Dana Cartwright Mission 2: Lancer

by Joyz W. Riter

  For more fun and excitement, she would open the Groomsmen file the moment shift ended.

  The Captain had other plans.

  Macao looked grim. He followed her off the Main Bridge and into the lift when her replacement arrived. Once the doors shut, he ordered, “Deck Six.”

  As the lift descended, he turned to her. “We have to talk. Take a relief break, and then join me on the shuttle deck in fifteen.” Macao turned away with the fiery color of his face almost mirroring the color of his hair.

  “I’m fine,” she responded, deciding to forego the trip to her quarters to freshen up.

  “Very well,” he changed their destination to the hangar deck.

  The lift ride was worse than grad day at the Academy, and seemed to last twice as long. Macao didn’t say another word and made no attempt to cover his demeanor.

  Chief Gordon and five security officers were at the main shuttle deck entry. The enlisted men were well-armed.

  The Captain brushed past them and, with a hand signal, indicated to Gordie they should let Dana pass.

  She took in a few of their faces with a cursory glance, sensed a jumble of emotions, but didn’t miss a stride as the doors slid open for her and the Captain, closing behind them.

  The sound of the lock mechanism echoed throughout the tomb-like bay. A single bank of lights illumined the walkway between two parked minis — the little seven passenger shuttles Lancer had for away missions — and Trader One. The Captain led to a position about halfway between, out of line of sight from the bay entry doors. There he stopped and turned on her.

  “Mister Cartwright, we have a problem.”

  He had that same worried look she’d noted earlier while on the Bridge, and she sensed he was struggling with something he couldn’t bring himself to discuss with anyone else — perhaps not even with Jay Gordon.

  “There’s something very wrong upstairs,” the Captain began.

  She thought immediately of a sarcastic comment, but dared not voice it. “Sir?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t picked up on it? I sense resentment over your appointment to Lancer; a reaction that extends far beyond what a ‘noob’ should engender.”

  Dana chuckled at the term, since she was hardly a newbie or rookie. “It’s only been a day, sir.”

  “No,” he countered, “this is stronger than I expected. Something that runs much deeper. I sensed it first at the briefing, but shrugged it off. Just now, before the shift change, I felt it, though I could not pinpoint the source. Have you some previous relationship with anyone on the command team?”

  Dana shook her head, “No, sir.”

  He frowned, “Could someone know your mentor?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I hadn’t thought of that. They’re all veterans. The possibility exists. Or, perhaps, someone knew DOC Cartwright.”

  The Captain nodded, “I’ll need your full co-operation.”

  “Yes, sir, tell me what it is you have in mind.”

  “First, take off the N-link, and see if you can detect anything specific. Use your…”

  Dana blinked, “Are you authorizing the use of my empath training?”

  He nodded. “Secondly, revise the duty roster. Schedule Mister Billings to all your Main Bridge shifts. Then, unpredictably, make brief appearances to confer with me for some minor item, perhaps seeking an authorization or the like. I will carefully observe and note who is on duty and any reactions.”

  Dana hated to contradict, but suggested, “I could just work from auxiliary control and solve the problem.”

  He vetoed the idea. “Negative. I want you on the mission…assuming you meet the weapons competency requirement and…” He let the thought go without finishing. “This matter must be resolved. We’ll try this experiment. Shouldn’t take me too long to uncover the culprit, and then I will deal with it.”

  He nodded in dismissal. “Send Gordie in as you leave, please.”

  “Mister Gordon, aye, sir,” Dana responded crisply, nodding before turning away.

  “Thank you, Mister Cartwright.”

  She sighed once out of his hearing, and stepped through the hatch. “The Captain would see you, Mister Gordon,” she advised, delivering the request and then heading to her quarters for a few hours of sleep before her rescheduled ‘orientation’ with Yeoman Warren.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The orientation, which Yeoman Warren insisted was so critical, turned out to be a lecture and review of Captain Macao’s directives since his appointment, many of which were just a rehash of standardized Star Service operational procedures and customs. Others covered such simple things as seating and etiquette at formal and informal gatherings in the officers’ galley, lounge, and Captain’s dining room.

  Dana signed off as having read them — actually having memorized them already — and handed back the padlet, deciding her own course.

  “Yeoman Warren, I need no one to transcribe my log entries. I am perfectly capable of doing that myself.”

  “Sir…it’s my job,” Warren reminded, “and you just agreed to the protocol.”

  “I did not agree; I did confirm I’d read it.”

  The Yeoman didn’t budge.

  Dana decided then and there, “Very well…I will have my daily log dictation available at 0600 hours. You may transcribe at your leisure and submit to the archives as required, to meet the captain’s directives. You are authorized to relay and receive any official messages pertaining to my shipboard functions as C-O-C, but shall have no rights whatsoever to handle, receive, or in any way deal with my personal correspondence.”

  Warren pointed to the padlets she’d brought, “Mister Cartwright, Doctor Patel reminds you must have a physical exam before the mission.”

  Dana protested, “I just had one at Four. Can’t he call it up?”

  “I am not authorized to advise you on such matters, Mister Cartwright. Doctor Patel indicated you may drop by any time, no appointment necessary.”

  With a scowl upon her face, Dana pointed toward the door and called, “Dismissed.”

  As the young woman left, a male yeoman arrived, bearing a bundle.

  “Ah! Good! Uniforms that fit!” Dana tore into the package. Under the first red shirt was a long-stemmed, red rose with a note of apology that it had taken so long. There was no signature, but it needed none.

  “Nice touch, Mackenna,” she muttered, as she changed into the new, size X-small top.

  “Like a glove! What a difference!”

  The pants fit perfectly, as well. Dana’s confidence level increased several notches.

  Bridge shift began in seventeen minutes and, though Manning was scheduled to take the next watch and she was scheduled off, she wanted to pop in, as the Captain had requested, before the shift changed.

  While on the lift, she removed the N-link from about her neck, sliding it into a hidden pocket. Without it against her skin, she sensed a flood of energy and emotions, even before stepping off the lift.

  Unfortunately, Macao was not on the Main Bridge. It wasn’t a wasted trip, however. She got what she’d come for and more. Every eye focused upon her cleavage. Maybe the cut of the new uniform top revealed a bit too much.

  Next order, high-neck tunics, she decided.

  It took all her Eridani training to calm down before heading to the firing range for an accuracy rating.

  The range took up a good portion of the deck below engineering, utilizing a virtual reality targeting system, so no actual projectiles were necessary. The range master, a robo-droid tub, very much like those back on Earth used for security, demanded she open a new file, and required an iris scan because of her mismatched eyes, to prove her identity. Though she bristled every time one was required, there appeared to be no way around it.

  Since this was her first visit, she choose a hand weapon, the standard Star Service pistol-style laser. While the range master droid retrieved one from the weapons storage area, she took a long look around.

  No cobwebs down
here. The place must get a lot of use. Upon the walls were the names of Lancer’s marksmen. She guessed a number were security officers in Jay Gordon’s team. Sam Ehrmann’s name was up there at the very top, with a perfect 100. The MAT-SYS Chief certainly deserved to boast.

  After scoring an impressive ninety-eight out of a possible perfect hundred on the firing range, Dana had the computer forward the results to the Captain for review. The range master inserted her name on the list, below Ehrmann’s. The wall of fame — or shame, as they had called it at academy, since if your name wasn’t there, you should be ashamed — updated, listing her as number two.

  “With a bit more practice, I might tie his record,” Dana quipped, mumbling about being, “…only a little rusty. That ought to stir up some trouble among the male chauvinists.”

  She headed for the Deck Six galley, near to her quarters and the auxiliary bridge, intending to have a quick meal and a look at the mission file. The duplicator took forever to process her order and she recalled that the system was among the ones scheduled for an update before the ship arrived at the designated mission zone.

  Finally, the meal appeared. She took the tray, with what the duplicator called vegan stew that looked like tofu and peas and, no doubt, had the texture of chalk, two cups of coffee and a dessert cookie, to an out-of-the-way table and then settled down with a padlet to review the Groomsmen file, taking it all in at one sitting, about a three-hour task for most readers. With her speed reading capabilities, it took one-fifth that amount of time. She conveniently memorized the text. Much of the data needed to be verified against Star Service records, and she needed to make some notes. Some of it didn’t sit too well. It was all very strange.

  Smugglers…Raiders…and lots of rumors…very little of it made sense.

  She decided to start again at the beginning, breaking off a bite-sized chunk to chew upon while on her shift. Later, she’d go back for another helping. She memorized astronavigation maps of Zone Eleven, Alpha Quad, depicting the trading routes, several outer colonies, and a few outposts located there, in the farthest territories that still claimed membership in the Order of Allied Republics.

  Beyond them was the remains of a star system called Fabre, which the mission already had flagged as a tentative destination for the away team.

  Fabre logged frequent vessel activity, but all data pointed to privateer crafts of unrecorded design, and ships with no known registry; that made it a sure bet as a possible base used by the smugglers.

  Yet, pieces of data seemed to be missing — significant pieces of data, at that. Yes, it was all very strange and, more importantly, very illegal.

  “Very odd,” she mumbled aloud.

  “What is?” Sam Ehrmann asked, dropping down into the chair opposite her without spilling a drop of coffee from his nearly overflowing cup.

  “Oh, an astronav map of Fabre,” Dana responded, putting down the padlet, while offering a wary smile. They weren’t supposed to discuss the file so she went no further.

  He shrugged. “You nearly bested my record on your first attempt. Nice…very nice…my compliments. Guess mismatched eyes aren’t an issue.”

  She bit back a retort, letting him continue, sensing something very unusual coming from the MAT-SYS Chief.

  “Who taught you to shoot? A brother?”

  “Actually, a classmate at academy… Coincidentally, he had mismatched eyes, too. We made a perfect pair.”

  “I knew a guy with mismatched eyes. Said it was rare — one in three million or something. Not sure where he ended up. He couldn’t shoot worth a darn. Said it was too distracting…and that people looked at him like a freak. He often wore a lens to make them the same. Was thinking you might have to do that if you’re going to be coming on…”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, “yes, good point, Chief. I tend to forget, but they are rather unique.”

  “Doctor Patel can probably design one for your blue eye to make it appear brown.”

  Dana nodded. “I have to see him for a pre-mission physical anyway.” She sighed, wondering, “Chief? Why do you bet on missions?”

  “Just for fun…something to break up the tension.” He shrugged. “I win a lot. Usually buy a round at Starboard-Seven when it’s all over. Unlike at a base, there isn’t all that much to do aboard Big L when we’re out for months at a time.”

  Dana read something into the comment he probably didn’t intend for her to see. She might be the ‘noob’ as the Captain suggested, but she sure as hell wasn’t naive.

  The Chief shopped around — actually, he propositioned quite a few of the ladies — Dana wasn’t buying, and she sure as hell wasn’t selling.

  Without the N-link, she picked up some very personal information on the Chief’s tastes in the bedroom, most would make her very uncomfortable; some nearly made her blush.

  When he offered that toothy, boyish grin again, she shut him down. “I read a lot; it keeps me out of trouble.”

  “Am I trouble?” he teased.

  “Absolutely,” she retorted, “it’s probably your middle name.”

  He thought that was funny. “Thomas…Samuel Thomas Ehrmann… What’s your middle name?”

  “January.”

  “Kind of unusual...”

  “Like my eyes,” she said, matching his grin.

  “In Enturian it means ‘first’ I believe. You are Enturian, right?”

  Dana nodded, wondering if he’d viewed her Star Service personnel record, and if he had the security clearance. He probably did, as a trusted member of Lancer’s command staff.

  “I’ve met quite a few of the exchange officers over the years. You’re sure the prettiest I’ve ever seen.” Sam took a long sip from his coffee cup. “Never met one with hair like yours either. Most have platinum, blonde or jet black…”

  “Ever met Major Captain Brandenberg?” Dana asked.

  “No… Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Major January Brandenberg,” she said coolly, “is the liaison officer from the GCE to the Star Service Academy at Coronado.”

  “Uh…no,” he stammered, “actually, I’ve only met a few lieutenants…none of the top brass…”

  “I flew shuttles for a few OAR ambassadors. Got to meet Major Brandenberg and Major Gage, Chief Surgeon Tracy, and even Ambassador Brettes while at academy.”

  “Wow…You are very well connected. Must be great having friends in high places?”

  Dana felt a chill at the suggestion — the innuendo — of having friends in high places.

  Was it resentment? Suspicion? She decided to watch Sam Ehrmann very carefully over the next few days.

  “Well, nice chatting, Chief. I’ve got to get my dictation ready for the morning.” She stood, took up her padlet and started to collect her tray.

  “I’ll take care of that, Mister Cartwright, nice chatting with you, too. And, nice shooting…”

  Dana bowed her head toward him, awarding some bonus points for his being a gentleman, though she still bristled at being called, ‘mister.’

  “Thanks, Chief…”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Yeoman Warren arrived at Dana Cartwright’s quarters at precisely 0600 hours, looking bright and perky. The woman had a padlet in each hand, wordlessly offering them up.

  Dana stacked them on the edge of her bunk, and then took up another with a duplicate of her dictation and handed it on with instructions. “My log and several departmental memos, some related correspondence, a new duty roster to be posted immediately and my daily itinerary so you will know when and where to locate me to sign off on them. That is all.”

  Cartwright dismissed Warren without further comment. She had more important things on her mind.

  After the yeoman exited, Dana settled down at the desk and called up the Groomsmen file once again, along with the astronavigation maps to refresh her memory, although that was entirely unnecessary. Having both open allowed her to enter a few notes and add some pertinent observations. The more she studied, the more convi
nced she was that the rise in the “foreign” population of the colonies near the outpost was directly related to smuggling, possibly even human trafficking.

  Plenty of rumors circulated throughout the OAR that human-hybrid citizens could be found out on the fringe colonies. Most bore some form of abnormality, even mutant DNA, and were kept as slaves or servants. If smugglers managed to help a few escape to freedom, well, why stop it.

  Suppose, however, that a spy or two got smuggled through as well. That could be damned dangerous.

  The physiological differences between full-breeds and hybrids could only be detected with finely tuned medical DNA scanners. Some humans actually failed the tests, a result of too much crossbreeding.

  Dana’s own DNA resulted from carefully controlled experiments in a genetics laboratory. There was no way she would pass a scan.

  The hybrids in the outer colonies, reportedly, had no medical inhibitors. They carried raw genes — ‘surprises’ as genetic specialists often called them — and that spelled trouble. Being a tribrid, Dana understood all too well the consequences.

  Some humans claimed to be capable of telling the difference on sight; most scientists, however, discredited such reports. Dana agreed.

  Her medical background would prove valuable to the away team. With an inconspicuous sensory device, spotting any unnatural alterations should not prove too difficult.

  She thought about the possibility of surgical alterations. Those she could also spot, though she wondered if anyone would stoop to such degradation. Her empathetic senses would be very useful.

  As for the human-hybrids, who could pass most scans, there was no way to detect psi and ideological enemies without telepaths and…

  “Ah,” she exclaimed, “that explains why Captain Macao is perfect for this…”