by Ralph Prince
“Captain on the Bridge!” Nav-Tac announced loudly, startling the lieutenant from his reverie and prompting him to spring from his chair and snap to attention.
“I hate that,” Captain Garris said, motioning Porter to sit. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a classical music fan,” he continued. “Mozart at that.”
“I like to listen to classical music when I’m thinking,” Porter said, returning to his chair. He was so engrossed in thought he hadn’t heard the commander enter the bridge. “I usually listen to synthnoize, but I didn’t think it was appropriate for the bridge. I love the way the sound system up here makes it feel like you’re sitting in the orchestra. Do you like Mozart?”
“He’s my favorite composer,” replied the captain, limping to his pilot’s chair. “He has been since I was a child. There’s a mathematical precision to his music that transcends beauty. The man was a genius. Eine kleine Nachtmusik, ‘a little serenade’, one of my favorite pieces by him.”
“A little night music,” Porter corrected.
“Technically, the captain was correct,” Nav-Tac interjected, as the music continued to play. “Serenade No. 13 for strings in G major, composed by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in 1787, is commonly known as Eine kleine Nachtmusik. The German title means ‘a little serenade’, though it is often translated more literally but less accurately as ‘a little night music’.”
“The computer does know its music,” affirmed the commander.
“He is not a computer,” Porter insisted.
“Although Will is correct in that I am not a computer,” Nav-Tac said, “his insistence that I am a ‘he’ is not valid. Since I was given a face with masculine features, it is a common misconception to refer to me as ‘he’, but technically, I am neither male nor female. In classical naming convections, I would most likely have been referred to in the feminine, as many still do with vehicles and other treasured personal objects. I have heard the captain refer to this ship as ‘she’ on several occasions.”
“I stand corrected,” Porter conceded.
The lieutenant watched as the captain eased himself into the pilot chair with a low groan. He noticed the splint on the little finger of his right hand, and the skin-like patch above his left eye. He realized similar patches must have covered the greater part of the captain’s arms and legs beneath his shirt and pants as well.
“Sir,” he asked, “are you all right? You seem to be in a lot of pain.”
“I’m fine, lieutenant,” he answered, giving another groan as he lifted his feet up to the control panel. “Just a few scrapes, a broken finger, and a couple of cracked ribs. It’s nothing serious. Jackie just gave me bio-mend, and it hasn’t kicked in yet.”
“You gave us quite a scare out there, sir,” Porter said, leaning back in the chair. “What happened anyway?”
“Well,” he began, reciting the story for the second time. The first had been during a painful interrogation by the vessel’s med-tech, under the guise of medical treatment. “I was almost to the top of the ridge when I thought I heard something; that was when Jackie called out her first warning. I drew my blaster and saw the woman come over the top. I must have startled her, because she lost her footing on the loose rocks and began to fall. I tried to catch her, but she struggled and pulled me off balance; the next thing I knew, we were both tumbling down the inside of the ridge. I slid about fifteen meters before stopping, and found her back up the slope about five meters from the top. The communicator in my goggles was damaged in the tumble, so I couldn’t contact the ship and it stopped broadcasting my biochip signal. The girl hit her head in the fall and was unconscious and bleeding. It looked like she needed medical attention, so I carried her back here.”
“How did you ever find the ship in that storm?” Porter asked.
“You mean the large metal object sitting on relatively flat ground in the middle of a severe lightning storm?” asked the captain. “I just followed the light show. Fortunately, my flight suit prevented me from being grounded, and I was carrying the woman, or we probably would have taken a few hits ourselves.”
“How’s she doing now?” asked the lieutenant. “Is she going to be all right?”
“She’s still unconscious,” the captain replied. “Jackie’s tending to her, and getting her cleaned up a bit. She should be okay.”
“Do you think it’s wise putting her in your quarters?” asked Porter. “I mean we don’t know yet what her intentions are, and protocol dictates that she should be held in a secure area until a threat assessment can be made.”
“We don’t have a brig or a sick bay,” the captain said, such luxuries were reserved for larger ships. “Aside from the cargo hold, my quarters are the most secure place on the ship. There are no weapons in there, and, unlike you and Jackie, I don’t have a computer. Security shouldn’t be an issue. By the way, thanks.”
“Sir?” Porter asked, thinking of nothing he had done to deserve the commander’s praise.
“Jackie told me you helped comfort her when she thought I had been hurt out there,” he clarified. “I know her well enough to know that she greatly understated her concern, and she said she was worried sick about me. I’m guessing she was pretty upset. Thanks, lieutenant.”
“It was nothing,” he said modestly.
“It was something to her,” insisted the commander, seeing the lieutenant in a new light. “And to me. She’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
Porter smiled. It was the second time the captain had praised him, and he found he liked it.
“Captain,” Nav-Tac said as the melody abruptly ceased, “I am getting unusual readings on the sensors. I’m not certain because of the electrical interference outside, but I believe we are being scanned.”
“Can you locate the source?” the commander asked, carefully easing his feet from the control panel and turning to face the tactical station.
“Negative,” replied Nav-Tac. “It doesn’t seem to have one; it’s just there.”
“Could it just be reflected sensor beams?” asked the captain. “With most of the sensor panels damaged, all the electrical activity, and the wind blowing that dust around out there, I’m surprised you’re getting anything at all.”
“You’re probably correct,” Nav-Tac agreed. “In fact, the unusual readings have ceased.”
“We’ll work on getting the sensors repaired as soon as the storm subsides,” said the captain, returning his feet to the control panel. “Until then, let me know if it happens again.”
“Sir,” Porter asked, as the music resumed. “It’s really none of my business, but you and Lieutenant Monet seem rather close. Is there something going on between you two?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he responded, taken aback by the question. “And the last time I checked, that was against regulations. Why do you ask?”
“No real reason,” the young lieutenant replied apprehensively. “I was just curious.”
Several uneasy moments passed with only the vibrant music breaking the silence, as both men drifted deeper into their own individual thoughts.
The commander began to feel a fuzziness in his head and numbness in his lips as the bio-mend’s anesthetizing effects began to take hold. Millions of nanites coursed through his bloodstream, aiding in the accelerated healing of his wounds, while deadening the pain. Though he fought the resultant drowsiness, sleep threatened to overtake him.
Hearing approaching footsteps from the hallway, he snapped out of the half-sleep and spun his chair around, causing a sharp pain to shoot through the lower portion of his ribcage.
“Didn’t I tell you not to move too quickly for the next couple of days,” Jackie scolded, having seen him wince. “The bio-mend only speeds up the natural healing process; it isn’t an instant cure-all. If you keep aggravating your ribs like that, they’ll take a week to heal.”
The commander nodded in acknowledgment, folding his arms across his midsection.
Porter rose from his chair and stood atten
tively before the tactical console. His eyes followed the fluid motion of the med-tech as she glided to the captain’s side.
“How’s your patient?” asked the commander, slowly rising to his feet.
“Minor bruises and abrasions,” Jackie replied, “and a minor concussion. She’s still unconscious, but she should be coming around before too long. It wasn’t anything serious.”
“Good,” said the captain, rubbing his weary eyes. “Why don’t you run a DNA scan on her to find out if she’s as human as she appears.”
“I already have,” she responded. “Apart from a few minor differences, she’s as human as you or me. She didn’t have a bio-chip, so I implanted one to monitor her life signs. So far, everything falls within established norms. She has to be of Earth origin.”
“What minor differences?” asked the captain.
“Her body temperature is a little high,” replied the med-tech, checking the readings on the medical scanner strapped to her forearm. “But that’s to be expected in this climate. She has little to no axillary or leg hair, which could also be attributable to the climate. And,” she paused as if for dramatic effect, “she has no navel.”
“That’s not attributable to the climate, I hope,” retorted the commander.
“No,” Jackie said tartly. “That can be attributed to her phenomenal regenerative capabilities. By the time I got her cleaned up, the wounds were already beginning to heal. Her body is healing twice as fast as yours, even with the bio-mend I gave you. In a week, I doubt there will be any sign of scar tissue at all. And I used to think you recovered from injuries quickly.”
“Have you determined the reason for the regeneration?” he asked.
“It’s probably an enzyme in her blood, or over-active platelets. It would be impossible to say for sure without more tests,” she replied. “She’s definitely a progeny of the human race. I have no doubts about that.”
“I wonder how she got this far from Earth,” pondered the captain. “However far from Earth we are. Judging from her clothing and the weapons she was carrying, she isn’t from a technically advanced society; certainly not one capable of space travel.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jackie disagreed. “Her brain is well developed—probably equivalent to our own—and her clothing may have looked like animal hide, but it was synthetic.”
“Synthetic?” he asked, contemplatively scratching his chin. “This is getting stranger by the minute. I think I’ll go sit with our guest, just in case she wakes up. I’m not sure how she’ll react to the ship; it could frighten her.”
“You might want Nav-Tac to raise the temperature in your room,” Jackie suggested as he passed her. “She might find it a bit chilly.”
“With the captain’s permission,” Nav-Tac said, startling Porter, who had been leaning next to his holographic projection.
“Permission granted,” said the captain as he left the bridge.
Jackie watched as the Don receded down the hallway and disappeared into his cabin before directing her attention to the other lieutenant. “So, Will,” she asked. “Should I be flattered?”
“Wha-what?” he stammered, caught completely off guard by the question. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ve been staring at me since I first arrived on the bridge,” she said feigning irritation behind her mischievous smile.
He hadn’t even realized he was staring at her. His mind scrambled for something clever to say but his mouth started moving without waiting. “I-I was just noticing how beautiful your eyes were.”
“That’s not the side my eyes are on,” she retorted sharply, causing him to cower. “But thanks for the compliment anyway.”
Blushing, the young lieutenant turned away from her and began fumbling with the control panel in an unsuccessful attempt at looking busy.
CHAPTER 11: Native Woman
Fiery blasts cut through the misty night air as the three men dashed across the landing field toward the ship. What had started as a routine supply delivery had become a fierce battle for survival amid a fusillade of incendiary weapon fire.
“The captain’s been hit!” Victor called over the deafening wail of the onslaught.
Don dove for cover behind a stack of polyethylene drums. Laying down suppressing fire, he carefully made his way back to where Victor had dragged their fallen commander.
The area was swarming with Quillan drones. Their crystal bodies appeared to be a twisted hybrid of arachnid and man, sporting a bulbous abdomen with eight spiked legs from their lower torsos. It was the typical form of their infantry soldiers.
“Is he still alive?” Don asked, returning fire with his photon blaster. Several of the crystalline drones fell to the lethal accuracy of the blue beams of light, while many others hastily scrambled for better cover.
“Barely,” Victor replied, as Don joined him over the still form of the injured commander. “He’s been hit in the chest. It doesn’t look good; we have to get him to the ship.”
Sudden movement out of the corner of his eye warned Don of the advancing drone, too late to get a good shot at it. “Down!” he shouted, shoving Victor aside and throwing himself atop the captain. The enemy blast narrowly missed him, shattering a nearby drum and sending a wave of heat and fire over the two men. Hot shards of twisted plastic from the resulting explosion pierced Don’s back as he was doused with the container’s viscous contents.
Shielded from the brunt of the blast, Victor returned fire, destroying the advancing warrior. When the smoke cleared, he looked to his friend, whose face was contorted in pain as he regained his footing. “B’y!” he called. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Don assured, hefting the unconscious captain over his shoulder. He gestured toward the runway a short distance away, “Let’s get back to the ship.”
“Damn!” Victor exclaimed, laying down a line of cover fire as they continued their retreat. “It's a good thing the stuff in those barrels wasn't flammable; otherwise, this whole field would be on fire. Why didn’t Space Force Control tell us this outpost had been overrun by the Quillans? We could get ourselves killed out here. This situation is not green.”
Through the barrage of energy discharges, the two men raced across the landing strip toward the Nova, returning fire when they could. The distance seemed insurmountable. The number of drones seemed endless; no matter how many dropped, there were always replacements. Since the soldiers were merely constructs, the Quillans cared little about the number of casualties incurred, so long as the battle was won. Fortunately, the drones had thermographic night vision, and the temperature-regulating fabric of the space force jumpsuits rendered the earthmen largely invisible to them.
Miraculously, they reached the ship without further injury. Hastily entering the access code, they ducked into the air lock, and the relative safety of the ship’s interior. As the outer lock slid shut, they could hear the energy barrages assailing the ship’s hull.
“I thought we were borked out there,” Victor sighed, thankful that the hand-held weapons didn’t have the power to harm the ship.
“That’s reassuring,” Don replied, easing the commander to the floor, “especially coming from someone who’s flown twenty missions without a scratch.”
“This makes twenty-three,” Victor corrected, realizing that in all the chaos he had not been injured. “But who’s counting, eh? You’re just bitter because you’ve been injured on nearly half of them. What’s the Purple Heart oak leaf cluster collection at these days?”
“Sixteen,” Don replied sheepishly, “But who’s counting?”
His friend’s scathing undertone wasn’t lost on Victor, “This could have been worse if you hadn’t spotted that Quillan transport ship when you did.”
“I should have known earlier,” Don said, trying to make the captain comfortable on the metal deck. “Those drums were sulfuric acid, used in the Quillan environment chambers. I should have recognized the molecular symbol printed on them. Besides, the whole situat
ion just didn’t feel right. If I had been just a little quicker, Mendez and Fedorov might still be alive.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Victor said, noticing the ragged, blood-soaked back of Don’s flight suit. “This was a total kerfuffle. If not for you, we would all be dead now. How’s your back, eh? It’s bleeding pretty bad.”
“The wounds aren’t deep,” he replied, wincing at the pain of every movement, “but that acid burns like hellfire. Fortunately, my jumpsuit’s protecting me from most of it.”
“Let me tend to Captain Turner,” Victor said, kneeling next to the unconscious commander and urging Don out of the way. Peeling back the sticky fabric of the commander’s flight suit, he examined the wound beneath. “I’m not a med-tech, but this doesn’t look good. He needs medical attention, and Mendez is dead. No one else has enough medical training to handle something like this.”
“Except for Fedorov,” Don said, to no purpose, “but he’s dead too. Why did we take both med-techs out there?”
“We couldn’t have known the outpost was occupied,” Victor insisted, trying to relieve his friend’s self-reproach. “This was supposed to be a routine delivery.”
