First Command

by A Bertram Chandler

  And what sort of chance will it be? wondered Grimes. A life sentence, instead of a death sentence. A life sentence, locked for years in a cell, with absolutely no chance of escape. And in company certainly not of my choosing. He had, not so long ago, made a long boat voyage with an attractive girl as his only companion. It had started well, but had finished with himself and the wench hating each other’s guts.

  He said, “Thank you, Miss Russell. And Mr. Tangye. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. But I think I’d prefer the spacewalk.”

  Swinton laughed, although it sounded more like a snarl. “So there is such a thing as a fate worse than death, after all. All right, Brabham, you’d better start getting one of the boats ready for the long passage. The long, long passage. Meanwhile, this airlock will do for a holding cell.”

  The inner door sighed shut, sealing off the prisoners from the mutineers.

  “You might have warned me!” Grimes said bitterly to Flannery.

  The telepath looked at him mournfully from his one good eye. “I did so, Captain. Ride with a loose rein, I told ye. Don’t go puttin’ yer foot down with a firm hand. An’ don’t go makin’ the same mistakes as Bligh did. With him it was a squabble over coconuts or some such the first time, an’ rum the last time. With you it was cigars. I did so warn ye. I was a-goin’ to warn ye again, but it all flared up sudden like. An’ I had me poor hands full tryin’ to save Ned.”

  “I hope,” said Grimes, “that you now appreciate the folly of trying to run with the fox and hunt with the hounds.” He turned to Rath. “And what brings you into this galley. Doctor?”

  “I have my standards, Captain,” replied the medical officer stiffly.

  “Mphm. Then don’t you think you’d better do something about Mr. Flannery? He seems in rather bad shape.”

  “It’s only superficial damage,” said Rath briskly. “It can wait until we’re in the boat. The medicine chests in all the lifecraft are well stocked. I saw to that myself.”

  “That’s a comfort,” said Grimes. “I suppose that you’ll do your damnedest to keep us all alive for the maximum time.”

  “Of course. And when the boat is picked up—I presume that it will be eventually—my notes and journal will be of great value to the medical authorities of that future time. My journal may well become one of the standard works on space medicine.”

  “What a pity,” sneered Grimes, “that you won’t be around to collect the royalties.”

  The doctor assumed a dignity that made Grimes ashamed of his sarcasm, but said nothing further. And Flannery, who had long since lost any interest in the conversation of his companions, was huddled up on the deck and muttering, “Ned—Ned . . . what did they have to do that to ye for? The only livin’ bein’ in this accursed ship who never hurt anybody.”

  Chapter 33

  In little more than an hour’s time the inner airlock door opened. During this period Grimes and Rath had talked things over, had decided that there was nothing at all that they could do. Flannery refused to be stirred from his grief-ridden apathy, muttering only, “Too much hate runnin’ loose in this ship . . . too much hate . . . an’ it’s all come to the top, all at once, like some filthy bubble.”

  The inner airlock door opened, and Swinton stood there, backed by Sergeant Washington and six of his men. All were armed, and all were trained in the use of arms. They said nothing, merely gestured with their pistols. Grimes and his companions said nothing either; what was there to say? They walked slowly out of the chamber, and were hustled onto the spiral staircase running up and around the axial shaft. In the cramped confines of the elevator cage, Grimes realized, it would have been possible—although not probable—for weapons to be seized and turned upon their owners.

  Grimes slowly climbed the staircase, with Rath behind him, and Flannery bringing up the dejected rear. Behind them were the Marines. They came at last to one of the after boat bays. The boat was ready for them. The mini-Mannschenn unit and the Carlotti transceiver, each removed in its entirety, were standing on the deck well clear of the airlock hatch.

  Brabham was there, and Tangye, and Vinegar Nell, with other officers and ratings. Grimes tried to read the expressions on their faces. There were flickers of doubt, perhaps, and a growing realization of the enormity of their crime—but also an unwavering resolution. After all, it would be many, many years (if ever) before the Admiralty learned that there had been a mutiny. Or would it be? Grimes suddenly remembered what he should have remembered before—that Captain Davinas, in his Sundowner, would, provided that his owners were agreeable, soon be dropping down on Botany Bay. But what could Davinas do? He commanded an unarmed ship with a small crew. The mutineers would see to it that Davinas and his people did not survive long enough to tell any sort of tale. But if he told Swinton and Brabham about his coded message to the tramp captain, then Sundowner’s fate would surely be sealed. If he kept his knowledge to himself there was just a chance, a faint chance, that Davinas would be able to punch out some sort of distress message before being silenced.

  “The carriage waits, my lord,” announced Swinton sardonically.

  “So I see,” replied Grimes mildly.

  “Then get in the bloody thing!” snarled the Mad Major.

  Flannery was first through the little airlock. Then Rath. Grimes was about to follow, when Vinegar Nell put out a hand to stop him. With the other she thrust at him what she had been carrying—his favorite pipe, a large tin of tobacco. Grimes accepted the gift. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Think nothing of it,” she replied. Her face was expressionless.

  “Very touching,” sneered Swinton. Then, to one of his men, “Take that stinking rubbish away from him!”

  “Let him keep it,” said Vinegar Nell. “Don’t forget, Major, that you have to keep me happy.”

  “She’s right,” concurred Brabham, adding, in a whisper, “The bitch!”

  “All right. Inside, Grimes, and take your baby’s comforter with you. You can button up the boat if you feel like it. But it’s all one to me if you don’t.”

  Grimes obeyed, clambering into and through the little airlock. He thought briefly of starting the inertial drive at once and slamming out through the hull before the door could be opened. It would be suicide—but all those in the boat bay would die with him. But—of course—the small hydrogen fusion power unit had not yet been actuated, and there would be no power for any of the boat’s machinery until it was. The fuel cells supplied current—but that was sufficient only for closing the airlock doors and then, eventually, for starting the fusion process. So he went to the forward cabin, sat in the pilot’s seat, strapped himself in. He told the others to secure themselves. He sealed the airlock.

  The needle of the external pressure gauge flickered, then turned rapidly anti-clockwise to zero. So the boat bay was now clear of people and its atmosphere pumped back into the ship. Yet the noise of Discovery’s propulsive machinery was still audible, transmitted into the boat through the metal of the cradle on which it was resting. The high, thin note of the Mannschenn Drive faded, however, dying, dying—and with the shutting down of the temporal precession field came the uncanny disorientation in time and space. Grimes, looking at his reflection in the polished transparency of the forward viewscreen, saw briefly an image of himself, much older and wearing a uniform with strange insignia.

  The boat bay doors opened. Beyond them was the interstellar night, bright with a myriad stars and hazy drifts of cosmic dust. Any moment now, thought Grimes—but the shock of the firing of the catapult took him unawares, pressing him deep into the padding of his seat. When he had recovered, the first thing to be done was the starting of the fusion power unit, without which the life-support systems would not function. And those same life-support systems, cycling and recycling all wastes, using sewage as nutriment for the specialized algae, would go on working long beyond the normal lifetimes of the three men in the boat.

  But Grimes, somehow and suddenly, was not worried by this dismal pros
pect.

  He said, “All right, now let’s get ourselves organized. I intend to proceed at a low quarter gravity, just enough for comfort. You, Doctor, can patch Flannery up.”

  “In his condition, Captain, I’d better keep him under heavy sedation for a while.”

  “You will not. As for you, Mr. Flannery, I want you to listen as you’ve never listened before in your misspent life.”

  “But there’s no traffic at all, at all, in this sector o’ space, Skipper.”

  “For a start, you can keep me informed as to how things are aboard Discovery, while you can still pick up her psionic broadcasts. It won’t surprise me a bit if there are one or two mutinies yet to come. But, mainly, you keep your psionic ears skinned for Sundowner.”

  “Sundowner?” demanded Rath. “What would she be doing out here?”

  “You’ll be surprised,” said Grimes. He thought, I hope you will.

  Chapter 34

  A ship’s boat is not the ideal craft in which to make a long voyage. Even when it is not loaded to capacity with survivors there is an inevitable lack of privacy. Its life-support systems are not designed for the production of gourmet food, although there is a continuous flow of scientifically balanced nutriment. Grimes—who, after a couple of disastrous experiments by Dr. Rath, had appointed himself cook—did his best to make the processed algae palatable, using sparingly (he did not know how long he would have to make them last) the synthetic flavorings he found in a locker in the tiny galley. But always at the back of his mind—and at the backs of the minds of his two companions—was the off-putting knowledge that the vegetable matter from the tanks had been nourished directly by human wastes.

  The main trouble, however, was not the food, but the company. Rath had no conversation. Flannery, at the slightest excuse, would wax maudlin over the death of Ned, his hapless psionic amplifier. Lacking this aid to telepathic communication, and with nobody aboard Discovery a strong natural transmitter, he was not able for long to keep Grimes informed as to what was going on aboard the ship. It was learned, however, that Brabham and Swinton were not on the best of terms, each thinking that he should be captain. And Sally had been the victim of a gang rape—which, said Flannery, grinning lubriciously, she had enjoyed at the beginning but not at all toward the finish. And Vinegar Nell had taken up with Brabham. Grimes, puffing at his vile pipe, felt some sympathy for her. The only way that she stood a chance of escaping Sally’s fate was by becoming the woman of one of the leaders of the mutiny.

  And then Discovery, as the distance between her and the boat rapidly increased, faded from Flannery’s ken. It was at this time that the three men became acutely conscious of their utter loneliness, the frightening awareness that they were in a frail metal and plastic bubble crawling, at a pitiful one quarter G acceleration, across the empty immensities between the uncaring stars. They were on a voyage from nowhere to nowhere—and unless Davinas happened along it would take a lifetime.

  The days passed. The weeks passed—and Grimes was beginning to face the sickening realization that his famous luck had indeed run out. And yet, he knew, he had to hang on. As long as Rath and Flannery wanted to go on living (what for?) he was responsible for them. He was captain here, just as he had been captain of Discovery. He was in charge, and he would stay in charge. He hoped.

  One evening—according to the boat’s chronometer—he and Rath were playing a desultory game of chess. Flannery was watching without much interest. Suddenly the telepath stiffened. He whispered, vocalizing what he was hearing in his mind, “Two no trumps.”

  “We are playing chess, not bridge!” snapped Rath irritably . . . “Quiet!” warned Grimes.

  “I wish I could tell Jim what I have in my hand,” murmured Flannery, almost inaudibly. “But I have to observe the code. But surely he knows he can afford to bid three over Bill’s two hearts.”

  “Parley?” asked Grimes in a low, intent voice. “Parley,” agreed Flannery. “Parley?” demanded Rath.

  “He was PCO of Sundowner,” Grimes told him. “When Sundowner’s owners had her fitted with Carlotti equipment he became redundant. But he qualified as a Carlotti operator, and stayed in the ship.”

  “He was a traitor to our cloth, so he was,” muttered Flannery. “An’ he knows it. When I met him, on New Maine, he told me that he was bitter ashamed o’ goin’ over to the enemy. He said that he envied me, he did, an’ that he’d sell his blessed soul to be in my place, with a sweet amplifier like Ned as a true companion. But we didn’t know then what was goin’ to happen to Ned, lyin’ all broken on the cruel hard deck, wi’ the murtherin’ bastard Swinton’s boot a-crashin’ into his soft, naked tissues.”

  “Damn Ned!” swore Grimes, shocking the telepath out of his self-induced misery. “Forget about that bloody dingo and get on with the job! Concentrate on getting a message through to Parley. Sundowner can’t be far off if you can pick up his random thoughts.”

  “I am so concentratin’,” said Flannery, with injured dignity. “But ye’ll have to help.”

  “How? I’m no telepath.”

  “But ye have to be me amplifier. The blessed God an’ all His saints know that ye’re no Ned, nor ever will be, but ye have to do. Give me a . . . a carrier wave. Ye saw the ship. Ye were aboard her. You got the feel of her. Now, concentrate. Hard. Visualize the ould bitch, how she was lookin’ when she was sittin’ on her pad, how she was, inside, when ye were suppin’ yer drinks with the man Davinas.”

  Grimes concentrated, making almost a physical effort of it. He formed in his mind a picture of the shabby star tramp as he had first seen her, at her loading berth in the New Maine commercial spaceport. He recalled his conversation with Captain Davinas in the master’s comfortable dayroom. And then he could not help recalling the later events of that night, back aboard his own ship, when Vinegar Nell had offered herself to him on a silver tray, trimmed with parsley.

  “Forget that bitch!” growled Flannery. “Bad cess to her, wherever she is, whatever she’s a-doin’.” And then, “Parley, come in, damn ye. Parley, t’is yer boozin’ pal Flannery here, an’ t’is in desperate straits I am. Oh, the man’s all wrapped up in his silly game o’ cards. He’s just gone down, doubled an’ redoubled. Itouchin’ him, but not hard enough.”

  “Drink this,” interrupted Rath, thrusting a full tumbler in to the telepath’s hand. It was, Grimes realized, brandy from the small stock kept in the medicine chest. Flannery took it, downed it in one gulp. The doctor whispered to Grimes, “I should have thought of that before. He’s not used to operating in a state of stone-cold sobriety.”

  “An’ t’is right ye are, me good doctor,” murmured the telepath. “T’was fuel that the engine o’ me brain was needin’. Parley, come in, or be damned to ye. Come in, man, come in. Yes, t’is Flannery here. Ye met me on New Maine. Yes, this is an SOS.” He turned to Grimes. “Have ye a position, Captain? No? An’ ye’re supposed to be a navigator.” Then, resuming his intent whisper, “We don’t know where we are. There’s three of us in a boat—the Old Man, the Quack, an’ me self. No mini-Mannschenn, no Carlotti. Ye can home on us, can’t ye? Yes, yes, I know ye have no psionic amplifier, but nor have I, now. An’ what was that? Oh. Captain Davinas sends his regards to Commander Grimes. I’ll pass that on. An’ you can tell Captain Davinas that Commander Grimes sends his regards. An’ tell Captain Davinas, urgently, on no account to break radio silence on his Carlotti. There’s a shipload o’ mutineers, armed to the teeth, scullin’ around in this sector o’ space.” Then, to the doctor, “Me fuel’s runnin’ low.” Rath got him another glass of brandy. “I’ll keep on transmittin’, Parley. Just be tellin’ your Old Man which way to point his ship, an’ ye’ll be on to us in two shakes o’ the lamb’s tail. Good . . . good.”

  Grimes looked at Rath, and Rath looked at Grimes. A slow smile spread over the doctor’s normally glum face. He said, “I really don’t think that I could have stood your company much longer, Captain.”

  “Or I yours, Doctor.” He
laughed. “And this means goodbye to your prospects of posthumous fame.”

  “There may be another opportunity,” said Rath, still smiling, “but, frankly, I hope not!”

  Chapter 35

  It took longer for Davinas to effect the rescue than had at first been anticipated. Like many merchant ships at that period Sundowner was not equipped with a Mass Proximity Indicator, the only form of radar capable of operating in a ship running under Mannschenn Drive. The merchant captain feared that if he were not extremely careful he might break through into the normal continuum in the position occupied by the boat. It is axiomatic that two solid bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Any attempt to make them do so is bound to have catastrophic consequences.

  So Davinas, running on Mannschenn Drive, steering as instructed by Parley, kept the boat right ahead—and then, as soon as the ex-PCO reported that the relative bearing was now right astern, shut down his time-twister and his inertial drive, turned the ship, restarted inertial drive and ran back on the reciprocal trajectory, scanning the space ahead with his long-range radar. At last he picked up the tiny spark in his screen, and, after that, it was a matter of a few hours only.

  Sundowner’s holds were empty; Captain Davinas had persuaded his owners to let him make a special voyage to Botany Bay to make such advantageous arrangements as he could both with the local authorities and whatever scientific staff had been left on the Lost Colony by Discovery. It was decided to bring the boat into the ship through one of the cargo ports. This was achieved without any difficulty, Grimes jockeying the little craft in through the circular aperture with ease, and onto the cradle that had been prepared for her. Then, when the atmosphere had been reintroduced into the compartment, he opened his airlock doors. The air of Sundowner was better, he decided, than that inside the boat. It carried the taints inevitable in the atmosphere of all spaceships—hot machinery, the smell of cooking, the odor of living humanity—but not in concentrated form.