The Mind Field

by Blaze Ward

  The Mind Field (The Science Officer: Volume 2)

  Blaze Ward

  Copyright © 2015 Blaze Ward

  All rights reserved

  Published by Knotted Road Press

  www.KnottedRoadPress.com

  Cover art:

  Copyright © Innovari | Dreamstime.com – Spaceship And Asteroid Field Photo

  Cover and interior design copyright © 2015 Knotted Road Press

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  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  The Mind Field (The Science Officer: Volume 2)

  Book 3: Minefield

  Part One

  It had started with a tea mug. The best stories usually did. Javier had learned that over the years. There was just something so prosaic, so utterly mundane, and yet so completely irrational about a good tea mug. Wars had probably been fought because of them.

  He had certainly considered it.

  He had, however, been willing to compromise. Eventually. By declaring victory.

  It had been a hard fought contest.

  It would begin as always. Javier would be midway through a cup of really good tea, at just the right temperature and strength, and he would set his mug down. Within moments, as if by magic, it would disappear.

  At first, he had suspected pixies. Certainly, they would have accompanied mankind into space. And a pirate ship like Storm Gauntlet was almost certain to be completely infested with them. Everybody knew they were irresistibly drawn to pirates.

  The truth, when it revealed itself, was even worse.

  The pixies had minions.

  There were several of them, as a matter of fact, carefully disguised as stewards and Yeomen from the ship’s mess and Officer’s Wardroom.

  They stalked Javier, wherever he went, stealing half–empty tea mugs.

  After moments of panic induced by lack of caffeine, he would confront one of them.

  “Where did my tea go?” he would invariably ask.

  Those foul, treacherous minions would look at him, all innocent and things. “Oh, was that your tea, sir? Sorry. Would you like me to get you another?”

  It had gone beyond a game with them. It had devolved into a full–scale, multi–front war that threatened to involve the whole crew and bring down the wrath of the Captain and the tea gods.

  That is, until Javier visualized victory.

  He saw it in a vision, like Galahad dreaming of The Grail. He pursued it secretly, obsessively, fanatically. He made offerings to the tea gods, and any lesser deities with whom he might curry favor. He was absolutely non–denominational in this sort of thing.

  Until, finally, he achieved Greatness. Completion. Grailhood.

  Javier looked down at his new tea mug and savored the first sips of victory.

  Bribes paid to the machinists had yielded a hollow cylinder, slate gray, out of a hull–grade alloy that was a near–perfect insulator of heat and pretty much indestructible with any weapon Javier could hold in one hand. Not that he hadn’t considered trying. You know, for science and stuff.

  Other bribes had led him to Kianoush, a plain and somewhat average–looking woman who worked for the Purser as a logistics tech during the day, while she pursued visions of art in enamel and silver wire in her private time.

  She had been a hard sell, a woman with no particular interests in fresh fruit or beautifully cooked repasts that showed his amazing skill programming a culinary–bot. She was, however, a sucker for a good story, especially one that involved evil pixies and stolen tea mugs. And she was willing to trade her work for good stories and occasional reference answers culled from Javier’s many years of solitary space–faring and survey work.

  From her, he had procured the artwork. Even a little Strike Corvette like Storm Gauntlet had a ship’s crest, usually only seen in a small logo painted on the wall in the captain’s cabin, as well as on the rarely–worn dress uniforms some of the officers maintained.

  They were pirates, after all. Spit and polish was not at the top of the list of things. That was usually eating, followed closely by things with guns. Or maybe it was the other way around.

  But she had taken that logo, that artistic heart of this thing that was the Storm Gauntlet, and engraved it into that mug, using magic he could not fathom without asking the reference computer, and then filled that etching with real, honest to Creator silver, poured while molten, or dipped. He couldn’t remember. One of those. Absolutely.

  Above it, a name to strike fear into civilians and pulp writers everywhere. Storm Gauntlet. A private–service, free–lance Strike Corvette, retired from Concord Fleet service after the Great Wars were over and making ends meet with transportation gigs and occasional strong–arm jobs. Like the piracy that had cost him his own lovely little probe–cutter, Mielikki, and turned him, through twists and forays, into an officer aboard her.

  Some days, he considered explaining to the crew what the term janissary meant, but usually decided it wasn’t worth the effort. These people were entirely unliterary, to boot.

  But he had his mug. And it had the ship’s name and logo. Almost complete victory, since it was most certainly one of a kind, at least until some enterprising engineer with access to a power lathe and a CNC laser decided to start mass–producing them.

  And they would.

  No, he was already several steps ahead of that unfortunate bastard, whoever he might be. Below the logo, that was where the victory lay.

  On one side, also etched and filled with silver, his name in bold, block letters. JAVIER ARITZA. Also a name for the pulp writers to make famous. Someday. Hopefully.

  On the other side, that thing that would most certainly defeat the evil pixies and their dread minions. A title that was utterly unique in pirateness. One guaranteed to convey to them that this mug was not empty and abandoned, just waiting for them to take it away and clean when he wasn’t looking. No, it was meant to be here, with him, for him. Like a candle in a window on a cold and stormy night, marking the path home.

  THE SCIENCE OFFICER.

  Plus, it would make a really nice memento, one of these days, when he finally managed to escape this ship and these people, and have them all hung from the highest yardarm he could find.

  Part Two

  Javier was first into the conference room today. He needed time and space to spread out the implements of his tea ceremony on the desk. If others were there, he would have had to elbow people out of the way. Plus, it would have taken forever.

  Captain Sokolov was known for fast meetings. Javier could imagine getting his tea perfect just as everyone else left the room. No, far better to have the tea ready, bracing him with warmth and caffeine, as the meeting started. He had, after all, transported those very tea plants from the Homeworld itself into space, and halfway across the damned galaxy.

  Just because these pirates had made him a slave and cut up Mielikki was no reason to give up tea.

  And she was still there, at least in spirit. The entire agricultural section of his little probe–cutter had been removed from her corpse like a plum’s pit and stowed forward in Storm Gauntlet’s huge cargo bay. He didn’t get to eat all the fresh fruit and vegetables himself, anymore, but obviously, he had to sample everything befor
e passing it on the Wardroom. You know, quality control. That included tea leaves. His tea leaves. The kind I’ll cut you over, pal.

  So he took over one whole wing of the conference table and committed theater. And tea.

  First, the screen was removed from the travel case and unfolded to mark his territory. Pirates tended to be territorial about their tables. Best to set the rules early.

  This one was a bamboo frame with cloth stretched over it. Twenty–four centimeters tall and forty–eight long, it perfectly framed the piece of cloth he put down to keep things from sliding. Also so the cleaning crew stopped complaining about water rings and stains.

  The portable brazier stood station in one corner. He powered it up and rested the cast iron pot atop it. Freshly distilled water from his personal stores went into the pot to heat. And heating it this way took forever. That was why he invariably ended up staying late after meetings.

  The tea caddy came out of the case next, a lovely little canister he had found on some fringe world that had actually been made of bronze. Who worked in bronze anymore, when you could mine asteroids for the really exotic shit?

  The whisk, the scoop, the cleaning bowl took their places. Javier lovingly cleaned each piece, just as he had putting them away. You never knew what crew member might get their cooties all over things when he wasn’t looking. Especially the pixies.

  And now, boiling.

  Javier scooped his tea into the big industrial tea mug bearing his awesomeness, added just the right amount of water, and whisked it to textbook froth.

  Perfection.

  The ceremony felt incomplete without someone to hand it to for appreciation. But he was surrounded by pirates. And Philistines.

  “There better not be a candle heating that, Aritza,” a voice said behind him. A deep, rich voice, attached to an average–looking man with a shaved head and a salt–and–pepper Vandyke.

  Javier looked up at Captain Zakhar Sokolov and sighed dramatically. “Battery–powered, captain,” he replied in a sing–song voice. This wasn’t the first time they had had this conversation. “Engineering built it for me. I’m no longer allowed to play with fire aboard this ship.”

  “I’m just afraid you’ll hurt yourself, Javier,” he smiled evilly, “and then where would my investment in you be?”

  Javier fixed him with his best stink–eye, but the Captain was apparently immune.

  Two others entered right behind the captain. They took seats well away from Javier, as he had intended. The male, Piet Alferdinck, was the ship’s Navigator. All Javier knew about him was that he was a quiet, competent professional, who apparently went back to his cabin when he was off duty and read. Javier had never asked what.

  He understood the need to escape people and have private time. His was down in the botany bay, raising plants and tending his chickens. They were still better company than the crew. And they kept pixies at bay, like mirrors that blocked demons at doors.

  The female was another story.

  Two point one meters tall. Muscles on muscles, in places Javier wasn’t even sure he had muscles. Above–average looking. She’d be kinda pretty if she ever smiled. If she even knew how. Bright green eyes and freckles. Brown hair buzzed close on both sides and spiked on top. Javier could see nine earrings in the ear facing him. He knew there were seven more on the other side.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like the Storm Gauntlet’s Dragoon. He respected her as a violent professional who wasn’t just a sociopath, but an experienced and competent sociopath. It was just that Djamila Sykora always seemed to have it in for him.

  Granted, she hadn’t bounced him off a bulkhead, intentionally, in at least seven months. Close combat training drills in the gym didn’t count.

  He still owed her.

  Javier wasn’t sure if she was going to be the first one up against the wall on that day, or the last.

  But he smiled. She had at least made a visible effort not to antagonize him. Much. They were more like teenage siblings, now. He supposed he could live with that. Until the time came.

  “Okay, people,” the captain announced. “Short meeting and then to work.”

  Javier smiled. Just as his tea had achieved perfection. He could even leave with them today, although he might take the time to clean everything extra, just so they left first and left him alone.

  “Two jumps will put us in our target system,” the Captain said, bringing up a holographic projector. A small yellow–red star was off–center, with the big purple dot that represented Storm Gauntlet coming in from the other focus of a giant ellipse.

  “We will come out of jump, do a quick scan of the area, and then move in towards the second planet.” He read off a string of galactic coordinates that would have blown right by most people.

  Javier had spent too many years doing survey work. The destination sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

  “Captain,” he said querulously, “does this system have a name?”

  Sokolov returned the stink–eye from earlier. He did it better.

  Fortunately, Javier was immune as well.

  “It does,” he said after a moment. “A’Nacia.”

  Javier knew better than to say the first thing that came to mind, or the first profanity. Are you insane? was a given with these folks. That didn’t stop him from thinking it. Loudly.

  “Uh huh,” Javier replied, sucking on his teeth and lower lip. He took a long sip of tea as the other three people in the room turned and stared at him.

  “What?” he said finally. They were really starting to mess with his wa this morning. Uncool.

  “I would have expected more of a reply, Aritza,” Sokolov said with his head cocked. “Surely you, of all people, have an opinion. You always do.”

  Javier scowled sourly back at him, and then shrugged. “If you want to raid a haunted graveyard, there’s not a lot I can do at this point to change your mind.”

  Sykora gave him an especially exasperated look today. She was all spit–and–polish commando bad–ass. In her eyes, Javier was constantly in and out of insubordination. Sometimes, she reminded him of his first ex–wife. The green eyes didn’t help.

  “Lady,” Javier said, forestalling her whole argument, “the captain talked himself into it. He can talk himself out of it. Not like you people ever listen to me, anyway.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him anyway. It was a lovely eyebrow. She really wasn’t that bad looking, if you liked amazons. Javier would still have to be even more drunk than her to consider it.

  He sat back and sipped his tea instead.

  Sykora turned to the Captain instead. “Haunted, sir?” she asked politely.

  “Old sailor’s tale, Sykora,” the captain replied. “One of the last battles of the Unification Wars was fought over A’Nacia. It was a terrible affair. Pyrrhic. One of those famous last stands for the last of the holdouts against the Union of Man.”

  “I see,” she said. “Neu Berne does not cover that particular event, apparently.”

  Javier resisted snorting out loud.

  Neu Berne had started the next round of warfare after that, the one that led to the breakup of the Union of Man, the Great Wars that only ended eighty–some years ago. Neu Berne, The Union, and Balustrade had all pretty much wiped each other out in the process, leaving the Concord as the only large political entity left to pick up the pieces. It had inherited galactic hegemony, almost by accident. At least it was far less of an imperialistic power than the others had been.

  “So why do you think it’s haunted, Javier,” Piet asked suddenly.

  Javier blinked. He had forgotten the man was there, he tended to be so quiet.

  “Ships that go there disappear, never to be heard from again,” Javier shrugged. “Plus, major battlefield, with something like five separate national fleets destroyed there. Lots of ghosts around.”

  Javier turned to the Captain. “Why?”

  Sokolov put on his Captain face, all the charm that reminded people he w
as in charge. Serious charisma.

  “Because we’re better armed than the average raider that goes in there,” he began. “We’re also going to be really sneaky about this, a lesson I learned from Aritza. And we have a Science Officer who’s going to keep the ghosts and bad guys away.”

  Javier snorted, “I can’t even keep pixies at bay.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sokolov’s whole face turned confused.

  “Never mind,” Javier replied. Pirates, and Philistines. All of them

  Part Three

  Captain Zakhar Sokolov sat quietly in his command chair and drank coffee from his battered tin mug. He had seen Aritza’s custom–made cup, and considered having it copied, but thought better of it.

  Aritza needed something to make him feel like he had some control over his life. Since being captured nearly a year ago, he had managed to carve out a niche for himself as a member of Storm Gauntlet’s crew. He was well respected, generally liked, and several people, including his chief ground combat officer, Sykora, owed him their lives.

  Zakhar refrained from reminding her of that. Touchy, touchy subject.

  But Javier also brought a brightness to the bridge, even if he was mostly a complete goofball. He was a competent goofball when he wanted to be. Right now, he needed to be.

  Zakhar was mildly surprised at how well the Science Officer was handling the current operation. He had been expecting a running commentary of rude remarks from that corner of the bridge instead of silence. Perhaps he should turn on a microphone nearby and see if the man was muttering them under his breath. Perhaps later. No good would come of it now.

  The Navigator, Piet Alferdinck, called the countdown. “Emergence in fifteen seconds,” his voice rang out. This was the only time the man was loud. Other times, he was as quiet as Aritza was loud.

  Right now, everybody was quiet. Zakhar wondered if Javier had been telling them ghost stories. It was something he would do.

  Storm Gauntlet fell back into real space with a lurch that even the gravplates couldn’t forestall. Something about the change in physics between universes occurring faster than the machinery could compensate for.