Rogue Galaxy Episode 2: Command Material

by J. Boyett

  So maybe she, too, would have fallen for Chavez’s gambit with the card game. That made him feel a little better.

  Yes, maybe she would have, acknowledged the phantom of his mother that he’d conjured up. But one trap she wouldn’t have fallen into was the moral one Chavez had set during their conference. He never would have gotten her to say that any one crewmember was more important than another, due solely to her personal relationship with that crewmember.

  Farraday waved his hands in annoyed dismissal. Yes, yes, fine, easy for her to say, she was the ice queen. None knew that better than he.

  His phantom mother recoiled at that, taking enough offense that Farraday was almost glad she was nothing more now than a figment of his imagination. Unlike in life, he could simply go back and revise out the hurtful things he said, make it as if the words had never been.

  For now, though, he let the remark stand. That gave his mother the chance to correct him. Do you really think I never cared about you? she demanded. Or my crews? There was no pleading note in her voice, but rather a haughtiness. As if she were daring him to deny it.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to admit that she’d cared about her crews, at any rate. But that would have been unfair and he knew it, so he settled for a shrug and a reluctant No, I don’t think that.

  Good, his mother told him. And she went on to explain, a little condescendingly, the duties of an officer, and how one must be willing to sacrifice one’s personal ties in the pursuit of such duties. How that is the way an officer shows respect to the people one is tied to, by assuming that they themselves are virtuous enough to understand the necessity of being sacrificed, when such necessities arise. And if her son couldn’t understand that, then maybe he simply wasn’t command material.

  But that’s what he’d been trying to tell her!, he protested. For the gods’ sakes, he’d been trying to tell her that all his life! No, he wasn’t command material. The closest to the Fleet he ever should have gotten was the administration of some university department of xenoculture or xenobiology or something. Really, the truth was that he probably should have gone into advertising. But that would have been unthinkable for the only child and namesake of the great Theresa Farraday—that had been made abundantly clear to him over the years. So here he was, stuck in the only job he ever could have held without feeling like a loser, a job it felt like the whole damn Democratic Empire had conspired to give him, a job he was probably doomed to fail at. If he’d realized how high the stakes were going to get, if he’d realized that the stable government which had given him this job was going to up and dissolve one night, he would have forced himself to be more of a man about it, would have turned down the command, would have gotten off the whole career track way back in the Academy, back when people like Chavez were making their opinions on his abilities pretty plain.

  His mother harrumphed. She was not impressed. All that was moot anyway, and there was no point whining about it. He was here, now. What was he going to do?

  Farraday allowed himself another smile, and told his mother exactly what he planned on doing. What he was doing already.

  It didn’t take long to explain. In his head, his mother listened attentively. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite picture her being impressed by his plan; but he did think it was one she wouldn’t have readily come up with, at least.

  Very sneaky, she acknowledged at last. Bold, too. Then, confirming her son in his opinion, she admitted, I don’t think I would have come up with that, myself.

  Faraday nodded his satisfaction, folding his fingers behind his head to make himself a little pillow. That’s because you were just too good, Mom, he thought.

  Nine

  Chavez strode down the corridor, this time accompanied by Witch Tanner and his entire Security entourage. Shinjo and Yfir were with him too, coming along to see to it the Provisionals got to the Galaxy without creating any disorder or breaking any oaths—after that they could do as they liked. At twenty men, the entourage was much heavier than poor Terry Farraday’s—but then again, Chavez had always known that, True Names or no True Names, he was probably going to need at least a few fighting men when it came time to take over the Galaxy.

  Speaking of the Galaxy and her poor, over-matched captain, here was Terry Farraday stepping out into the hall to cut him off. He was accompanied by Shinjo and Yfir, for all the good it would do him. Despite his triumph, Chavez almost could have heaved a sympathetic sigh. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad sort, that Terry Farraday. But ever since Chavez had first met the kid, he hadn’t been able to even look at him except through that cloud of disappointment, that the offspring of his hero Theresa Farraday should have such a lack of backbone.

  The kid just shouldn’t have been in command of a starship, was all. Well, Chavez was about to rectify that.

  No need to go barreling through the soon-to-be-former captain and his two crewmen, though, and still less need to offend the two Bayawah functionaries. Between Captain Farraday’s inadvertent yet mystically-binding permission to let Chavez board the ship, and Chavez’s knowledge of the hyperdrive spirits’ True Names, he had little to worry about. So Chavez drew to a halt, as did the rest of his men behind him. “Yes, Captain?” he said, politely, and not without a perfectly clear awareness of how that politeness would gall Farraday.

  “Professor,” said Farraday. “May I ask where you’re headed?”

  “I think you know. I’m going to take command of the Galaxy, formerly of the Democratic Empire, from here on out a ship of the Provisional Fleet.” Chavez paused, unable to help admitting to himself that he was curious to see what Farraday was going to try.

  Disappointingly little, as it turned out. He turned to Shinjo and Yfir, trying to keep the begging out of his voice: “You two—is this really what you want Bayawah Spaceport to be known for? Treacherous adherence to the letter of an oath, but not the spirit?”

  Yfir shrugged, and all but rolled his eyes. Shinjo had the decency to at least sound regretful as he explained, “The reputation we wish to defend is one of neutrality, Captain. Such a reputation would hardly be strengthened by our giving you aid in place of the commodore. As for questions of the spirit or the letter of the law, in these matters we must always pick the letter, I’m afraid. It’s the only safe choice, in questions of a mystico-judicial nature.”

  “Okay, but you’re inviting violence into your neighborhood,” pressed Farraday. “I don’t care how many True Names Chavez has knowledge of, he’s not going to manage to take over the Galaxy without engaging in a bloody conflict first. Is that what you want? While the ship is still hooked up to your station, no less?”

  At that the two functionaries did look uneasy. But Yfir said, “Well, what would you have us do? What’s done is done. We cannot restrain anyone against their will, nor may anyone to whom we have extended the guest rites. It is our most potent taboo. If Commodore Chavez wishes to proceed to your ship, we may not stop him, nor may any who wish to reside here under our protection, nor anyone aboard who has sworn the oath of non-interference by the spirits of their hyperdrive.”

  “Besides, Terry,” said Chavez, “you don’t need to worry about the fighting getting too rough—we have a friend who knows how to shut down the technological defenses, while I handle the thaumaturgical ones, and who tells me he has a contingent aboard the Galaxy, who should already be disarming certain key personnel.” Chavez turned and called tot he back of his entourage, “Send the lieutenant forward, will you?”

  So deep was Chavez’s entourage that the Galaxy men hadn’t managed to clearly see the guys in the back row. Especially someone as short and slight as the person who stepped forward now: Lieutenant Beach. He stepped up beside Chavez, looking the captain in the eye brazenly.

  “Beach?” breathed Faraday, and shuddered as if the shock of the betrayal might knock him over.

  Miller was more direct: “You son of a bitch!” he hollered, and launched himself at Beach, fists clenched and swinging. He might even have managed t
o get past Chavez’s men long enough to land a solid blow, except Farraday of all people stopped him, thrusting his own body between the lieutenant’s and Miller’s, and holding him back.

  Miller eased off and stared at the captain, a little surprised that Farraday had that much strength and power. A little appalled, too—he would have liked to have punched that little traitor. He had been wondering why Chavez and his goons hadn’t already attempted to board the Galaxy, and now he realized it must have been because they’d been waiting for Beach to sneak off the ship and come offer his aid.

  Except, even in the heat of his rage, he wondered why Beach wouldn’t have been in an even better position to turn the ship over if he’d stayed aboard her.

  Farraday turned back to Beach. “Lieutenant, don’t do this,” he said. “Please. Even with the True Names, even with the oaths, the Galaxy still has a chance of fighting Chavez off with physical, non-magical weapons. She’ll be crippled by the loss of her hyperdrive spirits and reduced to hobbling around at sublight, but at least she’ll be intact. And who knows? She may get lucky, meet some friendly aliens or spirits who could help her regain hyperdrive capability.”

  But Beach sneered coldly in response. He said, “And tell me, Captain, why should I do that? Commodore Chavez is my co-religionist—with the Provisional I’ll finally be spared listening to the Christian jokes and horror stories that get passed around the Galaxy. And I won’t have to be passed over in favor of your girlfriend anymore, either.”

  “You see?” demanded Miller. “I told you, you can’t trust these Christian sons of bitches!”

  “Let’s go, son,” said Chavez, placing a paternal hand on Beach’s shoulder and leading him around Farraday, Miller, and Cosway. He didn’t bother to make eye contact with them as he passed, or to turn and look at them over his shoulder as he walked away. Let his people handle it, if Miller or Farraday wanted to stir up trouble (that Cosway looked pathetically unlikely to do so). As they walked away, Chavez could hear Miller fuming and swearing, but that was all. The noise didn’t follow them—Chavez and his party were leaving the defeated Galaxy men behind.

  They steered their way through the exotic corridors. Judging from the looks they attracted, they must have been even more exotic than the spaceports’ average denizens—presumably folks were not used to seeing a couple dozen specimens of a newly discovered species such as humans, unarmed of course but marching purposefully along with martial tread, and in the company of two high-level Bayawah functionaries no less.

  Well, as far as Chavez was concerned they need never see a human again. He would take the ship and the prisoners and head back to Earth space. There was nothing inherently wrong with all these aliens, but Chavez didn’t see what was to be gained by mingling with them, especially when there was still so much work to be done putting the homeworld’s house in order.

  Again he put his hand on Beach’s shoulder. The lieutenant seemed like a decent enough lad. Perhaps he had somewhat fanatical leanings—but the Provisional had use for that type.

  “Son,” said Chavez, “you’re doing the right thing.”

  “I know, sir,” said Beach.

  Now they were passing out of Bayawah proper and into the long umbilical tunnel that led away from the spaceport, right up to the Galaxy’s airlock. Shinjo and Yfir took their leave of the humans, who continued up the tunnel. Portholes lined its walls—Chavez could see glimpses of the massive spaceport, fragments of other nearby ships, but no glimpse of the prize, the ship straight ahead, the one they were all marching toward. His fingertips tingled with the anticipation of getting his hands on it.

  Of course, the captain had been right, things could still turn ugly if the crew decided to resist with mundane, non-supernatural means. Hopefully they wouldn’t realize just how big an advantage Beach gave him, even if they did know he’d defected. “Will you be ready to input the override codes, once we’re at the airlock?” asked Chavez. With the override codes Beach claimed to have stolen, he would be able to not only open the airlock doors, but disable all weapons systems ... even electronic hand-held weapons, like laser-blasters.

  “I’m ready to give the signal,” affirmed Beach.

  It was a good thing, too, because they were right there at the airlock. That tingling in Chavez’s fingers grew to a pleasurable thrumming throughout his whole hand, even as they remained absolutely steady. He supposed they were watching their approach from inside, over the vidscreens, they were seeing Beach and maybe realizing just how badly they were screwed. Hopefully the weapons override would work, and it would all come down to hand-to-hand combat. Chavez hadn’t fought hand-to-hand in too long a time.

  They reached the airlock. Chavez’s men crouched down, ready to spring—once they were off Bayawah, and as long as they were defending their right to a ship that had been formally ceded to them (as Captain Farraday had unwittingly done), the vow they’d taken against violence would be dissolved. In front of the Security men were Chavez, ready to spring himself, and Beach, calmly inputting a sequence into the airlock keypad.

  The door slid open. The Security men leapt past Chavez and Beach, so skillfully that even in the midst of their savage pounce they flowed around the two slower men like water around a rock, never touching them.

  Chavez leapt in after them, not so much slower than these hardened Marines, despite his age and his long stint of desk service. And just like the rest of the men, he found himself trapped in a stasis field. All of their bodies were frozen in mid-run, or hung suspended in mid-leap and mid-air. It was painless; it wasn’t like slamming against a brick wall; there was only the panic and rage of sudden, unexpected paralysis.

  Chavez snarled with rage to find that Beach’s override code hadn’t disabled the defense systems after all. (That rage was stronger even than his surprise—he hadn’t realized that the Fleet had stasis fields as potent as this—it must be something they’d picked up in their alien travels.) Probably the failure of that code had been only an error; if it was some pathetic attempt at a double-cross, he’d have the kid’s skin. Not that it was going to matter in the long run. He took a deep breath and, in a voce of command, roared the True Name of the Galaxy’s prime hyperdrive spirit. The havoc that would accompany that spirit’s race to answer his summons should be enough to affect tech systems like the stasis field, and maybe even fry it completely.

  Except nothing happened.

  And now that Chavez stopped a moment to look, he saw that Beach was not subject to the same field. He still was able to move, to walk. And this did not look like the interior of a Fleet ship. And those people, who he supposed were crewmembers, were not human.

  At first he thought he’d never seen their kind before, but then he remembered: one of these blue-skinned, tentacle-mouthed things had been hanging around the Galaxy’s xenolinguist, back in the Casino.

  Chavez fixed his most murderous stare upon Beach. “What have you done, boy?”

  “Lied,” said Beach, simply. “I told you the Galaxy was still at Gate Fifty-Three, when actually I’d already persuaded our aksalion friends to switch places with us. The hard part was persuading Commander Blaine to go along with it. It wasn’t easy getting her to believe I was on the level.”

  “What good will that do you?! These freaks can’t hold us here, and once we’re back on Bayawah it’ll be simple for us to find which gate the Galaxy is really at, now that we know you can’t be trusted.” Chavez turned to one of the blue-skins, one that for some reason struck him as the captain. “You can’t hold us like this! Do you understand that? One more moment of breaking your vow, and your hyperdrive will be crippled permanently, if it isn’t already!”

  “Captain Merg doesn’t speak Bahng’Doh,” said Beach. “Or English, naturally. But if he could understand you, I don’t think your threats would much worry him, Commodore. You see, this vessel has nothing that can be subjected to any curse or hex Bayawah can inflict. No hyperdrive. No thaumaturgic sections.”

  Chavez stared at him, hi
s eyes wide. That made no sense. Why would there be a ship this far out, with no hyperdrive? It didn’t make any sense.

  But Beach didn’t seem inclined to explain it. In fact, he was walking out the way he’d come, back to the airlock.

  It was the way the kid stopped and doubled back to shake hands with every single one of the blue-skinned aliens that made Chavez finally lose it. His rage bubbled up out of him, and he roared it out at the traitor. His men roared along with him. But all for naught—Beach and the blue-skins didn’t even seem to notice. The kid just finished shaking all the aliens’ hands and then he left.

  Ten

  Giving Boksal a tour of the ship was no easy task—the bubbly aksalion had so many questions about each section and department that it was difficult to pry him away to the next one. They were going to have to figure out how to deal with him in all sorts of ways—for example, they’d started fibbing to him and telling him every single crewmember they introduced him to was male. Otherwise, he fell over himself, apologizing and insisting that he wished no disrespect to the female but that he couldn’t speak directly to her without notarized permission from her clan.

  “Don’t worry,” Farraday murmured to Blaine when he noticed her bristling at the way Boksal continually referred to her as “he” and “him.” “We’ll ease him into our way of doing things.”

  A transfer onto the Galaxy had been the condition Boksal had set, in exchange for acting as the go-between with his captain and crew. “It’s a good deal for us, I think,” Cosway had assured the captain. “Boksal has the makings of a really stellar xenolinguist.” Then he’d added, with a hint of foreboding, “He may even wind up replacing me.”

  At last they fobbed the aksalion off on Ensign Dobbler; Farraday had the feeling he would make a suitably gabby and masculine companion for Boksal. He and Beach sat down with Blaine and Miller in Conference Room Three, to debrief them on the little scam they’d pulled.