Kas' background had left him uncomfortable dealing with civilians. “Couldn’t fleet techs handle it, Admiral?”
Pankin shook his head. “Rekesh has been shut down for a century. Nobody can predict what it’ll take to bring her back. They’re all civilians, but all except a few of the medical team have worked for the fleet, or at least been around the military. They won’t be completely illogical and unreasonable. Try not to push too many out an airlock, will you?”
Kas shifted uncomfortably in his chair and smiled weakly. “I’ll try, sir.”
“Well, I can help a little," Pankin replied. "If you complete your mission, you will bring home two ships instead of one. That gave me enough juice to push through a promotion. Congratulations, Commodore!”
Kas’s thoughts whirled. Commodore! He’d long ago resigned himself to the fact that he’d never get his flag. He gulped. “Thank you, sir! I . . .” He sought frantically for the words to express his feelings. Pankin would take a lot of heat over this.
Pankin noticed his discomfort and studiously avoided looking at Kas as he rummaged on the cluttered desk. “Ah, here we are!” He brandished a gaudy certificate and a pair of shoulder boards with one star on each. With a broad grin, he rose. “Allow me, Commodore!”
Kas jumped to his feet and struggled to regain his composure as Pankin pinned on the new boards. He backed up a step, then took Kas’ hand and shook it enthusiastically.
Kas struggled to regain his voice, if not his composure. “I . . . I don’t know what to say, sir . . .”
Pankin stepped back around the real wood desk. “Don’t worry about it.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’ve given you that star for a reason. On the trip back, if you get that far, you’ll be commanding two ships, technically a flotilla. You can retain command of the Rekesh, of course, but you’ll have to appoint someone to command Starhopper. You’ll be in a very unusual situation. You’ll have several command-qualified officers to select from. Be careful in your selection. You’ve never had to command at second hand – but that’s what flag officers do. If you must jump him several steps past more senior officers, do it. In a non-regulation, offbeat operation like this, you need someone who will work with you, not against you.
“I won’t lie to you,” he said, “You'll be hated, not only for Lu-Jenks, but for getting this promotion. There are those who will do their best to see you fail, and show me I chose the wrong man.”
Kas nodded solemnly. “Thank you for the advice, sir.”
Pankin chuckled. “It’s worth what you paid for it. Now, take this,” he tossed a record chip at Kas, “and get the Sheol out of here. Some of us actually have work to do!”
Kas started for the door. “Oh, and Commodore,” Pankin called. “If there’s the slightest possibility of Rekesh falling into other hands, take no chances. Push her into the sun. We’d like to have her, but the Empire’s gotten along without her for a century. We don’t need her that badly.”
Kas snapped to attention. “Aye, aye, sir. I’ll take no chances.”
The record chip was a high-security type, and he assumed it contained his orders and the coordinates of the system containing the derelict Vir Rekesh.
Kas snapped a crisp salute and left, head high, grinning broadly.
Chapter 2
Kas decided to examine Starhopper, the freighter that was to take him on his mission. He had to find out what he had to work with. He summoned a sky cab. Luckily, Pankin had been in his fleet HQ office and not the more ornate office he maintained on the grounds of the Palace.
Prime’s Fleet starfield occupies over twenty square miles halfway around the planet from the Palace. It is surrounded by the base housing fleet headquarters. The entire complex occupies more than a hundred square miles.
Prime itself is a bit larger than old Earth, but with a surface gravity of 0.8. Prime’s sun is a bit larger than Sol, and its light tends slightly more toward white. Its overall climate is pleasant except in a narrow band at the equator, where the heat becomes oppressive. Naturally, fleet HQ is on the comparatively low-value real estate of the equator.
As he crossed the shipyard landing field, puffing with exertion and cursing the sweat trickling into his eyes, he cast a suspicious glance at the yellow-tinged pale blue sky. Over the years, he’d become much less uncomfortable with the open spaces of a planetary surface, but Kas still rather disapproved of weather. It seemed such a messy way to do things, compared to the controlled environment in which he’d grown up.
He didn’t know where he’d been born, but he’d grown up in the grimy, sterile corridors of Varner’s World.
Varner’s World is barely habitable. For the two hundred years since its discovery, Varner’s has been locked in a vicious ice age that will continue for centuries. The only reason man came to Varner’s was to mine the extremely rare metals far beneath the glaciers that cover more than three quarters of the surface.
So, the mining companies came, and their corporate structure was recognized by the empire as a government. At the top of the political hierarchy were the execs; beneath them were the senior managers and their staffs.
Since the living conditions were so harsh and competent managers difficult to train and keep, no expense was spared to make certain that the management areas of the mining domes were luxurious. Extremely luxurious. Plush, roomy apartments were provided, and their children got the best educational resources. Salaries were the highest in known space.
The companies were not as considerate of the miners. While company reps used high salaries to recruit miners on other worlds, they neglected to mention the inflated living costs that prevented a miner from leaving. If one was very frugal, ate only basic rations, and lived in a minimum dorm, it was just possible for him to raise his return fare within his two year contract term. Theoretically. The Empire required that.
It couldn’t be done. Basic rations are repackaged military field rations. Men simply can’t survive and, more importantly work, on a diet of basic rats for two years. Their health would deteriorate, and they would start to fall below their quota. There were penalties for that, of course.
Inevitably, a sizable underclass developed on Varner’s, mostly made up of cripples and surviving families unwilling or unable to leave, as well as criminals, the lazy, incompetent, and miscreants of various types, whom the companies “terminated”, then simply ignored.
The castoffs live in the slum. The name is a misnomer. There isn’t a single slum, but one in every mining dome. In the lower levels devoted to maintenance and storage, packing-crate lean-tos and shipping-container shacks spread like an infection over any open space. Their existence is based on theft. Down here, water is plentiful. The warmth of the dome melts the ice outside; but basic rats are worth as much as the cost of a management family’s dinner.
Kas had been a “feral kid,” a child who survived in the slum by guile and theft. Most died young, through mishap or by a patroller’s blaster. Kas had been very determined and very lucky.
When he was about twelve, he stole an exec child’s personal educomp. “Kas” was what they called him, but the “Preslin” had come from the educomp’s original owner.
He’d used the educomp instead of selling it, studying and learning from an exec child’s disgraced former tutor. After several years, he took fleet recruiting exam using forged documents, and qualified for the Academy. When he boarded the recruiter’s small ship, he didn't look back.
At the Academy, he’d worked even harder than on Varner’s. He learned what the Academy had to teach; and learned to live in civilized society, to blend in.
For the last twenty-six years he had gratefully served the emperor and the fleet.
For a while, it had looked as though he’d lose his Fleet refuge. Now . . .
He pulled his attention back to finding his ship. His ship. He’d been afraid he’d never have a ship again. When he finally saw it, though, his heart fell. The berth assigned to Starhopper was occupied by one of the sha
bbiest examples of a military-surplus DIN-class that he’d ever seen.
She was 200 meters long, a stubby cylinder 50 meters in diameter. Her inertial drive drive engines were mounted to four sponsons spaced around her stern, along with her landing jacks. The DIN class combat hauler was the largest ship that could land – anything larger was strictly orbit-to-orbit. This one looked as though she’d never lift again. Her antirad coating was scraped and patched, her drive coils corroded. Kas prayed to any god that happened by that there had been a mistake – this couldn't be Starhopper, but he knew there’d been no mistake.
Kas was glumly surveying the decaying hulk when he noticed a ground car speeding across the field toward him. He turned as it lurched to a halt, and a portly middle-aged man climbed out.
“Commodore Preslin?” The man called, “I’m Jad Holtow, Chief Engineer of the shipyard.”
Kas straightened in surprise. “I’m Preslin,” he confirmed. “What have I done to rate the attentions of the chief engineer himself?”
Holtow's brow furrowed with annoyance. “When one receives a vid call from Admiral Pankin himself, suggesting it would be nice if I personally show Commodore Preslin around Starhopper, I hasten to comply.” His eyes travelled up and down Kas’ figure.
Kas could almost read Holtow's mind. “There’s really nothing special about me, Sire Holtow. It’s the mission that the fleet admiral cares about.” He grinned. “So, why don’t we get on with it, and let you get back to important matters?”
Holtow’s hunched shoulders relaxed slightly, his annoyed scowl fading. “To be honest,” he said with a genuine smile, “I don’t really mind. We’re quite proud of Starhopper.”
Kas’ eyes travelled up the dilapidated hull. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same ship? This one looks like she’s being scrapped!”
Holtow’s smile widened. “I’m glad you think so, Commodore. If she can convince an expert like you, she should be able to convince anyone you meet along the way.”
“Actually,” he continued, “she’s in better than new condition. Her hull is about eighty years old. We didn’t want a new hull; it wouldn’t show the kind of wear traces that you can’t fake. It wasn’t easy to get the effect we wanted with the antirad coating and drive coils, either. We’ve spent weeks getting them right.” His tone had become increasingly enthusiastic as he spoke. It may have taken a call from the Fleet Admiral to pry him from his office, but the man was proud of the ship and determined to show Kas every detail.
His pride was justified. Beneath the patched and ugly antirad coating, Starhopper was an impressive ship. Both her jump engines and inertial drives were new, and Alliance imports, at that. All made to look old and worn.
DIN-class haulers don’t run to a full AI, but Starhopper’s nav comps were also new--and carefully aged. The same applied to her life support and med comps.
Even the cold-sleep units had been made to look shabby and old. The total effect was of a decrepit tramp, but one whose crew kept her clean and in decent running condition. She wouldn’t be condemned by any officious customs inspectors, but they might leave shaking their heads.
“The only thing an inspector might notice is the med comp. It is slightly large for a DIN-class,” Holtow said. “I’d recommend you just say that it was salvaged from an old destroyer. The reason it’s so large," he continued, "is it’s also your battle comp. A concealed switch on your bridge comm panel accesses it, and the comm station becomes the weapons station. We used state of the art Alliance components. You’ve got more battle computing power than a new destroyer.” He caressed the med comp's control panel with paternal pride.
“What does it control? I haven’t seen a single weapon.”
For a moment Kas thought Holtow would jump up and down with pleasure. “Wonderful!” the man gushed. “If a spacer as experienced as you didn’t notice, no one else should!” He scurried off, Kas hurrying to keep up.
Starhopper’s weaponry consisted of three Alliance light projectile quickfirers concealed between the inner and outer hulls. They were poised to fire through ports covered by concealed retractable doors in the hull. The quickfirers fired a small fifty-millimeter rocket some twenty centimeters long at a rate of 350 per minute. With its collapsed-metal plating, each rocket massed over a hundred kilos in a one-gee field. They were proven weapons, effective against anything up to destroyer class. “You’ll have to maneuver the ship to bring them onto target,” Holtow told Kas. “There was no way to conceal turrets.”
The ship’s main battery consisted of two heavy lasers in the cargo bays, concealed by packing crates. The crates appeared to be sealed, and were labeled as mining and terraforming equipment. Bringing them into action would require the cargo bays to be depressurized. Then the huge cargo doors could be opened, the packing crates would collapse, and the heavy, cruiser-sized lasers would be moved into position on tracks welded to the deck.
“That was one of the advantages of making her look ancient,” Holtow explained. “Most oddities like those tracks can simply be explained by saying it was that way when you bought her. Everyone knows a ship that’s been kicking around known space for a century or so is going to have all sorts of jerry rigs and modifications. If she looked reasonably new, you might have more explaining to do.”
By the time the tour was completed, Kas was truly impressed. The artificial aging was incredibly effective. He still had to take Holtow’s word that some of the equipment was new, but Starhopper would do. Any inspector looking closely enough to detect the subterfuge would already be so deep into the innards the jig would be up anyway. If his forged documents were as good, and he had no reason to doubt Imperial Intelligence wouldn’t make them so, the plan might just work.
Starhopper’s crew all arrived the following day. Kas showed them to their cabins, but told them not to unpack yet, then called a crew meeting on the ship’s mess deck
As Pankin had mentioned, all five were outerworlders like him.
Commander Bol Evers, Kas’ exec, was from Arcadia. Arcadia is on the border with the Glory, and her people are painfully aware that if the empire continues to retrench, Arcadia is likely to fall to it. The cruelty and viciousness of the “missionaries” the Glory sent to “spiritually cleanse” newly acquired systems is legendary. Those who could had already left the Arcadia system. Physically Bol was large, burly and dark. Dark haired, and dark complected. He wore a permanent frown and an angry manner. His communication with the others seemed mostly to consist of grunts and growls. Bol’s papers listed him as the ship’s Purser. Froud’s report was not hopeful. “I wondered about the fact that so many of his fitness reports said he had ‘difficulty relating to some others’, and ‘insular attitudes’,” the Captain reported, “So, I called one of his former skippers. It seems he’s something of an outerworld bigot. You’ll have to make your own judgment.”
Commander Toj Kray was from Bulworth, a heavy-gravity mining planet. Like all Bulworthers, he was short, wide, and muscular. He was to be Starhopper’s engineer. Captain Froud reported he was “very competent technically, but dislikes social situations. He tends to be something of a hermit, hiding out in engineering whenever possible.” As if to confirm the Captain’s words, the engineer huddled in a corner and responded to any verbal advances with grunts and monosyllables.
Lieutenant Gran Telker was tall, lean, handsome, and impeccably groomed. He suffered from nearly terminal cheerfulness. This was deceptive, because Gran was to be Starhopper’s Gunner, though his papers listed him as second engineer. He would be responsible for the care and maintenance of the cold-sleep units. Captain Froud reported that he “fancies himself something of a ladies’ man. Acts like a social butterfly, but he’s a damned good gunner. He doesn’t take anything seriously, including himself.”
Lieutenant Edro Jans was to be Starhopper’s comm tech. Small and slight; his constant nervous smile gave him a whipped dog air that bothered Kas. Like Kray, he huddled in a corner and ignored all efforts to engage him i
n conversation. Captain Froud considered Jans to be Kas’ biggest problem. “It’s ironic that he’s your communications officer, because he barely communicates with anyone. Almost terminally shy. To be honest, he was about to be kicked out of the fleet when I grabbed him.”
The final crewman was Lieutenant Commander Tera Fauss. Tera was a husky, plain woman from Fargone. She was to be Starhopper’s Astrogator. Captain Froud observed that “she’s an excellent astrogator, and general pain in the backside. Officious and book bound, and not above reminding her superiors about regulations anytime she thinks they’re being violated. Guaranteed to infuriate her captains.”
A crew of six was actually more than most traders carried, but not enough so to create suspicion.
“As I’m sure you figured out from the appearance of this ship,” he began as soon as they’d introduced themselves, “we will be on an undercover mission. Is there anyone here that doesn’t know the story of the Vir Rekesh? No? Good. Well, she’s been found, and we’re going to go get her.” An excited babble broke out, and Kas waited quietly until it subsided.
“The Rekesh is drifting unpowered in a system near the rim. The word is out, and the governments of every independent system, as well as the Glory and even the Alliance wants her. We have the advantage of knowing where she is, but they have the advantage of surrounding the system she’s in.”
“We’ll be loading three hundred people to crew the Rekesh, as well as civilians to decontaminate her and get her operational. They’ll spend the trip out in cold sleep. None of the independent systems would give us permission to pass military ships through their space, so we’re going to sneak in.”
“First,” he continued, “This is an undercover operation. There will be nothing regulation about it.” He flicked a glance at Fauss. Her frown of concentration faded as her lips thinned and her face darkened with anger. Uh-oh, Kas thought, but he continued, “From this moment on, you will not address me as "Commodore" until we’re alongside the Rekesh. Call me ‘Captain’ or ‘Skipper’, or even ‘Boss’ like any other trader crew. You will use your first names. If we start now, we’ll get into the habit before we get to the independents.”
Death Ship Quest Page 3