Space Cruiser Musashi: a space opera novel

by Dean Chalmers

  On the second tier of the catwalks, a figured pulled loops of wiring from an access panel. The comm tech zoomed in the view… And now Brattain could see clearly that the man on the catwalk was indeed an Engineer, with a capital “E.”

  From their view above, she could see his nearly hairless head, the cybernetic ports on his temples. His hands, covered with a silky sensory mesh, pulled and fiddled with the wiring.

  “This is Commander Brattain,” she said, “report.”

  He turned up to look in the direction of the voice. The Engineer had scanners for eyes: jet black, with lambent yellow gridlines superimposed on them.

  Engineers had always made Brattain uncomfortable, but then they were a necessary evil. Not a job so much as a subspecies, they were the only kind of cyborg that was tolerated in the Republic. Interstellar ships required the manipulation of matter and energy on a quantum scale, and that in turn required someone who could interface with the systems directly.

  Still, the Engineers were supposed to be human, possessing emotions and free will—not like the soulless cyborgs of the corporate worlds. They normally worked in groups, communicating with each other via neuro-interface, which tended to make them seem cold and distant to outsiders.

  But this one seemed to be working alone.

  “Engineer, report,” Commander Brittan repeated.

  The Engineer glanced around nervously.

  “Uh, sorry, it’s—uh—a mild phase reaction. Nothing major.”

  On the bridge, crewmembers snorted derisively.

  “No biggie… It only, like, lit up the ship,” Cruz remarked sarcastically

  Brattain asked the Engineer, “What’s the output variance? Is there any damage to systems from that?”

  “No,” the Engineer said, “Um, I don’t think so. It was secondary. I mean—just a secondary EM effect. A light show, mostly… A pink one. Pink’s pretty harmless…usually.”

  “Is this scheduled maintenance?” Brattain asked.

  “No,” the Engineer admitted, shaking his head. “I was doing some—uh—exploratory optimization.”

  “That’s unacceptable,” Brattain called him. “You will log and schedule any nonemergency maintenance as per regs from now on. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Uh, yes, sir, ma’am, uh…”

  Brattain closed the transmission and turned to Cruz. “Can you give us some thrust now?”

  “Yep,” Cruz said. “Ion engines responding normally.”

  Well, Brattain thought, perhaps we can finally get underway.

  “Lieutenant Reynard,” she ordered, “plot most efficient course to jump point. Ensign Cruz, run a diagnostic and then give me the highest safe accel.”

  “Good work, Commander,” came a voice.

  Brattain turned her chair to see Captain Kane standing directly behind her.

  “I think it’s time to have that meeting,” he told her. “Jesus, you’re in charge.”

  “Yes, sir,” Reynard replied with a crisp salute.

  Kane exited the bridge through a door on the right, and Brattain followed him.

  Is he really happy with how I handled things? she wondered. Perhaps I should’ve been more stern with them?

  Aside from Reynard, this crew demonstrates a definite lack of professionalism…

  6

  The officer’s wardroom was smaller than those on the other ships on which Brattain had served. An oval-shaped black table took up the center of the room, with ten simple L-shaped seats set into the floor around it.

  Kane picked the closest seat and sat down. He extended his hand and invited Brattain to do the same, and she sat down beside him.

  She glanced around the room. The walls were unadorned. Of course, there would be holographic display capability in here as well. But, at the movement, there were no projections, no image of the space outside—merely the blank gray walls.

  Well… Not entirely blank.

  On the wall on the opposite end of the chamber was a framed piece of artwork, a painting in some ancient style showing a robed and bearded warrior slashing out with a sword. The calligraphy on the picture looked to be of some Old Earth origin, but Brattain wasn’t quite sure.

  Captain Kane wore an amused grin watching her as she studied the painting.

  “It’s Musashi,” he said. “Miyamoto Musashi. He was a samurai, a ronin, sort of a wandering warrior in feudal Japan during the early Tokugawa Shogunate.”

  “Of course,” Brattain replied. “So the ship’s named after him?”

  “Well,” he explained, “the ship is named after another vessel from ancient earth, twentieth century, and that, in turn, was named after a province in the nation of Japan. But to me, Miyamoto Musashi, the samurai, embodies the spirit of the ship. I find that his philosophy is so very valuable. We can speak more of that later. As to you, you’ve been busy.”

  “I have?” Brittan responded, startled. She’d only spent a few minutes on the bridge; she wasn’t sure what he was referring to.

  “Yes,” he said. “I see that within five minutes of arriving on board, you dictated a disciplinary report.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling somewhat relieved. “That’s correct, sir. I mean a draft report, at any rate. I’m not sure what kind of format you prefer. It’s just that Ensign Cruz’s behavior, of course, and her attire on the shuttle trip over was—”

  He raised his hand to signal her to stop, shook his head.

  “Reports. Cruz’s record is filled with them. She’s been kicked off some of the finest ships in the fleet. She’s also one of the best pilots I’ve ever seen, holds the current record for enemy fighters downed in a single engagement.”

  He seemed to be almost beaming with pride, as if he’d recruited a legendary war hero for his crew rather than this young, rebellious pilot who—kill record or not—had yet to ascend above the rank of Ensign.

  “She’s great with the bigger ships, too, her rankings in simulations were off the charts. She needs the… family atmosphere… of a bridge crew. Her nihilistic streak is her worst flaw, and keeping her out there in some tiny fighter cockpit, alone, was not doing her any favors.”

  “So you gave her the helm of the Musashi?” Brattain asked, incredulous.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he continued. “You have to understand. This crew is different than most. Many of them are so far down the ladder you can't scare them.”

  “Well, there’s always court martial,” Brattain suggested…

  Kane frowned, and she immediately regretted her joke.

  The Captain leaned forward. “They’re your crew now, our crew. It’s our responsibility to find a way to make use of their talents before we make any rash dismissals.”

  “So,” Brattain asked, “how would you suggest doing that, Sir?”

  He relaxed again, and smiled another paternal smile. “Get to know them. Learn their abilities. Develop faith in them.”

  Develop faith? He was acting as if their discipline issues were her problem, like this was some ancient fairy story where just believing would magically make everything all right.

  “Well, maybe Lieutenant Reynard,” she said. “He at least seems professional and knows how to act like an officer.”

  “Indeed,” Kane said. “I would agree. He’s a brilliant young man, was top of his class at the Academy, numerous decorations.”

  “Then why,” Brattain asked with an awkward pause, “why is he still a—”

  “Still a mere Lieutenant?” Kane said, finishing her thought. “Why is he on this ship? His parents were refugees from the Corporate Worlds. I suppose that explains a lot. I’m a first-generation Republic citizen myself, and, believe me, that stigma is hard to overcome.”

  “Still,” Brattain said, “I think I can trust him, but some of these others—the Engineer, for example. My first impression of him is that he’s unfocused and irresponsible.”

  Kane moved his fingers on the tabletop. Holographic icons appeared and he tapped a few.


  A small projection appeared over the table, a view of the engineering section where the awkward young Engineer was still fiddling with wires, straightening them out and tucking them back into an access port.

  “That’s our engineer, Stefan Sivarek,” Kane explained. “Rank 8. Barely made the Engineer Guild certification. But when the Longina went down on Seraphis, he reconfigured the gravity spike on the fly and saved two hundred lives.”

  But Brattain watched now as, in the process of rewrapping some of the wires, Engineer Sivarek had gotten them tangled around his forearm. He frowned, looking like a frustrated child, tugged at his arm a bit, and then proceeded with the delicate matter of getting himself free.

  “He reconfigured it on the fly?” Brattain asked.

  Kane nodded. “He’s an artist, a genius, a genuine machine empath. I mean… They can all talk to machines, but he can understand them, and people too, I think. He’s more open to emotions than any other Engineer I’ve ever met. Maybe that’s why the Guild is still looking for an excuse to take him out of service.”

  “But what about that Drone marine sergeant?” Brattain asked.

  “Sergeant Molokos, yes.” Kane nodded.

  “Right,” Brattain said. “But he’s a Sergeant? I mean—he’s in charge of other marines?

  “He’s the best choice,” Kane said. “A history of discipline problems, of course. I had to fight for him to retain his position.”

  “Discipline problems?” Brattain said. “I was taught that good followers make good leaders.”

  Kane smiled. “You don’t give in easily.”

  His fingers worked on the icons on the table, and the holographic display shifted. Now they were seeing the inside of the spherical zero-g gym. The platform had been retracted, the gravity turned off.

  Sergeant Molokos, squat, blue-skinned, and impassive, stood in the doorway while ten other Drones wearing reinforced heavy black nanosuits dodged around the weightless sphere as automated low-power lasers fired. They leapt and tumbled with instinctive movements, dodging the beams.

  “Marine Sergeant Molokos,” Kane said. “Gengineered Heavy Worlder, Infantry Class. He's become a tactician, a true warrior, and I consider him a friend. But it's not easy knowing you're a slave to a society that promotes freedom and equality.”

  And, indeed, as Molokos watched his squad performing their drills, dodging the beams with near automated precision, there seemed to be a certain sadness in his rough, blunt features.

  “Is there anyone else I need to know about?” Brattain asked.

  “Well, there is the Psionicist,” Kane said. “I was lucky to get him. One of the most powerful on record.”

  His fingers worked the icons on the table, and a face appeared in the air above the tabletop: a middle-aged man with large, searing dark eyes, his graying hair pulled back and bound in a severe ponytail. He wasn’t attractive; he had too much of a rough look for that. But there was also something boyish about the proportion of his features.

  Brattain recognized the face.

  “That’s Seutter. Griffin? No, no, no. That’s the brother?”

  “Graham Seutter, yes.” Kane said.

  “But his brother was Griffin Seutter, the traitor. He tried to help the Corporate Worlds develop Psionicists of their own?”

  “But Graham wasn’t involved in that,” Kane explained. “He was cleared.”

  “Still,” Brattain said, “I remember from the ‘casts—didn’t he suffer a breakdown after his brother’s execution?”

  “He’s working through some things, yes,” Kane said. “Doctor Xon is treating him. Well, for now, anyway. But he has no trouble doing his job. He’s fast, precise and a great asset to the ship.”

  Now, Brattain felt real anxiety clutching at her chest. She was worried about this Seutter—and about the Captain’s cavalier attitude towards him.

  What if Seutter was suicidal, homicidal, or both? If the Psionicist wanted to destroy the ship, close a wormhole mid-transit… He could kill everyone onboard in an instant.

  “Captain, I’m sorry,” she said, “I just don’t like having a crewmember who is emotionally unstable and who can open wormholes with his mind.”

  “You know,” Kane said, “I told you I’d tell you about Musashi, the warrior in the picture over there? He was a samurai, part of a warrior tradition which emphasized honor, purpose and precision. He started out as an animal, by his own account. But a wise monk took him on as a student and he became a great warrior and strategist. I mean, in his case he was locked in a small room for a couple of years with a library of Buddhist texts, but that was the environment that led to his epiphany, and led to him reaching his full potential. We all carry great potential inside of us, but it often takes the right environment to bring it out. So I do what I can to provide such an environment.”

  He swept his arms out as if indicating the entirety of the ship.

  “I fought beside your father. Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” Brattain said. “I was young, but I remember. He said you were a madman born of the Colonies, but the men loved you.”

  “Your father was also a great man,” Kane said. “A guide, a teacher, a natural leader. I don’t know if you try to hold yourself up to his legend or compensate for his death. Either way you shouldn’t. You have to find your own reasons to command.”

  “But you should know,” Brattain said, “if you’ve seen my dossier, I’ve been preparing for this since I was very young. I entered the Junior Academy when I was twelve.”

  “Yes, Commander,” he said. “You have great potential, and you always did. You’ve always done what was expected of you. You’ve excelled at what was expected, but you have to find your focus. I know you’re at a loss now, trying to find the thing you need to strengthen yourself, even if you won’t openly acknowledge it.”

  So he sees my weakness, the pain and the doubt…

  Is it that obvious, then?

  “What happened on the Juno will always be with me,” she told him. “But I am prepared to move forward.”

  He smiled gently. “No, you’re not prepared, Commander. Not yet. But I think you will be… If you set aside the past… Along with your preconceptions. You won't learn what you need in the regulation manuals. It comes from trusting yourself… finding what Musashi called The Void.”

  7

  Stefan Sivarek rested on his back inside the open access port. He loved being like this, the ship’s machinery buzzing and purring all around him.

  The quantum extrapolation system seemed happier now, since his adjustments. There’d been an odd smell to it before that. Well, perhaps not actually an odor in the air—but his Engineer’s brain had perceived it as such.

  Now everything was sweet, light, and fragrant as flowers.

  The new Commander had been upset with him, though. Sivarek frowned, remembering that.

  He wanted to make a good impression on his superiors; he wanted them to like him. Captain Singh on the Longina had never liked him, even after he’d saved the ship. And other Engineers? Well, they’d never understood him. They’d coldly mocked him when he talked about happy machines, or how the proper color for a plasma wash should be a tickling, baby pink.

  But Captain Kane believed in him… Or at least Sivarek wanted to think so. Kane allowed him free range to fiddle with the ship; although apparently the new Commander hadn’t been informed of that.

  Now, Sivarek ran his fingers inside of the top of the access port where he’d removed a screen to gain direct access to the ship’s neural net. He ran his fingertips along the smooth traceries of the network, the webbing on his hand and the tiny cilia on his fingertips allow him to have a direct, instinctual communication with the ship through the mechanism of touch.

  “That’s it,” he said, “Easy. Take it a little down-phase. Just a tickle. That’s good.”

  He almost felt that he could hear the systems giggling with delight around him.

  The ship likes me, at least, he thought. I
’m a good starship Daddy.

  The Musashi had been upgraded over the years—some parts more than others. It was a kludge of different technologies and different eras. Most Engineers would have been frustrated by this, but Sivarek was excited; there was a lot of room for improvement and improvisation.

  He was deeply absorbed in his work, so he was startled when a voice suddenly spoke.

  “Why is this set to nine?”

  “Eh?” Sivarek slid out of the port and sat up. Only too late, he realized he had only slid part of the way out, and he banged his head hard on the edge of the port.

  “Ow!” he exclaimed.

  He rubbed the tender spot on his head, and looked up to the newcomer, a severe looking middle-aged man wearing a gray tunic. He had piercing dark eyes, and his hair was pulled back and tied tightly on top. The face was utterly familiar, even if he’d only seen it in holo-images before.

  “Hey,” Sivarek said, “You’re Seutter! Graham Seutter! What an honor to—”

  Seutter showed no reaction to his enthusiasm.

  Instead, he extended one arm, indicating the EM envelope system. “This has to be kept at ten,” Seutter said. “Otherwise it’s harder for me to increase the probability of those wormholes we all find so useful.”

  But Sivarek wasn’t listening. He could hardly believe it.

  Graham Seutter! His books on quantum consciousness and the interaction with technology were masterful. Spiritual, even.

  “Your books… I’ve read them all,” Sivarek gushed. “They’ve been a huge inspiration to me. I’ve even drawn up a proposal for refitting the Musashi based on some of your theories.”

  Seutter turned to look at him, his face scornful, his dark eyes cold. “Congratulations. Just make sure this stays at ten.”

  “Oh,” Sivarek said, suddenly realizing what Seutter was talking about. “The EM envelope? But at that high a setting, there’s some corruption on the quantum level, so I thought it would be better—”

  Seutter leaned closer, his impassive face cold and dead, until Sivarek noticed little lines of anger twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Distortion which I can compensate for,” Seutter said, speaking slowly, as if to a small child. “This stays at ten.”