The Kruton Interface

by John Dechancie

  The new captain of the Repulse walked over to where his chief medical officer sat on the deck.

  “Well, Doc. Why don’t you regale us all with one of your witty, crusty bon mots?”

  O’Gandhi struggled to reply but succeeded only in mumbling.

  Wanker leaned over. “Nothing to say for yourself? No terse witticisms? No spare epigrams, quick retorts … eh? What say, Sawbones?”

  After an immense effort O’Gandhi blurted, “I am going to be upchucking all over the deck.”

  Straightening up, Wanker smiled appreciatively. “Worthy of Dr. Johnson.”

  O’Gandhi’s vision finally came into focus. “And who may I be asking are you, my fine fellow?”

  “Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Captain David L. Wanker.”

  “Wonker?”

  The captain pronounced it for him.

  “It is a fine name, pukka sahib!”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  O’Gandhi mumbled something as he struggled to his feet. Wanker assisted him.

  Wobbling, O’Gandhi approximated a salute. “Chief Medical Officer Seamus O’Gandhi reporting, sir.” A liquid smile spread over his face. “Please to be calling me ‘Jimmy.’”

  Wanker smiled toothily. “Why, sure, Jimmy! Jimmy, old friend, old pal, let me ask you a question.”

  “Anything, my captain of mine! I am yours to command!”

  “Have anything down in sick bay that’ll put me out of my misery, quick?”

  “Well, I am having some great pills down there that will knock you on your—” O’Gandhi suddenly looked sheepish. “Oops. I am nearly putting my foot in it.”

  Wanker said, “Oh, I’ll bet you have some great pills down there. That is, what you haven’t stuffed into your gullet yet. No, I was talking about the harder stuff. The darker drink, as it were. Poison, toxins, dread microorganisms. Something that’ll carry me away in a jiffy.”

  O’Gandhi looked confused. “Well, let me to be thinking about this, now—”

  “Never mind.”

  Wanker strode to the forward section of the bridge and began to pace in a circle.

  “Listen up, everyone, I have something to say. Through bureaucratic bungling and the cruelty of a basically malevolent universe I’ve been handed the rottenest assignment in the Space Forces. This ship is an interstellar disaster. But I will be bending every effort to make the best of a bad situation. This shape is either going to ship up … er, this ship is going to be shape-ship… ”

  The captain whanged his head against one of the dangling panel covers.

  “Arrrrgggghhh!”

  Sven Svensen helped him to his feet.

  “Watch the low overhead when you walk around here, sir.”

  “Those things are dangerous!”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Not your fault. What the hell was I saying?”

  Wanker began to pace again, but halted in front of the large view screen on the bridge’s forward bulkhead. It was blank.

  “Why isn’t this thing on?” he asked.

  “Out of order, sir,” Rhodes said. “Sadowski is working on it.”

  “Oh. Useless thing, anyway. As if you can see anything in space. How many centuries has it been since a military vessel relied on visual contact with the enemy?”

  “It’s been a long time,” Rhodes agreed. “You were saying, sir, about shipping or shaping?”

  “Hm? Never mind.” Wanker resumed pacing, his voice stentorian. “Just let me say this. There are many ways to do things in this man’s Space Forces … and woman’s!… let’s not forget the women!… Just let me say this … There are many ways to do things in this man’s and woman’s Space Forces. There’s the right way, the wrong way, the Regulation way, and MY way. Now on this ship we are going to do things MY way. Is that understood?”

  O’Gandhi croaked, “I am forgetting the cultured plague bacterium from Centauri III! It will be killing you real quick, my captain!”

  “Shut up! Now, very soon—in a few hours, perhaps, we will be receiving new orders, and we will set out on our assigned mission. And we will complete our assigned mission! Successfully! Is that understood?”

  Rhodes shouted, “Aye-aye, sir!”

  Imperiously, Wanker surveyed the rest of his staff officers. “What about the rest of you?”

  Came the chorus: “Aye-aye, sir!”

  Wanker said with sudden despair, “I’m finished. It’s over, my career’s over.”

  He moped to the lift tube.

  “Would you like to see your cabin now, sir?” Rhodes asked.

  “I’ll find it.”

  “But, sir, I’d be happy to—”

  “I want to be alone. Besides, I’ll be slashing my wrists. It’s a personal thing.”

  Rhodes stopped, nonplused. “Slashing your wrists, sir?”

  “Yes. Send to the machine shop. Have them make me an old-fashioned straight razor. You know the kind? Long thing, about like that?”

  Rhodes said, “Er, yes, sir. Straight razor.”

  Tell them to make it of a good-tempered steel. None of that composite stuff. And it has to be sharp enough to cut right to the bone in one slice. Got it, mister?”

  “I hope the captain is joking.”

  “Hah hah,” Captain Wanker said sarcastically as he positioned himself under the lift tube. He raised his head and stared up into its shadowy interior.

  Up, of course, was an arbitrary term in space, but in this case it approximated reality, for the bridge was deep within the ship, almost at the center of its protective mass. Thus, every direction away from the bridge was “up” and out and through the ship. The ship did not depend on rotation for its artificial gravity; otherwise the bridge would have been “up” and the outer decks “down.”

  Rhodes said, “Sir, please let me show you to your cabin.”

  “Just tell me where it is.”

  “A-Deck.”

  “Officers’ cabins are usually on A-Deck, Mr. Rhodes. Where on A-Deck?”

  “Aft Fourteen, Number Twenty-eight, sir.”

  “I’ll find it.” He looked up the blow tube. “God, I hate these things,” Wanker said, then in a louder tone added, “Transport tube, A-Deck, please!” He then touched the oversize red button labeled SUCK. “Positively loathe them.”

  “Well, sir, lifts are constantly shifting the center of mass, and back when this ship was designed, they didn’t know how to handle that.”

  “Thanks for the guided tour, Mr. Rhodes. Uhhhhhh!”

  Rhodes watched as the tube bore the captain upward. When Wanker cleared the overhead, he exhaled and turned toward his fellow officers.

  He forced a smile. “Don’t worry, y’all. He’ll come around.’’

  Everyone groaned.

  CHAPTER 5

  Captain David Wanker was blown upward, suspended by a strong parastatic field. He felt like acid reflux rushing up the esophagus.

  The tube vomited him onto A-Deck. He got to his feet.

  “One of these days I’ll learn to do it right.”

  He wandered around the almost deserted ship, meeting only one security guard, who directed him to Aft Fourteen, Number Twenty-eight.

  He approached the hatch to the captain’s cabin.

  “Who are you?” the hatch asked.

  The captain of this ship,” Wanker said. “Get to know me.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Look at my authorization badge, you silly thing.”

  “I want to see your orders,” the hatch said.

  “Oh, all right.” Wanker searched his jacket pockets, found a microdisk, pulled the thing out, and shoved it into the slot in the hatch.

  There came a beep. Then: “Wanker, David Ludwig, Captain, United Systems Space Forces, assigned as commander of the U.S.S. Repulse. You may enter.”

  With a soft whine, the hatch rose into its slot.

  “Thank you so much,” Wanker said dryly. “I don’t believe something actually works on thi
s ship.”

  “Wanker?” the hatch asked as he went in.

  “Vahn-ker. You have a problem with that?”

  The hatch apparently had no problem.

  The rooms inside were small by ordinary standards but spacious for quarters aboard a starship: two rooms, one with a bunk in it, the other with a settee, a chair, and a desk. The head, complete with shower stall, was off the bedroom. There were shelves, clean towels, and other amenities, but Wanker was too depressed to notice. He sank into the lumpy settee and heaved a great gray sigh of despair.

  The communications panel on the desk buzzed.

  “Oh, crap.”

  He cranked himself upward. At the desk he flipped a switch. “Wanker here.”

  “Captain? This is Darvona. All comfy in there?”

  “Huh? Oh, yes, yes. What is it, Ms. Roundheels?”

  “A call for you, sir, coming in by cosmophone transmission.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Your parents, sir.”

  “Put the call through.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Still dejected, Wanker sat at the desk and looked at the screen above it, waiting. Presently the screen lit up with the face of his mother, Tess Tosterona-Wanker, herself a retired warrant officer in the Forces. The camera widened the shot to include his father, Frank Wanker, who sat on the sofa by his wife, doing a cross-stitch. David knew the couple were vacationing on a wilderness resort planet named Grenada. Tall purplish trees swayed in the background.

  “Hello, Mother,” David said. “Hello, Father. How are things at Camp Grenada?”

  “Great,” Tess told him. “Well, kid, how was your first day aboard the new tub?” As always, her hair was clipped short and flattened on top. Recently, though, she had let her mustache flair out into scooter handlebars. (“Strictly nonregulation,” she liked to quip, “but they’re somethin’ to grab besides my ears.”)

  “Just reported, Mom. The day’s just begun in this time zone.”

  “Hello, David dear,” his father said. “Hope you’re eating right and watching your weight. That space chow tends to be so fattening.”

  David patted his soft, nascent potbelly. “I’m watching my weight, Dad, don’t worry.”

  “Don’t worry about what you eat, kid,” Tess said, “get exercise. Don’t sit on your butt and brood. Get to the gym regularly and work out. With weights, like I do.” Tess raised her right arm and flexed her impressive biceps.

  “Great definition, Mom,” David said.

  “Thanks. You were always a pudgy kid. But I tried to bring you up proper.”

  “You did, Mom. You did.”

  “Betchur sweet ass, kiddo,” Tess said, then upended a beer bottle into her mouth.

  Frank asked, “Is your cabin nice aboard… what’s the name of the ship again?”

  “Repulse. Here, I’m panning the camera around the place.”

  “Oh, that’s very nice. The bed looks awfully narrow, though. You were always such a bad sleeper, tossing and turning all night. You flopped all over your bed.”

  Tess belched, then snickered. “When he wasn’t pissin’ all over it.”

  “Aw, Mom, come on!” David’s ears turned a burning magenta.

  “Just kiddin’, guy,” Tess said. “Hey, lighten up.”

  “Sorry. How’s your vacation been so far?”

  “Pretty boring,” Tess said. “Bunch of old farts sitting around playing canasta, complaining about the weather and the food… shee-it. I wanna get out into the bush and shoot me a swamp dragon.”

  “They’re pretty dangerous,” David said. “Aren’t they?”

  “Naw. Biggest they come is a couple ten meters long, five high. Small game.”

  “Geez, that sounds pretty big to me.”

  Tess reached off-camera and brought forth a formidable-looking weapon, a short-barreled proton beamer with an immense scope and other flourishes. “Not with one of these babies.”

  “Wow. New one, Mom?”

  “Picked it up before we left. You get one of those critters in this scope, it’s ancient history. We’re talking pharaohs and pyramids, kid.”

  “There’s only one problem, Tess, dear. Swamp dragons are on the endangered alien species list.”

  Tess belched again. She crinkled her pug nose. “Yeah. What a bunch of wimps the locals are. But swampies’re fair game if they attack.”

  “Those poor things keep to themselves. Wouldn’t hurt a flea unless they feel threatened.”

  “How ‘bout if I chuck a couple of beer bottles at ‘em? Huh?” Tess laughed, displaying crooked yellow teeth. “Stir ‘em up a bit. Whaddaya say, kid?”

  “That ought to work, Mom. But don’t get yourself in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about me, shortie. I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh, she can, it’s true,” Frank said, laughing.

  “You said it. Listen, kid, cosmophone rates are eatin’ us alive, here, so… ”

  “No problem, Mom. Nice to hear from you.”

  “Stay loose.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And don’t take no shit from the brass. Unnerstand?”

  “Aye-aye, Cap’n. Dad, nice to see you again. Hey, let’s see the cross-stitch.”

  Frank held it up. White swans on a lake of baby blue. “I’ve been doing a little knitting lately but it’s too tiring. So I switched to this.”

  “Nice, Dad, You sure you’re feeling okay?”

  “Oh, aside from an occasional migraine … and cramps—”

  “Hell, he hasn’t been worth a plugged millicredit since he was pregnant with you,” Tess said. “One complaint after another.”

  Frank gave his wife a love tap on the shoulder. “Go on. My saying I had a headache never stopped you, you big brute.” Frank giggled.

  Tess turned her head and spat off-screen. “Fuckin’ A.”

  Frank shrieked. “She’s incorrigible!”

  “Uh, I have duties to attend to, folks,” David Wanker said hastily. “Nice talking to you. Call again.”

  “Will do,” Tess told him. “We’re proud of you, son.”

  “Thanks. Bye, Mom. Dad.”

  “G’bye, dear. Take care!”

  “Keep a tight asshole, kid.”

  The screen faded.

  “I don’t believe I drew this horrid assignment,” Captain Wanker said to the empty room. He wanted to cry. But crying in the captain’s cabin was strictly forbidden by regulations. Or should be, he thought.

  The panel buzzed again.

  “Darn it.” He reached. “Wanker here.”

  “This is Dr. O’Gandhi. Captain, I am finding many poisons down in the infirmary for you. All will be killing you very quickly indeed. Oh, it is a veritable festival of poisons, faith and beggorah.”

  “Belay that order, Doctor. I’m not ready for it yet. Soon, though, soon.”

  “I will make you a nice cyanide gimlet, sahib, you are only having to say the word.”

  “As much as I am tempted, Doc, I’ll pass. Stand by for further orders. Captain out.”

  “Oh, my, yes.”

  Wanker shut down the comm panel. “Ye gods.”

  He shed his space boots and dress coat and sprawled on the bed. There were a hundred things he should be doing, but he felt like doing none of them. Studying the ship’s schematics, familiarizing himself with the operational routine, calling staff meetings, writing endless memos: all of this and more were necessary to facilitate a change of command.

  He wanted only to run and hide. He hated this ship; he had hated it before ever setting eyes on it, and now his loathing and dread had been compounded in the short time since his arrival. What would he feel like months from now?

  Years? A shudder went through him.

  Wait a minute, he told himself. Wait just a minute.

  He sat up and brooded for a moment. Then he got to his feet and began to pace. “What’s wrong with you? You’re acting like a scared kid. It isn’t as if this is your first comm
and. Sure you’ve made mistakes in the past. Big mistakes.’’

  He paced and paced.

  “Okay, really big mistakes. Like the Hood. You lost the U.S.S. Hood. Okay? Big deal. It wasn’t your fault! Okay, okay, so the way you lost it was a little strange. It was stolen! Yeah, so what? The board of inquiry completely exonerated you! Those damned aliens are known throughout the galaxy for stealing starships. It wasn’t as if you left the keys in it or anything! Right! Completely exonerated. Completely!”

  He began pacing in complex patterns.

  “Right, okay. Other mistakes? Plenty. Your first command, the light cruiser. Didn’t go exactly as planned, but, hey—nobody’s perfect. Okay, so you scored a direct hit on a friendly flagship in the war games! It was a great shot! If it had been an enemy flagship—”

  He fell silent but continued to make trails across the deep-pile carpeting.

  Presently he resumed lecturing himself: “Okay, forget all that. You’re an officer in the United Systems Space Forces! You have a tradition to live up to and goddamn that comm panel.”

  Savagely he yanked a switch on the desk. “What the hell is it?”

  “Captain?”

  “Yes, yes, what do you want?”

  “It’s Darvona, sir. Am I… am I disturbing you?”

  “No! Uh, no. Sorry. What is it, Ms. Roundheels?”

  “All the other captains called me Darvona.”

  “Oh, all right. What is it, Darvona?”

  “Captain Chang left a recording for you.”

  “Chang? Who the hell is he?”

  “It’s a woman, sir. She was the last captain of the Repulse. Remember?”

  “Oh. And you say she left a recording for me?”

  “For the next captain.”

  “I see. Well, play the message.”

  “It’s confidential, sir. You have to authorize playback with your orders.”

  “Very well.” Wanker fetched his microdisk. “Okay, it’s in the slot.”

  “It’ll be up in a second, sir.”

  Wanker sat at the desk. “I have to get control of myself,” he muttered. “Think of it as a challenge. A challenge. That’s the ticket.”

  “This is the former captain of the Repulse speaking,” said a voice from the screen.

  Wanker raised his eyes and saw the face of an attractive Asian woman.

  “My name is Naomi Chang, and I have a message for the next captain of this fine military vessel.”