Battle Cruiser

by B. V. Larson

  He glanced at me apologetically. “It’s still broken, Skipper.”

  I muttered curses. “Of course,” I said, my heart and brain racing.

  This was my first death—my first real emergency. We’d run down a score of threatening smugglers, and we’d faced radiation, misfiring engines and leaking tanks. But this was different. One of my crew had died of unknown causes. This was the moment when Cutlass’ captain had to step up and perform.

  Forcing myself to suck in a breath and think, I read the data on my screen. Jimmy was dead—but that could be a false reading. He might have a severed line, or—

  “Jimmy,” I said. “Respond.”

  Nothing came back.

  “Rumbold,” I said, “keep trying to reach him. I’m suiting up.”

  His gauntlet reached out to touch my arm.

  “Sir,” he said, “the captain shouldn’t leave the bridge when the boat’s in trouble.”

  “The ship is in immediate danger?” I demanded.

  “Well, no sir…not that we know of.”

  “Munoz has suffered some kind of accident, I’ll wager. I’m going to retrieve him quickly, and we’ll withdraw as soon I get back into the airlock.”

  “Sir…I still say you shouldn’t go.”

  Part of me felt I should listen to him. He was my senior, noncom or not. He’d been in space longer than I’d been alive.

  “I can’t send another man out now,” I said in a low voice.

  Rumbold shook his head. “I’m not suggesting that. We should burn out of here and proceed with our investigation from a safe distance.”

  I hesitated for less than a second. “I’m not leaving Jimmy out there. I sent him into space, and I’m bringing him back in, dead or alive.”

  Moving decisively, I double-checked my helmet and my air tanks, then slid into the airlock. The air began to pump out, but I was impatient. I blew the outer seal, wasting a few cubic meters of precious oxygen.

  Riding a gentle puff of air out into space, I caught a loop of steel on the hull and began to hand-over-hand my way down the ship’s skin.

  As soon as I was outside the ship, drifting in the cold void, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck tickle and stand up. I knew that whatever had nailed Jimmy could just as easily do the same to me.

  The methods by which a man can die in space are truly countless. There’s no more dangerous environment we’ve ever tried to inhabit. Radiation, heat, cold, vacuum—every aspect of open space is deadly and uncomfortable.

  People often compare flights aboard spacecraft to a voyage over an ocean, but the comparison only goes so far. Men who fall overboard into an earthly sea might survive for days, or even weeks.

  But there were no such false hopes out here. The void was as unforgiving as it was eternal.

  It didn’t take me long to find Jimmy. He was drifting, still tethered to the ship near the exhaust ports. Moving along the hull carefully, I kept one of the magnets on my hands, knees or elbows in contact with the ship at all times.

  I soon reached him. Grabbing him by the thick cloth of his suit’s shoulder, I dragged him back toward the airlock. I didn’t take the time to investigate what had happened to him. Every second out here was potentially deadly.

  Three grunting heaves took me to the airlock, where the hatch hung open. I dragged him inside and noticed his body was already stiff—his hands seemed to be stuck together, somehow.

  Stuffing us both into the tight airlock, I struggled to close it. My breath was labored, but I managed to fold myself into the coffin-like chamber with Jimmy.

  “Skipper?” Rumbold called worriedly. “I’m reading high stress levels. Are you okay, sir?”

  “I’m fine. As soon as this door cycles open—wait, I think Jimmy’s alive!”

  “How’s that, sir?”

  “I’m seeing steam on the inside of his helmet. He’s breathing. I can’t—”

  The airlock hatch swung open then, and I tumbled down into the ship. Rumbold was there, waiting with several others. They had haunted eyes and upraised hands. We were both brought down into the ship with firm care.

  In the red light of the cabin we examined Jimmy. He was alive, but he wasn’t in good shape.

  “Something’s taken off his hand!” Rumbold said, marveling. “See here? His right hand is gripping the stump of his left wrist.”

  Rumbold was right. Jimmy was in a strange state, but I thought I understood what had happened to him—if not why.

  “Something severed his left hand at the wrist,” I said. “The blood that didn’t boil away froze solid.”

  “I’ve seen more than my share of accidents in space,” Rumbold said, “but this is a weird one.”

  We worked on Jimmy, who was still breathing shallowly. His suit had done its best to save his life, but he’d lost consciousness. Losing air and blood, he’d grabbed onto the stump, which had leaked out blood and frozen the liquid, creating a poor seal.

  “He didn’t even cry out,” I said, marveling.

  “He probably didn’t have any air in his lungs for it,” Rumbold said. “Decompression—he’ll have permanent damage, most likely. Poor kid.”

  Jimmy was twice my age, at least. But among this crew, that wasn’t anything unusual.

  Rumbold himself, having the most medical training of the crew, performed the task of patching up Jimmy’s wound. Then he sealed him into the automated medical pod.

  “The stump is clean,” he said. “Some fibers from the suit are in there, but not much else.”

  Working as gently and quickly as we could, we reached into the pod with gloved hands. We didn’t have a full robotic survival system, but our single pod was capable of keeping a man alive by supplying carefully measured sustenance and injecting programmed drugs. It couldn’t perform surgeries or other complicated medical procedures. It was too basic and out of date for that.

  “No sign of the hand, was there?”

  “None,” I said. I shook my head, staring out through the clear polymer shell. “It’s a bit too dark out there to find a missing body part.”

  “Pity. A regrow will set him back years.”

  “The Guard will pay for it,” I said with a certainty I didn’t feel.

  Rumbold chuckled and shook his head, but he didn’t openly reject my premise.

  After a half hour or so, Jimmy woke up. His breathing was ragged and labored. Sweat sheened his face despite the whirring of fans inside the pod.

  His eyes sought mine. “I’m not dead,” he said, almost in a whisper. He seemed quite surprised.

  “No, you’re not!” Rumbold laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. “The skipper went nuts and took off after you, dragging you back in here.”

  Jimmy’s mouth was drawn in pain and shock. He was under sedation, but the drug only went so far. The medical computer had recommended we keep him comfortable, but not to lower his blood pressure too much. He’d already gotten a packet of artificial blood, but it had been past its expiration date. We didn’t want to push things.

  “Skipper—did you see them? The tubes?”

  I stared at Jimmy for a second. “Tubes?”

  “Flying around—I caught one. That’s what killed me, I think.”

  “You’re alive, Jimmy,” Rumbold said worriedly. He was thumbing the interface on the medical computer, double-checking everything.

  “No,” Jimmy said. “I’m not—or at least, that thing out there thought it had killed me. I’m sure of that much.”

  “You’re not making sense, Jimmy,” Rumbold said gently. “I’m going to increase your sedative, hold on—”

  “Not yet,” I said, leaning against the glass. “Jimmy, listen to me. You said you caught one of the objects. Where is it?”

  “In my bag. Did you bring it back in?”

  I cursed. I hadn’t thought to do so. There had been equipment, but I’d left it all. Just dragging Jimmy back into the ship by the harness had been a struggle.

  “Disgusting,” I said. “If I ha
dn’t been so worried about my own skin, I’d have taken the time to retrieve the bag.”

  “Skipper,” Rumbold said, shaking his head. “You were thinking of safety first. No spacer lasts long without having his priorities straight when he’s on the wrong side of his ship’s hull. Jimmy’s breathing, as are you, and that’s the best result we could have hoped for.”

  I looked up and nodded as my eyes roved over the hull he spoke of.

  “Chief, what kind of acceleration did you put us under when we left the object?”

  “You could feel it, I’m sure. Less than a G. Nice and steady, so Jimmy wouldn’t get thrown around.”

  My eyes drifted along the ceiling to the airlock and fixated there. Rumbold followed my gaze.

  “Oh, no sir! Don’t even think about it.”

  “I’m going out again. Watch the conn for me.”

  Rumbold complained and cursed under his breath while I suited up and climbed back outside through the lock again. He’d pulled us a good distance away from the object. I could barely see it anymore. Perhaps if the Sun hit the surface just right…

  “I’ve killed the engines,” Rumbold said in my ear. “Find anything?”

  “No, not yet.”

  Climbing over the ship from stem to stern, then switching to the far side and doing it again, I’d almost given up when I spotted Jimmy’s bag.

  There it was, hanging from a parabolic antennae. I smiled, took the bag gently and slung it over my shoulder. Then I crawled my way back into the hatch.

  The crew cheered me this time as I entered the main cabin. I could see by their relieved faces they’d thought I might not manage to beat the odds twice.

  It made me glad to think these old spacers wanted me alive more than they wanted me dead. When I’d first come aboard there hadn’t been a kind eye in the group. My appointment to command tiny Cutlass was initially assumed to have been gained through leverage and nepotism. From their point of view, I was a rich snot from the Academy.

  The truth was my family would never have helped my career in the Guard, not directly. My father didn’t approve of it. He’d wanted me to fail. Service in space? For his heir? I was an embarrassment, a public relations disaster.

  But my crusty crewmen hadn’t understood the attitude of House Sparhawk. They’d assumed my commission had been arranged, rather than earned. I hadn’t made a direct effort to enlighten them. If they’d understood how my family really felt about the Guard, they might have disliked me even more.

  Despite the cold beginning, I’d managed to win them over and at some point over the years, and we’d bonded. We’d come to trust one another. Men who are forced to live in cramped conditions and depend on each other for a long period of time either go mad and kill one other, or they become brothers. Fortunately, we’d chosen the latter path.

  “What’cha got in the bag, Skipper?” Rumbold asked.

  As I was curious myself, I unslung the bag and opened it. I stared at the object inside, unable to speak for a moment.

  Of all the things I’d expected to find, for some reason, this wasn’t among them—although in retrospect perhaps it should have been.

  The object was oblong and tube-shaped. When I drew it out into the open, white mist drifted from its cold surface. It was smooth metal, identical to the first such tube I’d seen aboard a smuggler’s ship several weeks ago.

  “It’s one of those things, sir!” Rumbold gasped in recognition. “A tube like the ones that smuggler was transporting!”

  Nodding slowly, I stared at the object.

  How could such an artifact be so far out in space? And in such numbers? The sensors were now tracking hundreds of similar objects in the vicinity. I suspected they were all identical floating tubes.

  “A frozen embryo,” I said, checking the contents briefly before resealing the container. “There’s no doubt of it. But what’s an embryo doing out here in deep space, orbiting a comet?”

  Rumbold’s bloodshot eyes ran over the tube, but he didn’t reach for it. He stared warily, as if it were a venomous snake rather than an innocuous steel tube.

  I, for one, couldn’t fault his cautious attitude.

  -10-

  We withdrew a thousand kilometers from the object and reported our findings to Captain Singh aboard Altair. I described the injured crewman, the readings from the comet, and the inexplicable cloud of tubes floating in the area.

  Due to the vast distances involved, we had to wait for the better part of an hour to hear his reply. When the signal finally came through, I didn’t display it publicly as I suspected it might be bad for morale to do so. Instead, I put on a worn mind-link headset. Utilizing the twin implants inside my skull that stimulated my optic nerves directly, I watched as Singh’s recorded message was replayed.

  Singh slouched in his captain’s chair aboard Altair and regarded me with an expression of frank disgust.

  “Let me get this straight, Sparhawk,” he began. “I sent you out on a routine mission to investigate a rock and approve it for exploitation. Somehow, you’ve managed to get a crewman seriously injured during the execution of this simple task. Worse, upon discovering evidence of a small cargo of dumped goods, you made an emergency call and further wasted my time and strained the Guard’s budget.”

  He heaved a sigh and shook his head. His attitude was that of a parent speaking to a small child.

  I felt a natural urge to shout back at my superior, but I knew it was futile in several ways. For one, my words would take an hour to get to him. And even if he’d been able to hear me immediately, he was unlikely to listen.

  “Where do I begin?” he asked rhetorically. “Your lack of experience in these matters is painful. The worst part is this tendency to jump to absurd conclusions rather than assuming the most likely scenario is the correct one until proven otherwise. Let me explain: you’ve uncovered evidence that some rock rat or another has flown out there and tried to start mining illegally. From your own admissions, they carry these embryonic trade goods. Don’t you find the most likely scenario is that the pilot suffered a mishap, and he lost part of his cargo? We can only hope he lost his life as well.”

  Gritting my teeth, I listened to the rest of his transmission.

  “Here are your new orders: immediately approve the site for mining and bring your ship home. We’ll have the tube you found analyzed—although it’s obviously pointless. Altair out.”

  Glaring and muttering to myself, I removed the mind-link and examined my board. Working with rapid swipes and tapping motions, I accessed the online regulation books. After a few moments of perusal, I found what I was looking for.

  For the first time in hours, a smile graced my features.

  “What’s the good news from Altair, Skipper?” Rumbold asked. He’d been watching me carefully throughout the exchange, and I could tell he was concerned about my focused behavior.

  I turned to him and flashed him a toothy grin.

  “There is indeed good news, Rumbold,” I said. “Excellent news, in fact. Did you know the salvage identification bylaws of 2125 stipulate that only the senior officer present at a discovery site can legally determine its status?”

  Rumbold’s expression became cautious. “I…uh…I’m not sure how that applies to our current situation, sir.”

  “Use your imagination, man,” I responded with enthusiasm. “It means that Singh can’t make an inspection determination from Earth orbit. I, without a doubt, am the senior officer present. I’m going to mark this find’s status as undetermined. Plot a course for home.”

  Rumbold did as I asked glumly. He didn’t seem to be enjoying my newfound regulatory standing.

  It was about three hours later that we began a long, slow burn back toward the inner planets. We watched as our fuel supply dwindled, along with the local presence of Jupiter.

  Some six hours after that, another communication came in from Altair. It just so happened that I was sleeping at that point. Rumbold tapped me awake.

  “S
ir?” he hissed, his eyes wide and staring. “Sir, it’s Singh again. He sounds upset.”

  Rolling into a sitting position on my seat and stretching, I activated my mind-link again and played Singh’s message directly into my skull. He wasn’t happy, just as Rumbold had indicated.

  “Lieutenant Commander Sparhawk,” he began sternly. “I’ve been monitoring all transmissions from your quadrant to Guard Command, just in case you decided to send your report in directly. I’ve yet to receive any updates from your expedition. Your original report has still not been amended. Fix the situation immediately. Singh out.”

  Chewing over my options, I drank stimulating fluids laced with glucose and caffeine to wake myself up. I realized that I couldn’t ignore him completely.

  Sprucing up my appearance as much as possible, I addressed the camera in my console formally and spoke to it.

  “Captain Singh,” I said. “Unfortunately, I’m unable to comply with your wishes. As the senior officer present during the inspection of the object in question, I was not able to classify it as innocuous, nor was I able to determine exactly what it was. Additionally, we’ve now expended too much of our remaining fuel supply to return to the object for further investigation. My report to Guard Command must, therefore, stand unedited. I thank you for your concern, and I apologize for any misunderstanding.”

  Nearly two hours passed as the message flew at the speed of light toward Earth. I imagined that a reply would be transcribed and transmitted in return, but I could only wait to hear what it was.

  During that time, my tiny ship continued to accelerate. It would take days to reach our full cruising speed. At that point, we’d shut down the engines. We would coast sunward until we came close to Earth weeks from now, where we’d begin braking. When we came close to home, we’d allow ourselves to be caught by the planetary gravity well and slip into a stable orbit.

  When the incoming message light blinked again, Rumbold glanced at me. He made no move to open the channel himself.

  “Is it my imagination, or are you sweating, Rumbold?” I asked. “Have our air conditioning systems failed again?”