“I see Lieutenant-Commander Mart Britlot commands the scout ship on the Sector Seven ‘Observe and Report’ run for the third consecutive time, Captain. I don’t care whose blacklists he is on, I will not have this on my station.” Taglini glared at Martok, daring him to defend his actions.
All eyes shifted to Martok, for mission assignments fell in his domain. Martok smiled.
“You had me worried, Commodore. Lieutenant-Commander Britlot volunteered for that mission, almost insisted on it. No one likes the O&R runs, so I let him have them.”
The table relaxed.
“Captain Martok, why has he requested that duty?”
Martok looked at the lined face of the woman opposite and sighed. “Captain Benteel, the latest supposed sighting of a ‘ghost ship’ came from that sector.” A groan passed around the table. “Britlot has professed an interest.” Eyes rolled at the understatement.
Benteel nodded. Everyone now knew of Britlot’s obsession. “Even so, Captain, that length of detached duty is hard on an officer, whether he requests it or not.”
Martok closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw Commodore Taglini watching him. Martok nodded. “When he gets back in I’ll have a talk with him.” He did not look forward to it, necessary or not.
“That finishes dispositions.” Taglini brought up the next file on his screen. “All that remains is the Dock report. What is the state of Torrent’s repair?”
Captain Benteel leaned forward. “She sustained considerable damage in First Fleet’s action with Combine forces, Commodore. We’ve patched the hull, and have restored air-integrity. In two weeks we’ll have weapons and life-support back up to specs.”
“You have one week, Captain. Light a fire under your people.”
“Commodore, my crew does not slack.”
“Work them harder. We need Torrent’s dock for Bristle. She’ll be here in one week.”
A head came up at that. “Bristle, sir? Isn’t Bristle a Class B mothball?”
“Your point, Commander Teller?”
Teller swallowed. Taglini didn’t really expect a reply and Teller’s wisdom precluded any attempt.
“Expect additional personnel on station. Torrent’s crew will return for her space trials and a refit crew for Bristle will follow. Captain Benteel, the status of Searcher?”
“We have completed repairs. Fleet can assign a crew and she’ll be ready for action as soon as they work her up, sir.”
“She belongs to us, now, Captain.”
“To us, sir?” Martok asked.
“Fleet decided that we need at least one modern scout in the area.” He allowed his gaze to touch each officer.
“They are worried,” Benteel finally said.
“Indeed. Rear Admiral Knerden has decided to pay us a visit. I’m sure he’ll explain everything in his briefing. Does anyone have anything else?”
No one spoke. The Admiral’s visit, along with Bristle’s refit, could mean only one thing.
“Dismissed.”
The officers trooped out, leaving only Captains Martok and Benteel behind. Benteel closed the door.
“Commodore, isn’t refitting Bristle a violation of the Tlartox treaty?”
“Sit down, Listra, Kale.” Taglini waited until they seated themselves. He picked up a small model of a Confederation ship from a display and turned it over and over in his hands. Finally he, too, sat.
“Listra—and this is not to leave this room though the Rear Admiral will likely announce it—in a year, perhaps less, it is unlikely that there will be a Tlartox treaty.”
“Good God, sir,” Martok said. “War on two fronts?”
“Not necessarily, Kale. The Tlartox have asked to reopen negotiations on the treaty for several years running. Intelligence believes that their patience has run out. No one knows exactly what they want, though I doubt they wish for war. Tlenfro taught them a lesson they’ll never forget.”
“Tlenfro happened 300 years ago, sir. One can forget much in 300 years.”
“Perhaps. Kale, I want you to look into the Britlot matter. I have studied his file. I think he has more than just a ghost ship sighting driving him. You know his parents died recently?”
“Yes, sir, I had the duty of informing him.”
“We don’t need another casualty, Kale. Find out what troubles him. Get him help if he needs it.”
“Aye, sir.” Martok stood and limped from the room.
“Tag, you look tired.”
“I am tired, Listra, and I don’t see it getting better anytime soon. Two years until retirement, two long years.” The Commodore put his head in his hands and sat quietly for a time. “I don’t know if I’m up to it any more.”
“Balderdash, Taglini,” Benteel said, her voice bright. “You’re just an old phony who wants me to shoulder some of his responsibilities. Well, not yet, Commodore, not yet.”
Taglini grinned at her, and they both rose.
“I will, however, ensure that Torrent passes inspection within the week.” She patted the Commodore’s arm. She turned back when she reached the door. “The Tlartox, Tag? Good God, as Martok would say, what you won’t do for a retirement party.”
“Just don’t forget the wine, Captain,” Taglini called after her. He studied the model for a minute before replacing it in the display. Contact with its base created a chattering sound and Taglini jerked his shaking hand away. Though the Combine front lay far away, the Empire could conceivably reach Bravo II. Yes, all he needed was war with the Tlartox Empire. Bravo II had seemed a quiet place to spend the last of his enlistment, but lately he had his doubts. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
At his desk, he closed the repair file. Britlot’s file replaced it on screen. Taglini frowned and closed it, too.
“Ghost ships,” he muttered.
* * *
Lieutenant-Commander Britlot docked the scout vessel, and shut down all non-essential systems. The crew disembarked, and Britlot fingered the datastick as he strode down the hallways to Captain Martok’s office. ‘Uneventful’ described the run, yet he had not wasted the time. He now had a new theory to check out on his next run.
“Enter.” Captain Martok no longer enjoyed having young Britlot in his command. His orders from the Commodore didn’t improve his disposition.
“Captain Martok, Lieutenant-Commander Britlot reporting. Another clean run. The datastick, sir.” He handed it to the seated Martok.
“Very good, Britlot.” Martok waited for what he knew was coming. Britlot didn’t disappoint him.
“Sir, I would like to volunteer for the next run.”
“Request denied, Lieutenant-Commander.”
Britlot’s surprise showed on his face before he could cover it. “Sir? Have I done something to offend?”
“We find your obsession with the so-called ‘ghost ships’ unhealthy, Britlot.”
“I do my duty, sir.” Britlot countered.
“Yes you do, and you do it well,” Martok agreed grudgingly. “Your crews come back better than when they left. That’s a good recommendation to take with you to your next posting. Captains will be eager to acquire the services of a subordinate like you.”
Britlot didn’t appear happy. “Sir? Next posting? Have I been transferred?”
“The Commodore has his eye on you, Britlot,” Martok replied, ignoring the questions. “He wants to know why you avoid the social amenities of Bravo II and Fleet by volunteering for what is widely considered a punishment detail. He wants to know if you are still fit for command. You can better serve your career by transferring. I doubt you can get your old post on Retribution, but I can ask, if you wish.”
“Sir,” Britlot protested, “I’m happy here.” He thought a moment. “Captain, you say my crews return better than when they leave. I work them, sir; we train diligently.”
Martok smiled without humor. “To what end, Britlot? So they will more rapidly pick up a ghost echo on the scanners? I’ve perused your logs. You do not keep
to the regular routes and courses.”
“Regular routes and courses breed familiarity, Captain Martok, and laxness, sir. We train for flexibility.”
Martok’s voice rose, “You are haring off after ghost echoes, Britlot, and don’t pretend otherwise. I don’t know where this obsession came from, but you will curb it. Do you understand?”
“Sir, I do my duty. My reports are exact; they are complete.”
“Sit down, Britlot.” He waited for Britlot to comply, then leaned forward and softened his voice. “Listen to me, son, you jeopardize your career with this. Surely you recognize that. No one wants an officer obsessed with a fiction. After each mission, you hole up in your quarters until the next. You only come out to ask questions of people who profess some knowledge or experience of these echoes. It isn’t healthy.”
Britlot sat, stone-faced. Martok sighed. He had tried. He waited for the Lieutenant-Commander to reply, but Britlot waited him out.
“Very well, Britlot. You are off-duty until I decide what to do with you. You may not have heard that Rear Admiral Knerden is onboard. His briefing will take place tomorrow at 1500 hours. You will attend. Dismissed.”
Britlot stood and saluted. He started to turn to the door, then stopped.
“Sir, permission to approach the Commodore.”
Martok glared at him. “Permission denied.”
“Sir, I would like your permission to approach the Commodore.”
Martok’s eyes widened. That was as nice a way as he’d ever heard it put. Go over his head, would he? The Lieutenant-Commander was about to find himself in more trouble than—oh, the hell with it.
“Very well, Britlot. You have my permission to approach the Commodore. But not prior to the briefing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Martok laughed without amusement. “Don’t thank me yet. You will probably regret this move. Dismissed.”
The door opened under Britlot’s hand, and he was stepping through when the Captain called him back.
“Britlot.”
“Sir?”
“You’ll hear about this soon enough anyway, I suppose.”
“Sir?”
“The freighter Cariel arrived two days ago. You’ll want to talk with her captain and crew.”
“The Cariel, sir? She was due in shortly after I left. This makes her three weeks late.”
“Yes, Lieutenant-Commander, I can tell time with the best of them,” Martok said heavily.
Britlot would have laughed had not Martok been his superior and were he not resentful of the implications of their meeting. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said and quickly left. He’d never imagined old Martok having a sense of humor.
In his quarters, Britlot indulged in a long shower—a luxury he missed when on scout. While soaping, he wondered if his interest in the ghost ships did threaten his career. And what did Cariel have to do with anything?
His best hope of finding Cariel’s crew lay in the civilian messes. And better to find a crewmember there than going to Cariel herself. A few drinks loosened tongues.
Enquiries at the entrance pointed him to a short dark-haired man with a scraggly moustache. Britlot walked to the man’s table. The smell of liquor, unwashed men and questionable food mixed in the air.
“Good day, sir, I’m Lieutenant-Commander Mart Britlot and I . . .” The man rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, perhaps hoping some deity might rescue him.
“Gods. Another of them,” the man shook his head in disgust. “You’re not a doctor type are you?”
Britlot laughed, as if genuinely amused. “No, I’m not. And I stay as far away from them as I can. Crazy bastards, and they think they can psyche us.” He laughed again, adding just a touch of bitterness to the laugh. A glass of dark brown liquid rested on the table in front of the man. “Kelvin beer?”
“Yeah. I like it,” the man looked at him suspiciously. “What of it?”
But Britlot’s attention centered on a server, and his arm waved. “Two Kelvins here, please.” He returned his attention to the other. “Mind if I sit?”
“You like Kelvin?” Ecovin’s suspicions remained.
“It’s that aftertaste, sort of like a Cardi exhaust.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” The man brightened a little. “Name’s Ecovin, Elnar to my friends.”
Britlot sipped of the Kelvin beer and smiled, suppressing a shudder. “Elnar, I hear you had an interesting time recently. Tell me about it.” He ignored the noise and smells of the mess.
Ecovin’s reluctance disappeared as he recognized the young officer’s interest; a good story needed a proper audience. The high mucky-mucks, who ignored the only logical explanation, could go to hell. As Britlot’s interest increased without evincing any disbelief, Ecovin opened up and told in detail points he’d glossed over for the other investigators.
An hour later he escorted Britlot aboard the Cariel and, with Captain Larrsh’s permission, Ecovin played the detector recordings for him.
Britlot stared hard at the ghostly images as they played across the screen, squinting as the details blurred, sharpened and then grew.
“Vandoo,” he whispered in wonder.
Ecovin turned to him, surprised that anyone in an official capacity would admit what Ecovin himself knew to be true. “Exactly,” he breathed highly combustible fumes into Britlot’s face. “Ghost ships.” Unconsciously, his right hand rose to his medallion and he began fingering it, a talisman against the evils that roamed the universe.
“Ghost ships,” Britlot agreed, a slightly sardonic smile playing at his lips. “What detectors do you have?”
“Prentill 440’s,” Ecovin replied defensively.
“Pity you didn’t have a Fleet detector, yet the Prentill is reliable. Where were you?”
“That’s the devil of it,” Navigation Officer Trumnor told him, after Ecovin introduced her and left to relieve his bladder, “we just don’t know. And then the Captain and First Mate panicked and I never got the chance for a proper fix. I don’t know what came over them. With the navtank out, we couldn’t record the fix.” She shrugged.
“Shall I tell you?”
Janny Trumnor looked up into his open face, sensed no joke at her expense, and nodded. “Please.”
“You were in the Sivon sector,” he explained as if it should mean something.
“Of course we were,” she said, looking a little disgusted. “I do know that much.”
“Then you don’t know the story?”
Trumnor glared at him. “If you’re going to say something, come out and say it.”
“Sorry. Really. The Sivon sector is where the Adian Émigrés disappeared along with the 22nd Fleet, the Vandoo. That was,” he looked up and did a quick calculation, “two hundred and ninety-eight years ago.”
Memory of her captain, shaken and afraid, came back. “The Vandoo. He said that.”
“Yes. Ten million civilians in over a thousand ships and the entire 22nd fleet left Lormar for some planet an explorer said he’d discovered. They dropped out of hyperspace into hell. Some sort of phenomenon—they likened it unto a small black hole—destroyed the lot. A scoutship escaped and returned. Its only vid record showed a battleship and two transports being torn apart.”
“Why haven’t I heard this story before?”
“You’re not from this sector and, over the years, interest died. Besides, the Confederation considered the Adians fools for disputing the Tlartox treaty; Lormar considered them, and the 22nd Fleet, traitors for leaving. Nobody wants to remember and, given the striving for good relations with the Tlartox Empire, they downplayed it.
“Bitterness on Lormar continued for years. Official histories ignored the Adians. They became a sidebar. After all, they were only one nation from a single planet of a forty planet Confederation.”
“No one went after them to see what had happened?”
“A few intrepid salvage firms decided they might benefit from the disaster. No ships returned or even reported back. Tha
t discouraged further investigation.”
“I’d think so.” Trumnor looked up. “How do you know this?”
“It’s a passion of mine. In any event, you were in the sector where the fleet disappeared. The scout reported all comm out. No one could be reached; no signals heard.”
“Our comm went out, even though the Comm-Op swore our set showed green.” Trumnor pursed her lips. “No wonder the Captain was worried.” She wasn’t about to use the word ‘scared’ where it could get back to him, forgetting that she’d already accused him of panicking.
Britlot smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. “Then, about two hundred years ago, came a sighting of a vessel type long since scrapped due to the Tlartox Treaty. If accurate, it could only have been the 22nd. Other sightings followed occasionally. Best guess was that visuals had somehow been thrown out of the black hole—or whatever—and those crews had seen mere echoes of the past: Ghost Ships.”
“This is more than just a passion, isn’t it?”
“Some have called it an obsession,” Britlot agreed complacently. “Now, just let me have your dead-reckoning course and where you came out and I’ll back-track you.”
“You’d actually go there, knowing that, uh, phenomenon might kill you?”
Britlot just looked at her.
Trumnor’s eyes widened with sudden knowledge. “You don’t believe these are echoes or ‘Ghost Ships.’ You think they are real. You’re crazy.”
“Possibly. The data?”
* * *
“So there you have it, Gentlemen, Ladies, there will be war.” The pronouncement by the tall Rear Admiral shocked the room. Grim expressions replaced the smiling ones that had entered. Mart Britlot had come in smiling. He recalled entering the room on a much lighter note.
“Lieutenant-Commander Renntol, good to see you again.” Britlot smiled at the dark-haired woman.
“Lieutenant-Commander Britlot. Back from your latest foray into Sector Seven? Perhaps you’ll remain with us a while.” She allowed him the benefit of her own smile.
“Perhaps,” he allowed.
“Think he’ll give a blow by blow description of the battle, or just dry details?” she asked in a low voice. The buzz of quiet conversation rose as the room filled.
Ghost Fleet Page 3