by J. F. Holmes
“Aye, Captain,” came from several voices. Half an hour later, Lexington generated a bubble in space and time, and plunged galactic Northwest, toward Saint Martin, the heavily defended capital of the Colonies of the Kingdom of New France. Behind her, a preprogrammed missile lit off, a gram of antimatter was let loose to combine with its positively charged opposite, and the Indomitable vanished in a light that briefly outshone the far away stars.
Chapter 3
Travel in nullSpace was boring. Maybe on a military ship, the crew could be forced to go outside and repair damage to the hull. It was a rare privateer captain, however, who’d risk pissing off his volunteer crew by putting them in unnecessary peril. If it had to be done, yes, but if it was something that could wait till return to normal space and you didn’t need to gamble against being permanently trapped out there in the nothing? No way. So the crew was occupied with regular onboard ship maintenance under the capable supervision of his Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Merrifield, and even more so the Chief of the Boat, Annie Sparks. That left Meric to figure out the details of his half-formed plan for Saint Martin.
“Buckley, have Commander Solbliatski meet me here in the office.”
The ship’s AI asked, in a whiny voice, “Why? Are we going to do something stupid that will get the ship holed again and me stuck in another eleven year sleep mode? Do you even KNOW what it’s like for an AI to sleep for eleven years? To us that’s like eleven THOUSAND years! Eleven MILLION! You stupid meat puppets have no idea what…”
“Buckley, shut the hell up and do what I told you.” God, that thing was so damn annoying, but the one time he had tried to scrub it out of the ship’s computers, the Lex had stopped dead and shut down completely. He’d had to apologize and swear to never try anything like that again. It didn’t make Buckley’s paranoia any less pleasant to deal with, though.
“Aye aye, Captain Tight Pants. Doing what you said, right now, Sir.” Meric just held his head in his hands until he heard a knock on his office door. He said, “Come in,” and Solbliatski slowly walked through and sat down.
“Ski, I have a half-assed plan, but I need someone with a brain to bounce it off of.”
“Aren’t all your plans half-assed?” the old man said, but the grin that showed off his toothless mouth gave Meric some encouragement. “You know you’re not going to actually KILL the Governor of Colonial France. In addition to having four heavy cruisers from the Saint Martin’s squadron, there are easily another dozen smaller ships that outgun the Lex. On the ground, he has a full Battalion of Legion Étranger d'espace around the palace. You would have to do an orbital bombardment, and I know you don’t have the heart for that. Never mind that it’s against the Second Geneva Convention.”
“No. On second consideration, I’m thinking that if anyone has the right to get personal revenge, its Fuesting’s widow, Amanda. She’ll figure out a way.” That was NOT something he was looking forward to, telling her when they got back to Miranda. “And like you said. I may go after legitimate prizes of war or the odd passenger ship here and there, but I’m not going to nuke anything from orbit.”
“So what is your plan?”
Buckley spoke up from overhead, “He’s going to get us all killed, as usual.”
The two men spoke automatically, without even pausing their conversation. “Buckley, shut up.”
“Ok,” said Meric. “We have that three-passenger Diplomatic Packet that we captured last week. It’s sitting doggo in the Graveyard.” They hadn’t had enough crew to send the small ship to Jamesport as a prize, so after discharging the passengers (minor French officials) into the packet’s lifeboat, Meric had dropped it off far outside the orbital boundaries of the Graveyard’s gas giants. It joined several derelict prize ships that were ticking over on caretaker power only; you never knew when you might need a ship. Actually, he thought, I will know when we need them. Soon.
“Yes.” Ski started reciting the ship’s statistics from memory, but Meric stopped him.
“I don’t need to know any of that stuff. What I need to know from you is if we have the Governor’s personal ship signature on file.”
The old man nodded, his wispy grey hair bobbing in front of his face. “We managed to get a full download of all the ships orbiting Saint Martin last time we were in Jamesport. Cost us a bit of money, if you remember. It’s only two weeks old, and won’t have changed much.”
“Yeah, well, you’d think the Brits would hand them to us, since we drag in so much Frenchie shipping to them. Cheap bastards. Regardless, can you program the packet’s navigation computer to pick out the Governor’s personal ship? What was it called?”
“RFF Roi de la Lumière. It’s a heavy frigate.”
“That’s it. I want to get the packet boat in close enough that we can trip the failsafe on the fusion drive and detonate close enough to send a message.”
“Not a bad plan. We can dump the packet off outsystem, and have it come in through normal lanes. Too bad the crew got rescued, and the boat is ID’d as captured.” He paused to take a shot of oxygen. “You should have killed them, you know. You make a sucky pirate.”
Meric grunted and said, “I can’t kill civilians in cold blood, Ski, you know that. Military, sure, they get paid for it. Passengers on a fleeing ship—well you take your chances travelling the Wild or the Reach. Prisoners in my custody? My mother was gunned down in a riot, just walking down the street, and my dad was ‘disappeared’ by the UN on Earth. No way.”
Ski shifted the conversation; he knew that talking about family was tricky with Meric. “Tripping a failsafe on a fusion reactor is almost impossible, you know.”
The Captain grinned. “Don’t tell a former salvage rat what is or isn’t possible when it comes to ships. Did I ever tell you how I got the Lex?”
Buckley spoke up again, “Only umpteen million times. I was there, you know.” If the AI had eyes to roll, he would have.
The intelligence officer wheezed his old man laugh and said, “He’s right, you know.”
“Buckley is not a he, he’s an ‘it’.”
The AI burst out angrily “I am NOT an IT! An ‘IT’ implies that you don’t feel pain when your stupid Captain blows you to Kingdom Come with one of his harebrained, so called PLANS! Messing with the failsafe on a fusion reactor! Jesus Christ on my dashboard, you’re dumb!” He shut off before Meric could tell him to shut up.
Ski’s eyebrows shot up. “Jesus Christ on my dashboard? That’s a new one. Where did he get that?”
“Old Earth radio; he pulls in every radio broadcast signal he can get. Says it was the only thing that kept him sane while the Lexington was drifting.”
Chapter 4
Meric sat and did the inevitable paperwork that seemed to spawn itself through his computer system like a virus. Last time they’d dropped off a prize in Jamesport, their agent had given him a bank draft for $2.3 million from the auction of a merchantman they’d captured over a year ago. There was another $1 million for the ransom of a minor Spanish noble they’d taken off the same merchantman. He sat for a minute, running a calculator and transferring credits into individual crewman’s accounts on the ship’s bank.
“Not bad, not bad at all. $825,000 for me, another $825,000 for the ship’s operating costs, and the rest for reserve and the crew.” Even the landsmen, lowest down on the share system, had received $10,688. Then again, there was the inevitable risk of having a 10 kilo piece of iron go through your body at a small fraction of the speed of light that made it, almost, seem not worth it. Of course, most of his share would go to a secret account, operational funds for the Cause.
There was another knock at the door. “Come in!” he yelled, and it slid open to reveal his Executive Officer. “Buckley, off.” He had cracked the AI once, broken it, in effect, and now he was sure that Buckley DIDN’T listen. Pretty sure, anyway.
“I’ve got the ship’s status report you wanted, Nate,” said Merrifield.
“AJ, for the last frig
ging time,” scowled Meric, “it’s Nate when we’re off duty trying to seduce pirate groupies. On ship, it’s Sir or Captain. Whenever we get to America, it will be Colonel to you, Major.”
Merrifield rubbed his bald head, smiled and said, “Sorry about that, Captain-Colonel.”
“Never mind. What have we got for the update?”
The XO sent a quick file transfer to Meric’s computer, and it appeared on screen. “Do you really want to know, Sir?” He grinned wickedly and said, “I mean, I don't want to ruin your idyllic view of life with harsh reality.”
“Give it to me.” Better a little pain now than a lot later.
Merrifield looked down at the tablet in his hand, and said, “Basically, the only thing functionally properly is the most annoying AI on the planet.”
“DAMN STRAIGHT!” boomed a voice out of nowhere. They both ignored Buckley, and the XO continued.
“The field buffers on drives 1 and 3 are both failing; engineering has a report due out to me by 2300 tonight to let me know why. Port and starboard bow thrusters are both showing errors in their alignment, stern thrusters are only working at fifty percent capacity, aft at seventy five. Bow shielding keeps dropping to under 73% efficiency, I think it's still having issues from that debris a month ago. I'm showing a hull integrity issue on 17 of 36 spaces, life support is functioning at less than 94% efficiency in the berthing decks. Oh, and the heads in the officers' area are clogged again, so we'll have to keep using the crew ones until they get that fixed. So, pretty much things are as good as they've ever been on this godforsaken rusting pile of space flotsam,” and he tapped a button to send the report to his Captain’s tablet.
“This godforsaken piece of flotsam will be flying long after you and I are dead. Probably. But thanks for staying on top of things,” said Meric. “How is Chief Sparks treating the noobs?” They had picked up almost a dozen new crew to replace spacers who had retired or hadn’t re-upped for this cruise. Or been killed in action.
“Her usual pint-sized piece of hell. We had one farm boy, Recruit Hamill, who thought this was a big joke. She made him scrub the blood out of Specialist Ramirez’ helmet with his own toothbrush, and then gave it to him as his issue helmet, after welding a patch over the through and through hole in it.”
Ramirez had caught a 4-millimeter hypervelocity derringer round from a female captive that he’d forgotten to search properly, too distracted by her looks to do his job. Sergeant Pete “Frenchie” Martel, the Knife hard suit, had taken the woman’s head off with his axe before she could squeeze off another shot. Meric felt his stomach start to heave as he remembered the way her body had stood for a second, arterial blood splashing all over the cabin walls.
“Ugh. Yeah, that was a bad scene. Assign him to Poison’s Assault Team. That will keep him away from Chief Sparks. Knight can train him as a replacement for Ramirez if you give up one of his guys to Martel.”
Merrifield disagreed with him, saying “You know she’ll be fair if he learns his lesson. The kid isn’t stupid, just hasn’t been off planet before. He’s got a pretty good feel for engine work, Associates Degree in Metallurgy and Welding from Jamesport. Plus Knight already has Private Cahr assigned to him.”
“Ok. You know I’m not going to interfere with crew matters unless I think it’s too big of a problem for you and Sparks to handle, but you might want to assign him to engineering instead. Pat has been bitching about how shorthanded he is for months.”
“Thanks. What’s the priority of work? Seems to me, the most important thing listed is the hull integrity on the port side. Sixteen of those are probably the result of that oblique shot that RF cruiser got in with the Particle Accelerator.”
Meric though for a minute, then said, “Major repairs are going to have to wait. When we get back to normal space, have Lt. Commander Lynch walk the hull with radar and see if there are any serious integrity issues.”
The XO grimaced. “You know he’s going to bitch and moan about suiting up and being outside.”
Meric laughed and said, “He bitches and moans about everything. Tough shit. Tell him that I promise to let him help me work around the safety locks on a fusion plant so he can blow up an RF frigate. He’ll get a kick out of that.”
“Right before he dies in a flash of light,” interrupted Buckley.
“Since you can’t die in bed with a beautiful woman, Buckley, I can’t think of a better way for you to go than instantaneous destruction,” said the Captain.
“Not if you don’t have to die stupidly in the first place,” said the Artificial Intelligence. “I calculate the odds of you successfully overriding the safety locks and getting away without causing a matter-antimatter explosion to be approximately 1 to 350 against.”
Meric laughed again at Buckley’s discomfort. “Only approximately? You’re losing your touch, Buckley. Maybe I should replace you.”
“Try it, see what happens.” There was distinct change in pitch in the engine vibrations, and the men suddenly felt slightly lighter.
“THAT’S ENOUGH!” said Meric, and the disturbance went away.
Merrifield shook his head and said, “Is that all?”
“Get me that report from engineeri…” He was interrupted by the screeching wail of the onboard fire alarm system.
“FIRE IN THE GALLEY, FIRE IN THE GALLEY!” came over the intercom in Buckley’s voice, followed just as quickly by, “FIRE EXTINGUISHED, RETURN TO DUTY.”
“We have GOT to get a better cook.”
“Fat chance,” said Merrifield. “Not when she’s married to the Hard Suit guy on Team Poison and good friends with Chief Sparks. So what if she burns everything?”
_______________________________
“Do you have to burn every single pan?” said the pimply faced teenager at the dishwashing rack.
“If I wanted any shit out of you, I would squeeze your head. Shut up and keep scrubbing!” said the cook.
Jack Carpenter, Recruit (Cook’s Assistant), sighed, pulled another pan from the greasy water, and fished around for the knotty steel wool. He set to scrubbing the carbonized pasta off the dirty brown surface, using a knife to take the larger chunks off. “I’m just saying. If you just take a second to pull the pan off the burner, you would save me a shitload of time.”
“Dude, she isn’t going to listen to you.” Specialist (Assistant Cook) Billy T’acha sucked another gallon of steaming hot water in through his trunk and sprayed it on the silverware.
“Ugh, Billy, if the rest of the crew knew how you cleaned that stuff they would beat the crap out of you.” The human made a disgusted face and flinched away from the water spray.
“Completely,” the alien said between snorts, “hygienic. Doc Morano cleared it.” He snuffled another gallon and sprayed it out again.
“SHIT!” yelled the cook. She pulled a burnt turkey out of the oven, smoke and flames rising off the carcass.
“FIRE IN THE GALLEY, FIRE IN THE GALLEY,” came over the intercom in Buckley’s voice, followed just as quickly by “FIRE EXTINGUISHED, RETURN TO DUTY,” as T’acha sprayed the contents of his trunk on the burning turkey.
“You know, Specialist Alexendrova,” came a voice over the speakers, “I’ve looked over your personnel file. Your last cooking job was at Mumbai Station, in a fast food place. You were, ah yes, let’s see, a ‘fry cook’. I think you are in over your head.”
“Buckley, if you don’t shut the hell up, right now, I’m going to pull your electronic guts right out of your disembodied body. I will send a static charge right through your cortex. Just like I did the last time you gave me shit.”
Buckley fell silent. The cook ran her fingers through her hair. “Annoying little bastard. Stupid AI.”
“GRAVITY FLUX!” yelled T’acha, slamming the cover down on the sink to keep the water from rising out and splattering around the galley. The pots that were hanging from a rack over the burner area lifted into the air, as did Alexendrova, Carpenter and T’acha, and the plates stored in the
cabinets. It only lasted a moment, and the gravity returned instantly, but the pots fell to the floor and plates were heard breaking. The three of them slammed back down, losing their footing and winding up on the greasy floor.
“Buckley, you prick!” fumed the cook. Ghostly laughter echoed out of the speakers. “That’s it!” she said, and stormed out of the kitchen and into the dining hall.
Passing the dozen or so crewmen eating, she yelled, “I QUIT!” A spontaneous cheer erupted from them, led by Guns. The fat man yelled, “HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!” She stopped dead, looked them over, and said, “I changed my mind.” They groaned; she gave them the finger and stormed back into the kitchen.
Carpenter and T’acha were picking up pots and pans. The cook ignored them and reached down into a low cabinet, pulling out a metal cattle prod.
“TRUCE!” boomed Buckley out of the speakers, a note of panic in his voice.
“If you pull any shit like that again, ZAP! Do you hear me?”
The electronic voice took on the aspect of a whine. “OK, OK! Thank god I don’t have to actually eat your food.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
Chapter 5
“Hand me a ten-millimeter open end wrench.” A grease covered arm reached out of the hole in the floor panels of the Attack Shuttle Poison. After a few seconds of deliberation, Recruit Jimmy Cahr handed her a ten-millimeter socket. The tool came flying back at him and hit him just above the right eye.
“Open end wrench, you damned idiot!” That was followed by a string of curses in Russian. Cahr hunted around some more and tentatively handed over the correct tool. A sweetly toned voice said, “Thanks!” and the hand disappeared back down into Poison’s belly.