Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  In the stern vision screen the spaceport buildings were dwindling fast.

  “Agatha’s Ark is lifting.”

  “Good.”

  Up drove the four ships, and up. The flickering altimeter numerals in the screen told their story of ever and rapidly increasing distance from the ground. Soon, thought Grimes, it would be time for the first test of his captains—and of himself. Never before had he been called upon to assume responsibility for the movements of more than a single ship. He had discussed the maneuver that he was about to attempt with the three other tramp masters, had told them that it was one frequently carried out by Survey Service squadrons shortly after lift-off. He had instructed them in signals procedure. It was a quite spectacular evolution, especially during the hours of darkness, but as long as everything was working properly there was no risk.

  “Stand by inertial and reaction drive controls,” he ordered. “Acknowledge.”

  In the screen he saw paired brilliant lights, one red and one blue, blossom into life on the gun turrets of the other ships, so sited as to be visible to all concerned. Sister Sue was now displaying similar illuminations.

  His hand poised over his inertial drive controls, he looked to Williams, whose fingers were on the light switches. The mate nodded.

  “Execute!”

  The clangor of the inertial drive ceased suddenly. In the screen Grimes saw the blue lights on the other ships wink out as one. He felt the inevitable weightlessness as Sister Sue began to drop.

  “Execute!”

  As the red lights were switched off blue incandescence and white vapor burst from the sterns of the ships. Acceleration slammed Grimes down into his chair.

  Not bad, he thought, not bad at all . . .

  “Pride of Erin is out of station,” said the Countess coldly. “She is lifting relative to us.”

  “She’s not going to come sniffing up our arse, is she?” asked Grimes coarsely.

  “No, sir.”

  He had seen worse, he remembered. There had been one quite spectacular balls-up many years ago when he had been a junior officer aboard Aries. The cruiser, with four escorting destroyers, had lifted from Atlantia. One of the destroyers had not only accelerated violently but had deviated from trajectory, missing the flagship of the squadron by the thickness of the proverbial coat of paint, searing her plating with the fiery backblast.

  Anyhow, there was no point in wasting reaction mass. He ordered the required signals to be flashed, cut the reaction drive and restarted inertial drive simultaneously.

  The fleet lifted steadily.

  ***

  Once clear of the Van Allens, trajectory was set for the Kalla sun. Grimes wondered what prevision, if any, he would experience during the moments while the temporal precession field of the Mannscherm Drive built up. What visions of battle and carnage would he see?

  But there was only a voice—his voice—singing, not very tunefully.

  I murdered William Moore as I sailed, as I sailed,

  I murdered William Moore as I sailed,

  I knocked him on the head till he bled the scuppers red

  And I heaved him with the lead

  As I sailed . . .

  Then inside the control room the warped perspective snapped back to normality and colors resumed their proper places in the spectrum. Outside, the stars were no longer points of brilliance but resembled writhing nebulae.

  Grimes looked at Williams.

  The mate, obviously, was unaware that his captain was destined to kill him. But, thought Grimes, there is an infinitude of possible futures. There are probabilities and improbabilities—but there are no impossibilities.

  He unbuckled himself from his chair, went to look into the screen of the mass proximity indicator. All the ships were there, as they should have been. Soon, thought Grimes, he would carry out trials of the synchonizers with which the privateers were fitted, and then there would be a few practice shots. There was no urgency, however. Until those Letters of Marque were issued Sister Sue and the others were just innocent merchantmen proceeding on their lawful occasions.

  “Deep Space routine, Mr. Williams,” he ordered. “You know where to find me if you want me.”

  He went down to his day cabin, where he was joined after a few minutes by Mayhew.

  Chapter 39

  “I HAVE THAT DAMNED prevision again,” he told the telepath. “The Ballad of Captain Kidd. I murdered William Moore, and all the rest of it.”

  “I know,” said Mayhew.

  “You would. But I don’t like it. There’re a few people aboard this ship who tempt me to commit murder—but Williams isn’t one of them.”

  “But it’s not a certainty, Commodore. It’s no more than one of the many possibilities.”

  “A probability, Mr. Mayhew.”

  “But still not a certainty.”

  “Then I’ll just have to hope for the best. Now, you’ve got your fingers on the pulse of the ship. Is everybody happy in the service?”

  “At the moment, sir, yes. Even Her Highness the Countess of Walshingham.”

  “She’s not a ‘highness.’ She’s only a Countess.”

  Mayhew grinned. “Of course, sir, you are more familiar with aristocratic ranks and ratings than we low, common spacemen are. Oh, have you seen dear Wally’s pet yet?”

  “No.”

  “I have. The thing gives me the creeps. Outwardly it’s no more than a cat—a big one, black, with a white bib and socks. But the fur’s synthetic and the claws are razor-sharp steel and the skeleton is steel too. And the battery that powers its motors will deliver at maximum capacity for all of twelve standard months. The brain’s organic, though. A feline brain, modified, with absolute loyalty to the Countess. And it’s programed to kill—anybody or anything—to protect her or if she so orders it. And it’s programed to self-destruct if its mistress dies.”

  “So there’s a bomb of some kind inside it,” said Grimes.

  “That I don’t know, sir. I don’t possess X-ray vision.”

  “Presumably dear Wally knows.”

  “But unless she’s actually thinking about it there’s no way that I can tell.”

  “What is she thinking about now?”

  Mayhew looked pained.

  “First you tell me that you do not approve of . . . snooping. Now you tell me to snoop.” He creased his brow in concentration. Suddenly and surprisingly he blushed. “Oh, no,” he muttered. “No . . .”

  “What is it, Mr. Mayhew?”

  “It’s embarrassing, that’s what. Ms. Connellan and the Countess are both off watch. How would you like to experience the sensation of that green, greasy skin against yours? Those fat, floppy breasts . . .”

  “That will do, Mr. Mayhew.”

  The telepath grinned. “Well, you asked for it, sir, and you got it. The trouble is that I did too.”

  Chapter 40

  SISTER SUE and her consorts fell steadily through the warped continuum toward the Kalla sun. Now and again the Mannschenn Drive would be shut down aboard all vessels so that a practice shoot could be held; this was necessary as the targets used would be outside the temporal precession fields and therefore visually invisible. At fairly close range, of course, they would show up in the screens of the mass proximity indicators—but MPIs are essentially indicators only and do not fix the position of an object, large or small, with the accuracy of radar. This latter, naturally enough, can be employed only in Normal Space Time. Too, as Grimes never ceased to impress upon his own officers and the other shipmasters, to change a vessel’s mass while the interstellar drive is in operation is to court disaster.

  “You’ll warp the field,” he would say. “You’ll finish up lost in time as well as in space. You won’t know if it’s last Christmas or next Thursday. Of course, when there are two ships in close proximity, with temporal precession fields synchronized and overlapping, it will be possible to use missiles or projectile weapons as long as what you throw does not leave the effective limits of th
e combined field. But laser, of course, you can use in any circumstances.”

  For the first practice shoot Grimes had released from his ship a large balloon with a skin of metallic foil. He ordered his fleet into line astern formation and drove out and away from the target until it was no more than a tiny spark on the screens. He then steered a circular trajectory about the target. Much to the annoyance of Williams and Venner, who wanted to demonstrate their skill, he let Pride of Erin be the first to engage the make-believe enemy, using the quick-firing cannon: The target was unscathed. Then it was the turn of Spaceways Princess. The flashes of the bursting shells could just be seen through the control-room binoculars but the speck of light in the radar screen still shone, indicating that the balloon was still intact. Finally Agatha’s Ark had her turn. The spark vanished as the balloon was torn to shreds.

  “Well done, Agatha’s Ark,” said Grimes into the microphone of the NST transceiver.

  “She must have been using the gunnery computer,” came O’Leary’s aggrieved voice.

  “I was not, Captain O’Leary,” said Agatha Prinn tartly.

  “An’ why should we not use the computer?” demanded O’Leary. “It’s supposed to be used, isn’t it, Commodore? In an actual battle we’d all be usin’ our computers . . .”

  “In an actual battle,” said Grimes, “you could have suffered one or more direct hits, playing merry hell with your electronics. But as long as your seat-of-the-pants gunnery is up to scratch you stand a chance of surviving.”

  Another balloon was launched and this time laser was used against it. Agatha’s Ark opened the action but without success. Spaceway Princess did no better; neither did Pride of Erin. Then Venner sulked while Williams took over the fire control. The Green Hornet and the Countess looked on disdainfully, as did the big black cat with its white markings that had accompanied its mistress to the control room.

  The mate stared into the repeater screen. “Range . . .” he muttered. “Acceleration . . . With laser there’s no deflection to worry about . . .” He manipulated the controls with sure fingers. Then with his left forefinger he stabbed down—once, again and again, loosing off one-second pulses.

  “Got it, Billy!” said Venner, who was watching the main display.

  From the transceiver came Agatha Prinn’s voice. “Nice shooting, Sister Sue.”

  And then there was O’Leary complaining again. “I’d have got that damn’ balloon if ye’d let me use my laser like a sword. Just one good slash, an’ . . .”

  Again Grimes had to explain. He said patiently, “As I told you before, you’ve suffered direct hits. Your jennies have packed up. All you have to give you juice is your power cells. When they’re dead, you’re dead. You must conserve energy.”

  “Ye’re a mon after me own heart, Commodore,” broke in Captain MacWhirter.

  So it went on. It became obvious that somebody aboard Agatha’s Ark, probably Captain Prinn herself, was a very good gunner. The Princess would never be better than fair and those aboard Pride of Erin would not be able, as Williams put it, to shoot their way out of a paper bag. Grimes had three good gunnery officers aboard his own ship—himself and Williams and Venner.

  The privateers graduated from balloons to moving targets—practice missiles fired from Sister Sue and programed to steer a random trajectory. Reluctantly Grimes conceded that against these it was necessary to make use of the battle computers.

  There were other drills—these in the use of the field synchronizers and, just as important, the techniques to be employed in breaking free from synchronization. It was extremely unlikely that any merchantmen would be fitted with the synchronizing device but all too probable that Hallicheki warships would be so equipped. As with the gunnery, Agatha’s Ark put up the best show, with Spaceways Princess a runner-up. Pride of Erin’s performance left much to be desired.

  “They couldn’t wriggle out of a paper bag,” said Williams disgustedly. “I hope that Captain O’Leary never tangles with a real warship.”

  “I hope that none of us do,” said Grimes. “Come to that, I hope that the Hallicheki haven’t gotten around yet to defensively arming their merchantmen. We’re in this business, Mr. Williams, to make money, not to take lives.”

  “Rather strange words to be coming from you, Skipper,” said the mate. “If only half the stories one hears about you are true you’ve done more than your fair share of killing.”

  “When I was pushed into it,” Grimes told him. “Only when I was pushed into it.”

  And would this William Moore Williams push him into it? he asked himself. He hoped that he would not. Yet, twice, there had been the warning, the prevision.

  I murdered William Moore as I sailed . . .

  ***

  The voyage continued.

  Daily there was Carlotti radio communication with Port Kane, coded messages back and forth. These messages were not only to and from Grimes; the Countess of Walshingham was also keeping old Mr. Stewart busy. The radio officer should not, legally, have informed his captain of this traffic but he did so. Her signals, out and in, were coded. Grimes ran them through the coding machine with which he had been supplied by Kane—and it was at once obvious that the El Doradan was using a code of her own.

  So Grimes called in Mayhew.

  “More snooping, Captain?” asked the telepath. “This privateering is having a bad effect on your ethical standards.”

  “We haven’t started privateering yet,” said Grimes. “Well, as you almost certainly know, dear Wally is in daily communication with her happy home world. All messages out and in are in a code to which I don’t have the key. I’d like to know what’s cooking.”

  “At this moment,” said Mayhew, “dear Wally, as you call her, is engaged in romantic dalliance with our other non-favorite lady. I have no desire again to intrude upon their sweaty privacy. But this is what I can do. The purser’s office is on the same deck as the radio office. When I see Wally making a call on Stewart I’ll snoop. She’s bound to be thinking about the message that she’s getting off.”

  Grimes did not have long to wait.

  “What she is sending,” Mayhew told him, “is daily reports on the conduct of the voyage, and her estimation of the capabilities of yourself, your officers and of the other captains. You are ‘a typical Survey Service officer, a slave to routine and lacking in imagination . . .’”

  “I don’t think that her boss, Commodore Kane, shares that opinion,” said Grimes.

  “He does not, Captain. I took the liberty of eavesdropping now and again during your conferences back on El Dorado. His evaluation of your good self was, ‘cunning as a shit-house rat.’”

  “Now you tell me. But, more important, what is Kane telling Wally?”

  “Mainly routine acknowledgments of her signals. But he is impressing upon her that she must accompany you when you call on the High Cock of Kalla.”

  “What a title!” laughed Grimes.

  “It gains absurdity in the translation,” said Mayhew.

  “And suppose that I don’t wish to have my fourth mate with me when I do my dickerings with His Avian Majesty?”

  “Probably you’ll be getting orders on that subject from the El Dorado Corporation, through Kane. Even commodores, service or company, have to do as they’re told by their superiors.”

  “And well I know it, Mr. Mayhew. What makes it complicated in my case is that there are two parties giving me orders.”

  “And you were never very good at taking orders, were you?” said Mayhew.

  Chapter 41

  THE PRIVATEER FLEET came to Kalla.

  Grimes was relieved to discover that the Hegemony had not yet established a blockade of the rebel planet. Without doubt they would be attempting to do so eventually—but the Hallicheki, he knew from past experience of the avian race, were apt to run around in circles squawking like wet hens before they actually got around to Doing Something. When they did take action, however, it would be with a cold-blooded viciousness.
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  Kalla is an Earth-type world, although with a somewhat denser atmosphere. It has the usual seas, continents, islands, rivers, mountain ranges, deserts, fertile plains, forests, polar ice caps and all the rest of it. There is agriculture and there are industries, although there is little automation. The main means of freight transport is by towed balloon, the more or less streamlined gas bags being dragged through the atmosphere by teams of winged workers. Before the revolution these were caponized males. After the revolution it was the hens who had to do the heavy work.

  Sister Sue established first contact with Kalla Aerospace Control, by Carlotti radio, while still seven standard days out. Four days out she was challenged by a vessel of the Insurrectionary Navy. This warship made a close approach and attempted to synchronize precession rates with the privateers’ flagship. Had she attempted to do so with Pride of Erin she would almost certainly have been successful. Grimes’ Mannschenn Drive engineer, Malleson, knew all about the synchronizer, its uses and abuses. Although the blob of light representing the guard ship was bright enough in the screen of the mass proximity indicator not so much as the faintest ghost of her was ever seen through the viewports.

  Then she did what she should have done at first, calling Sister Sue on the Carlotti radio.

  A squawking voice issued from the speaker. “Karkoran to leader of squadron. Karkoran to leader of squadron. Come in. Come in.”

  The screen came alive and from it looked out the face of a great, gaudy bird—hooked beak, fierce yellow eyes, a golden crest over green and scarlet plumage.

  “Sister Sue here,” said Grimes. “Company Commodore Grimes commanding. Identify yourself, please.”

  “Flight Leader Kaskonta, Commander of the Inner Starways. I am to escort you and your squadron to Kalla.”

  “I am obliged to you, Flight Leader.”

  “I shall be obliged to you, Commodore, if you will allow me to synchronize.”

  Grimes hesitated briefly. He told Williams and Venner, both of whom were in the control room, to stand by the ship’s fire control. He did not expect any trouble—there were never any male avians aboard the warships of the Hegemony—but it would cost nothing to be prepared. He called Malleson, who was in the Mannschenn Drive room.