by Ren Garcia
She thought a moment. “Well, sure. I mean I’m not in some elite guard unit, and I’m not exactly guarding some rare treasure either—I’m stuck here guarding an ugly stone face when I should be at the bars celebrating the holiday. I don’t think anybody would be going out with me anyway though. My barracks is pretty sore at me right now.” The lettering on the sign she was wearing glinted in the light.
“I’m in a bit of a rush … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Taara. Private Taara de la Anderson. I’m from Bazz—ever been to Bazz?”
Bazz. If only.
“No, no I haven’t. Well, Private Taara, I am in a rush and I don’t think I’ve the time. I’m sorry.”
She nodded and looked a bit deflated. The stern carved face of Admiral Pax stared over her shoulder.
Stenstrom began pulling the crate away, and looked back. He saw the poor girl standing there lonely and hungry in her red Marine uniform and her sign hanging at her neck. He supposed a bit of good fellowship couldn’t hurt. It might even create some good karma for him. It was St. Porter’s Day after all.
“Stand fast, Private Taara, and I’ll be right back with something for you.”
She lit up. “Wow, thank you, sir! I really appreciate it!”
“Watch my crate, will you?” he called.
“I will, and thanks again!”
Stenstrom walked down the hallway to a small nearby cafeteria. The place was mostly empty, and most of the usual hot items served weren’t being offered—only a modest skeleton crew was present. Stenstrom selected a turkey sandwich and a side of bagged Kelsos. He didn’t know what she drank, and, as she looked fairly young, he picked her out a can of red Gasol.
Poor kid, he thought as he gathered her food; from Bazz, she said—probably impoverished, probably had no choice but be a Marine. Probably one of those common types who roll through their lives hardly making a mark on anyone or anything.
Quickly, he returned to the ship park and gave Private Taara her meal.
“Thank you so much, sir,” she said, unwrapping her sandwich.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I did my best.”
“Hey,” she said smiling, “as I always say: ‘just eat, man—just eat.’” She took off her large strummer and held it out. “Could you hold this for a moment?”
Stenstrom snickered and took it—not really a spit-n-polish Marine, was she? Private Taara then seated herself beneath Admiral Pax’s chin. “Please,” she said, “what’s your name, mister?”
“Paymaster Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont. I am the newly appointed commander of the Seeker.”
“I wish I was from a neat Kanan House with all those fancy titles, but I’m just a kid from Bazz.”
“Well, ‘kid from Bazz,’ have you had a moment to speak to your family today for the holiday?”
“I have—thanks! You’re such a nice fellow. I am very pleased, sir, and, again, thank you for your kindness!”
Stenstrom looked at her. She had the sort of face that one didn’t give much regard to at first—she was cute, nothing more. But, the longer one stared at her, the better looking she got. She was actually extremely attractive, in a tom-boyish sort of way.
“Well, I’m off to contact the Seeker. I suppose I’ll have to ask them for a ripcar to be sent down.” He tipped his hat and prepared to collect his crate.
Taara took a drink from her Gasol and suddenly had a thought. “Did you say the ship you’re wanting to contact is the Seeker, sir?”
“I did.”
She thought a moment, took a look around to see if anybody was coming, then made her way to the control desk and opened a terminal. “I thought I heard the Seeker is abandoned. Yes, it says right here that the Seeker was half-scuttled last week and is in terminal.”
“In terminal? What does that mean?”
“I think it means she’s in a decaying orbit.” Taara looked proud. “You pick up a few things being posted here. Yes, and take a look—Fleetcom says a reclamation team has been dispatched for two days hence to board and correct her orbit—I guess they’re pretty concerned about it. She was then scheduled to make berth in dry-dock 186 for a partial refit.”
Stenstrom was getting angry. “And who ordered the Seeker half-scuttled? Let me guess … Admiral Derlith, yes?”
Taara toyed about with her terminal. “Yep, Admiral Derlith. That’s what it says right here. So, I guess the Seeker is abandoned right now. I guess there’s nobody up there to send a ripcar down for you.”
Stenstrom drew one of his pistols in a froth. He held it for a moment then slid it back into his sash.
“I’m really sorry,” she said.
He shook his head. “Well, Private, I suppose there’s a sign around my neck as well, just can’t see it as easily.”
She appeared sympathetic. “I know how that feels. Listen, for what it’s worth, when my shift ends, I’ll get you a drink at the canteen—might make you feel better. Would you like that?”
He sighed. “Thanks. If you could please watch my crate,” he said, his voice shaking. “I shall be back. I’ve a few words to say to Admiral Derlith.” Stenstrom stormed away.
“Happy Porter’s Day!” Taara called to him as he left. “My offer still stands if you change your mind!”
“And to you,” he replied. Though this was turning into a real gut-grinder of a day, Private Taara’s cheerful demeanor made him feel a bit better.
5 A-Ram
Stenstrom made his way back to Admiral Derlith’s complex. It was getting late in the evening, and the sky was fading to early starlight.
When he got to the door, he banged on it hard.
After a time, the small, blonde-headed adjutant opened the door. He was wearing white gloves and holding a tarnished sponge that stank of silver polish. “Paymaster Stenstrom, well met, sir,” he said.
“Where is Admiral Derlith? I must see him.”
“Admiral Derlith has left the complex for the weekend.”
Stenstrom pushed his way into the anti-chamber. The adjutant had been polishing a silver tea set; the room smelled of the labor. He had the holo-terminal on his desk opened up and was reading several postings in overly-large text, as if he had trouble seeing normal-sized text.
Stenstrom was in a good lather. “You may tell that scoundrel that he has not heard the last of Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont. I shall be back! I shall reappoint to the Seeker’s chair, and next time he’ll not have a convenient holiday and a half-scuttled ship to foil my appointment!”
The adjutant stood there, his holo-terminal spinning around him. Stenstrom took a glance at the large-printed wording. It said:
AN OPEN LETTER FROM THE FIEND OF CALVERT
“The Fiend of Calvert?” Stenstrom asked, forgetting his anger for the moment.
The adjutant smiled. “Oh, it’s a hobby of mine. I remember as a boy I was really scared of the Fiend of Calvert, as he terrorized the streets. I’ve made it my interest to collect as much information on his crimes as possible and see if I can determine his identity. I’ve all sorts of theories and what not. He was never caught.”
“I heard he was dead.”
“No, no,” he said shaking his head. “The Fiend of Calvert is not dead.”
The adjutant took off his gloves and cleaned his hands with a cloth. “I’m sorry about this situation,” he said. “Sir, is there anything I might help you with?”
Stenstrom looked at the small, slope-shouldered fellow. “I have five bells to board the Seeker. As this place is currently a holiday-riddled tomb and the Seeker is abandoned, I have no way to board her in time. Then, after that impossible task is completed, I am to deliver a crate of cheaply-made brandy to Bazz, twelve days hence. Again, as the Seeker is half taken apart, I don’t see her going anywhere in under a month.”
Stenstrom removed his hat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fill your ear.” He could see himself reflected in the surface of the shiny tea set, wearing his mask and his HRN coat. The Marin
e girl Taara was right: he did look like a masked robber. “You do good work, sir,” he said. “Again, I’m sorry to barge in here and trouble you.”
The adjutant appeared sympathetic. “I heard the Admiral speaking to his peers regarding a ‘fine deception’ he had just accomplished. He—he was feeling rather proud of himself.”
Stenstrom lightly clapped him on the shoulder. “Perhaps Admiral Derlith is the Fiend of Calvert, ever thought of that? Well, let him have his fun for the moment; again, I’ll be back and hell shall be coming with me.”
Stenstrom turned to leave.
“Sir?” the adjutant said, switching off the holo-terminal. “I can get you to the Seeker. I can fly.”
Stenstrom gave him the once-over. A rather small fellow, no taller than 5’4, slight of build, and that bright head of blonde hair—rather ridiculous. But who was he to judge; he was wearing a mask and a Hoban Royal Navy coat. “You can fly, sir?”
“I can. Been flying all my life. I never could pass the Fleet or Marine standards for flight school because I have a fair amount of myopia, which isn’t correctible by surgery, and my body is of a type that rejects Bio-plants. So, here I am, polishing silver, making coffee, and reading old press releases about the Fiend of Calvert. Stuck here on the ground when I belong in the air.”
“Can you see properly to fly then?”
The adjutant reached into his coat and pulled out a thick set of glasses. “I can with these. With these I can see as well as anybody. The Admiral doesn’t let me wear them when he’s around. He says they’re too ugly.”
Stenstrom smiled. “You’ll do. Come with me.”
Smiling, the adjutant put his glasses on and followed Stenstrom at a brisk pace out of the area.
“Your name is Josephus, is that correct?” Stenstrom asked on the hoof.
“Yes, but I hate that name, and the Admiral knows it. I am Josephus, Lord of A-Ram. Please, just call me A-Ram. Have you ever heard of the House of A-Ram? It’s a Calvert House.”
“Sorry, no. I haven’t. Well, A-Ram, good to know you. I am Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont-South Tyrol. Just call me Bel.”
He held his hand out, and they shook hands. It seems he’d made a friend—perhaps the day wasn’t a total loss.
Before long, they arrived back at the ship park. Private Taara had finished her meal and was glad to see him. “You’re back!” she said in her happy voice, still standing by the bust.
“I am, and I’ve found a pilot. I would like to requisition a transport for immediate passage to the Seeker.”
Taara looked around. “Oh, okay … Where’s the pilot?”
“I’m the pilot,” A-Ram said.
Taara giggled. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that you’re dressed like an Admiral’s adjutant.”
“He was an adjutant this morning, but, as of this moment, he’s a pilot,” Stenstrom said. “He’s been promoted.”
Taara looked at him. “Aren’t you the adjutant who’s always getting yelled at by that gray-haired Admiral?”
A-Ram approached Taara. “I’m still an officer, Private, and perhaps a small bit of decorum might …” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Do I know you?” he asked, giving her a full appraisal. “You seem familiar to me.”
Taara shrugged. “I don’t think so. Do you hang out at the Marine cantina? Oh! Do you go to the fights every weekend?”
“No, I do not go to the fights.”
“Then, I’m not sure where you’ve seen me—I’m big into the fights.”
Taara smiled and gave A-Ram a tap on one of his slight shoulders. “Bet I could beat you at arm-wrestling. What’s your name?”
“A-Ram, and you could not,” he replied, taking note of the sign hanging around her neck.
Stenstrom stepped in. “And I’ll wager I could beat the both of you at once. A contest for another time. Private Taara, we need to get to the Seeker as quickly as possible and need to req out a ship.”
Taara was a bit saddened. “Sir, I would love to help you, but I can’t req you out a ship—I’m just a guard. And, I’m not supposed to do or touch anything other than guard this statue right now.”
Stenstrom walked around the desk. Behind was the entrance to the main hangar where dozens of transports were kept.
He tried the door—it was locked.
“Sir, that’s not going to help you,” Taara called to him.
Out came the lock picks and soon Stenstrom had the door wide open.
He stepped in. The hangar was empty.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. All the transports have been sent to Provst for a cleaning. They’re due to be back at six bells.”
Again, Stenstrom drew his pistol in frustration.
“I’m sorry,” Taara said.
They looked around. “I see a group of sub-orbitals over there, parked on the lawn,” A-Ram remarked. “We don’t need to req those; all we have to do is sign for one.”
Taara saw the line of sharp blue sub-orbitals parked on the green. “You …want to use a sub-orbital to mount a ship in orbit? Sub-orbitals aren’t supposed to go into orbit, hence the name, right? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Only if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
She thought about that remark for a moment. “Oh, okay.”
They signed for sub-orbital 10 and quickly began loading the crate onto it.
As they did, a second Marine arrived, and Private Taara handed the fellow her strummer. She then made her way over to them. “Well, I’ve been relieved—the guy’s statue will just have to get along fine without me now. I just wanted to say good luck, before I head back to my barracks. And, I really enjoyed meeting you two today—you seem like good guys to me. If you two weren’t in such a rush, I’d invite you down to the canteen with me to hang out.”
“We’ll take a pass on that, Private. Perhaps next time.”
Stenstrom shook her hand as he climbed in. She gave A-Ram another shove. “You’re not getting out of the arm-wrestling thing, little guy. We’ll do it when you get back.”
“Umm, certainly,” A-Ram said, climbing in.
She turned, thought it over for a second, and then turned back. “Listen, I know enough to understand that what you’re about to do is very dangerous. Additionally, the Seeker is in a bad terminal and is currently uninhabited. How are you going to open the bay doors?”
“I suppose we’ll just figure that out when we get to it,” Stenstrom said, strapping in.
Taara appeared conflicted. “Listen, I’m off for the next few days. No doubt you two will need a hand if you do get aboard, and I’d like to come along. I’ve never been aboard a fighting starship before. It sounds like fun, and I’ve got nothing better to do. Of course, I’ll bet you two an ale in the canteen that we’ll get no higher than fifty thousand feet before we up and turn around.”
A-Ram popped his thick glasses back on. “That’s a sure bet,” he said looking rather bug-eyed.
Taara smiled and tossed her “MOM” sign aside. She readied to enter the craft. “Oh, wait!” she said. She ran back to the desk and disappeared into the hangar—she and the Marine guard exchanging a few disparaging words as she did so, the guard pointing at the discarded sign. A few moments later, she re-appeared carrying three small devices. She exchanged more angry words with the Marine and then offered him some sort of obscene Bazz hand gesture. She popped into the back couch and buckled up. With that, A-Ram sealed the hatches and smoothly lifted the small ship up and away from the Fleet complex.
“What do you have there?” Stenstrom asked Taara.
“Aquanaughts,” she said. “So we can breathe … just in case I lose my bet.”
Moving fast, A-Ram climbed in a southerly direction, heading for the south pole, the sub-orbital moving effortlessly under his control. “I know how Fleetcom likes to orbit starships. Those listed as half-scuttled are assigned a low polar orbit in Zone A. The Seeker should be tucked nice and neat in one of them.”
They climbed high above the
clouds and the sub-orbital’s engines, starving for air, began to rev to red.
“Look!” A-Ram cried. “There it is.”
Stenstrom and Taara looked up. High overhead they saw a bright, fast moving star, heading from south to north. It appeared on the horizon, streaked past them, and then disappeared to the north. “She’s really moving. I’d also say she’s about twenty thousand feet above us still. We’ll have to pick up some speed, close the vents, and pray we have enough momentum to reach the ship. We’re only going to have one chance at this.”
“See, I told you it would be tough sledding in a sub-orbital. They weren’t kidding around when they named them,” Taara said.
A-Ram punished the struggling sub-orbital, clawing for altitude.
Overhead, the star of the Seeker got ever brighter as the sub-orbital closed the distance. Through the windscreen, which was rapidly frosting up, they could just begin to see detail through the brightness, like looking at a distant planet through a telescope. Also, the Seeker appeared to be slowing down as it rose and fell—the sub-orbital steadily picking up and matching speed.
“It’s really getting cold in here,” Taara said as she rubbed her sleeves. She passed out the Aquanaughts, and they put them in their mouths, Taara helping A-Ram with his.
Sucking on his Aquanaught, A-Ram pulled a lever and shut the outside vents. He also enabled a green counter reader: 60:00. “All right, it’s now or never,” he said with a muffled voice. “I think I’ve got the trajectory and speed figured out. Bel, I’m going to release the timer. When the counter reads zero, I’m going to pull up hard. We should slide right in behind the Seeker where we can try to open a bay with the grapplers and get in.”
He watched the now huge star of the Seeker disappear beyond the horizon, and then he released the timer. It began counting down.
The gauges spun, the engines, starving for air, all red-lined and sputtered.
“Zero, A-Ram!” Stenstrom said. “Pull it!”
He pulled back hard, and the sub-orbital lurched up. They felt the sickening release as gravity fell away, and the pale blue sky faded to black.
In front of them, the huge mass of the Seeker came hurtling into view. It was tumbling in its orbit, spiraling slowly from wingtip to wingtip.