never knew any got field tested. Be sweet if that whole set could get spun up and synced.”
“Both on a single drive core? I thought they’d set up a constructive interference pattern in the resonance core and–”
“-convert everything in the drive field into energy? Yes, that’s the theory. Well, one theory among several. But it’s there, and the ship is still solid, so it’s worth checking out. Best challenge I’ve had since I first met my wife.”
“Sounds good,” Helton says.
“Mostly it is, except for a few replacement parts that I’m sure need to be manufactured. They will be bloody expensive, the specs and tolerances given are so damned high.”
“Well, don’t forget to train the new guys for standard systems, too.”
“I won’t, don’t worry! Lag wouldn’t keep me around if I didn’t. Allonia is doing amazing things with plants in her garden; the air system was rebuilt to circulate through that room, so even if we lose the normal scrubbers, as long as we have power for light, all those little photosynthesizers she’s growing for us to eat will keep the air good. That’s why it smells so nice. Some of the guys are learning a lot from her about the air systems. For some reason they listen to her more intently than me.”
“I’m shocked. But plants only make a difference if we get out of atmo, though. Keep me informed.”
Frosty
One of the access hatches in the mid-deck stern port passageway is welded shut.
“That’s nothing a half-kilo of Universal Key can’t open,” Kaminski says enthusiastically.
“We don’t know what’s inside,” Helton objects. “We don’t want to damage anything sensitive.”
Stenson is sanguine. “I’ve already located all the critical drive, life support, and power systems. None of them appear to be in there.”
“So your best guess on what’s there is still not a clue?”
“Yup.”
“I say we blow it.”
“You just want to blow something up, Corpo
ral.”
“Well, yeah. Doesn’t everybody?”
“Good point,” Helton says, “And, in this case, it might be the right approach.”
“Oh-boy-oh-boy-oh-BOY! Thank you. Back in a minute or three.” Kaminski trots off to fetch the explosives.
“The man does like his work.”
Kaminski returns a few minutes later with blasting kit and a big smile. He proceeds to place a line of plastic explosives along the weld line sealing the hatch. After testing the clacker, he inserts a pair of blasting caps, one at each end, and hooks up the wires. He walks back down the passageway, around the corner and into a berth room where Stenson and Helton are waiting.
As soon as he is out of sight, the metal surrounding the hatch starts changing color, gradually becoming paler, then turning white. Frost forms on the hatch, then spreads to the explosives.
Helton thumbs a button on the wall com unit. “We will be setting off a small explosive charge in a moment or two, port stern on B-Deck. You might want to NOT BE THERE. Or cover your ears. Don’t worry, I’m letting the professionals do it.” He releases the button, then asks, “Tajemnica, anyone but us three in the area?”
“No.”
Kaminski grins and puts in earplugs. He double-checks the setup at his end, then connects the wires running from the hatch to the detonator switch. He flicks up the protective toggle. “Plug your ears. FIRE IN THE HOLE! FIRE IN THE HOLE! FIRE IN THE HOLE!” He presses the fire button.
The bang is very underwhelming. Kaminski is concerned and confused. He thumbs the detonator button again. Nothing. He pushes a different button and gets a green light. “Got power. Something went off. Stay here.”
He leaves the room and goes to the corner in the passageway, then cautiously pulls the wires back until he can see that there are no blasting caps on the ends. He reels up the wires as he walks slowly toward the hatch. The blasting caps splattered the explosive like clay, but failed to detonate it. Kaminski reaches out and touches the line of plastic explosive, feels the metal next to it, then examines his fingers closely. “Cold and wet?” he says to himself. “What would make it cold and wet?”
Stenson and Helton join him at the hatch. Kaminski asks, “Any plumbing around here?”
“The head’s next door, but nothing in the passageway,” Stenson answers. “Why?”
“The metal here is cold and feels wet. So does the charge. This explosive won’t detonate if it’s too cold. Caps went okay, but they didn’t set it off. Either it got flash frozen while I hooked up the detonator, which seems unlikely, or we have a bad batch or something. If we had any cataclysmite I’d try a charge of that.” He grunts. “Got some testing to do, I guess. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to try opening it up again.”
Three Rules
Lieutenant Kat sits at the desk in her cramped cabin, leaning back in her chair, reading. Allonia appears at the open door, dressed in a sort-of ship’s uniform; it’s sharp looking, professional, functional, red, and it shows her figure nicely.
“Knock knock.”
“Evening,” Kat says, waving her in. “That looks good on you.”
“Thanks. I thought since everyone else was in uniform — well, except Helton — I should make something for myself.”
“You made that?”
“I couldn’t find anything locally I liked.”
“Very nice. But I’d avoid red uniforms. The color suits you, but it’s considered bad luck on starships.”
“Oh.”
“… Something on your mind?”
“How do you do it?” Allonia asks. “Put up with them all the time? I mean, they’re all nice enough, well, except Darch who kind of creeps me out, but it seems like they are always watching me, every move I make.”
“Men are like that.”
“So, how do you do it? I mean, I know you’re an officer, so I’m sure that helps, but…”
“Didn’t used to, all that much. The trick is to remember that men are simple creatures. You need to keep the rules simple so they know where they stand.”
“Even wearing my normal clothes doesn’t help, and wearing this today attracted a lot of attention.”
“I can imagine. But it really is pretty simple. Three rules. One, don’t play games. Two, don’t put up with any bullshit. Three, you are already doing.”
“But I don’t play games!”
“No, not overtly. I like that. So do they. But I’d bet that just about every guy on board thinks he’s got a chance to make it with you; you are not obviously off limits or taken with any particular person.”
“But that’s ridiculous!”
Kat smiles at Allonia’s naiveté. “That’s young men. You are young, healthy, smart, honest, hardworking, reliable, a great cook, available, and genuinely nice. Anyone that doesn’t notice you needs a psych eval. They pay attention, you don’t make it clear you are not interested, so they think that maybe you are, then.”
“… Oh. What’s three?”
“Be worth it. We all have our hang ups and personal quirks. Bring enough to any relationship, private and professional, that you are worth whatever they have to put up with. I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that; you are short on issues and long on talent. Which ensures even more attention.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“If they get too forward, make it clear their advances are not welcome. Don’t be mean, just be absolutely clear that unwanted attention or bad behavior will not be tolerated. And, right or wrong, until you are clearly attached, expect them to be polite, demand that they be respectful and keep their hands to themselves, but don’t expect them to change. A billion years of biology doesn’t do an about-face just because a damsel finds it annoying. Likely a good thing for the species, but … I know what you mean.”
Allonia ponders the older woman’s words a moment. “You…?”
“Married 22 years. Once that happens, seniors like Colonel Lag and First Sergeant Reel make sure harassment is a nonissue, at least with uniformed personnel.”
“But I don’t want to get married! At least, not right now!”
“Understandable. Until then, three rules. Makes things better, not perfect.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Allonia gets up and steps toward the door.
“Allonia? Same cut, different color, and you have a winner. Make one for Quinn when you’re done, if you have time. Little guy would love it. G’night.”
“G’night.”
Later that evening, still at her desk, Kat sits thoughtfully for a while. Setting down the e-reader, she taps a screen in front of her, and it lights up. She pushes the MESSAGE icon, then dictates: “Message encrypted level four. Send to Senator Sharmer on Adoni. Message: Lag is recruiting and training for shipboard duty. Working on making local contacts. Nothing further at this time. Out. Send.” The screen shows a confirmation message, then goes blank. She leans back and closes her eyes.
Quinn stands silently in the passageway outside her door, listening with surprise and curiosity.
Earplugs
A bar in Adelaide. It’s a typical spaceport night-life bar. Dim, with a mix of locals and travelers sitting or standing around drinking, talking, playing cards, shooting pool, socializing. No strippers, though there are a few couples dancing in a small clearing in a corner.
At a little table near a different corner sit Sergeant Kaushik and Corporal Kaminski, out of uniform, backs to the wall, talking quietly over frosty mugs of the local brew. An ancient blotto drunk wanders around the room a little, then staggers over to their table, looking at them a little too closely.
“You … you’re from the ship…”
Kaushik smiles indulgently. “Everyone here is from one ship or another.”
“No-no-no, you are from that ship.”
Kaminski is also in good humor. “Take it outside, you’ve had enough.”
“THAT ship. That ship is going to go crazy.”
“You’re crazy,” says Kaminski.
“T
hat ship is, is haunted, it’ll drive you crazy, an, an, an kill you like it did its old crew–”
“Dunno about that. Kaminski here is pretty hard to kill.”
“It’s haunted! Always has been. It’ll go crazy like the rest of them. And you’ll ALL die. ALL of you–”
Kaminski humors him. “Of course we’ll die. Occupational hazard of the living.”
“Even people not on haunted ships die, eventually,” Kaushik agrees.
“You, you don’t unnershtand. It’s haunted. It landed without a crew. It killed them all. Twice! It went insane, they ALL went insane, and so will YOU. You need an EXORCISM like it did!”
The bartender shows up. “Come on, Teddy. They are paying!”
“They all died,” Teddy yells back over his shoulder as the bartender hustles him out. “TWICE I TELL YOU! TWICE!”
“Must’a been Buddhists,” Kaushik opines.
“Or cats. I like cats. Seven more lives to go! Cheers!”
They clink their mugs and take a drink.
They’ve become a temporary center of attention, now, and another somewhat under-the-influence local comes over to their table, a much younger, tougher-looking gentleman, almost as big as Kaminski. His words are slightly slurred and somewhat belligerent. “You two’re new here.”
Kaushik looks up at the drunk questioningly.
“Newbies’re supposed to buy a round of drinks. I’ll take a double shot o’ double malt.”
“I don’t think so,” Kaushik says skeptically.
“Sure it is, isn’t it?” the drunk yells to the crowd, which responds with muted cheers. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the drunk continues. “Pussies. Drinks on them!” More half-hearted cheers from the audience.
Kaminski sighs and starts digging in his pocket, pulls out a pair of earplugs, and makes a show of putting the first one in. “What’n’hell are you doin’?” the drunk asks.
“Earplugs.”
“Huh?”
“Well, knowin’ him as I do,” says Kaminski, nodding at Kaushik, “at the rate you’re going, any time now there’s going to be lots of shoutin’, and shootin’, and screamin’ and sirens and explosions and shit, and I really don’t need a headache like that again.”