“I wrote my thesis on the applications of quantum multi-positioning machinery, and I served on the board which approved it for construction,” he pointed at the captain's screen. “as that box probably told you already. Come to think of it, most likely I've met whoever you've got working on it belowdecks.” He could think of a few of his colleagues who would have jumped at the chance. Heck, he had managed to have himself placed on the fast-track to that position, before the Navy threw a fit at him getting advice from a friend. Some friend.
The Captain held Klaus' gaze for a few seconds, and then nodded slightly, as if to herself. “Doctor Johann MacDougal is part of our engineering team. He’s aboard until the new drive works reliably.”
Klaus snorted, surprised. He'd never have guessed that name. Or maybe he should have. After all, the day had started quite badly. “Johann’s aboard? Someone managed to pry him out of his comfy deanship? And now he's loose aboard a warship, no less?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Antoniy staring at him. Let him stare. Apparently, the Marine wasn't the only one with surprises today.
Klaus shook his head. Of all the people, Johann. That rules-lawyering tweed-jacketer who'd gotten Klaus drummed out of active duty? Who'd gotten him banished to the Ad Astra? “Ma'am, Johann's a researcher, not an engineer. Oh, he can describe the theory of the thing better than anybody else.” Which was why Klaus had asked him for advice on the schematics. Sure, they were classified, but...“I think Johann’s the only person who actually understands how and why the underlying theories work. Even so, he couldn’t build a working mousetrap, much less a warship drive.”
He wanted to say more, but snapped his mouth shut. He'd never been very good at when to keep silent. Of course, Johann also couldn't keep his damn mouth shut. Without considering the consequences for Klaus, the man had blithely told the harpies over at the Intelligence Directorate about their conversation, and they'd had Klaus thrown into 'reserve status.' With years left on his service tour, that kept him on reserve-pay and still obligated to report his location to the Navy.
He blinked his eyes and exhaled slowly, willing his jaw to unclench, trying in vain to banish the growing migraine. A headache was the last thing he needed, on top of his exhaustion.
Maybe his tired mind was playing tricks on him, but he thought he saw a hint of a smile as the Captain answered, “That certainly matches how the trial runs have been going.” She glanced again at her desk display. “But I see that you have some applied experience in the field?”
She damn well had more information than that. The one overarching rule of the Navy was that paperwork and records never die. But still, he may as well be polite. He may have hated being “reserve-d,” but at least he wasn't in prison. No sense pissing off Navy officers any further. “Yes, ma'am. I’ve worked with designs to move small objects a few meters away – say, a lab animal across a room. But I haven’t done anything larger or further than that.”
“That’ll have to do. How would you like a job as a contractor? We’re not heading back in-system for a while yet, so you’re stuck aboard for the foreseeable future. I need that drive working before we reach Andromeda station.”
"When will that be, er, ma'am?"
"Classified. Let's just say I want it yesterday."
"What's the rush?"
"Classified."
Klaus hesitated. Same old Navy. Of course, it would be a great opportunity for him. On the downside, he'd have to work with Johann again, but on the upside he'd get to play with the biggest QMP system ever made. That was quite the prize, one heckuva carrot.
Apparently, the Captain misread his hesitation, because she added, “Or you can spend your time under guard until we return to Earth. As you know, much of the ship is highly classified. We can't have a non-verified civilian looking around.”
And there was the stick. “Ach, you don't need the threats.” He smiled. “When do I start?”
“Immediately.” The Captain pressed the intercom button on her desk. “Ensign Marius, please escort Mr. Ericsson to med bay for chipping, and then to his quarters. He is assigned to Mr. MacDougal's project under Lieutenant Ranjit starting first thing tomorrow, so also show him where the auxiliary engine room is located.”
Well. That was fast. He had expected a long wait while he was verified. Or rather, re-verified. Had the Navy always worked this quickly? Or was everything just being distorted by his migraine? Well, so long as it got him to a comfortable bed soon, he could deal with it.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Antoniy watched Klaus leave the office. He turned back to the Captain, a faint smile on his face. “Thank you again, ma'am, but really, though — how did you know to be out here in time to save my skin?” He frowned, glancing at the door through which the older engineer had left. "My skin, right?"
Wait. That had come out much more familiar than he'd intended. He was getting sloppy. He ran his fingers through his hair, and straightened, “Sorry, ma'am. I just nearly got killed without being able to defend myself.” If Klaus hadn't pulled him off of his lunch break – in the kitchen, adjacent to the supplies bay of the Ad Astra – he would likely never even have felt the blast coming. “It's got me a bit on edge.”
The Captain grinned. “Regretting transferring to Intelligence section already?”
That snapped Antoniy out of his woolgathering. “No, ma'am.”
This felt entirely too much like one of Captain-Instructor Conagher's classroom 'discussions.' The ones where she taught students to watch their wording by embarrassing themselves in front of the other cadets. He decided to watch what he said.
“Good.” She nodded, her expression still unreadable "Please sit down." She drummed one finger idly on her desk. "I'd hate to think that one of my best students was having second thoughts.”
Antoniy, if he was being honest, knew full well that he was not one of the top cadets at the Academy. He was good, yes, but not that good. Therefore, the Captain must either be testing him, or she must want something.
Best to turn the tables, then, and go on the offensive, ask questions of his own. He gestured to the office around them. “I have to say, for a ship of this scale, I expected the Fleet Admiral himself in command. On-board, at least. Never thought he'd miss a deployment like this.” Or a photo-op this grand.
“Captaincy assignments are need-to-know, and you already knew that.”
“Fair enough." Basically, she was telling him to try again. "Do I need to know why the Overlord is here?”
“The Admiralty ordered us out to Andromeda station. We’re to rendezvous with Commodore Petrakov, and take further orders from him.”
“Petrakov? The cowboy?” Antoniy leaned back in his chair, fully aware that Conagher had not really answered his question. But what intrigued him was the Commodore. He grinned.
“I take it you don’t like his leadership style?”
“The opposite, actually. I have to admire his style. Admittedly, the proper way to raid an uncovered enemy facility does not involve having the sector commander personally kick in the door.” He laughed. “I can’t really fault his initiative, though – our best operatives could barely keep up with the old man. But as they say, if you’re under his command, best prepare for an interesting experience.” He paused a heartbeat, then added, "So why do I need to know this? Er, ma'am?"
Conagher tapped her console, and leaned forward. "You heard my conversation with the surprisingly well-informed Mr. Ericsson." She raised an accusing eyebrow at Antoniy.
He held up his hands. "Don't look at me. I said nothing to him. Besides, I was never briefed on your mission."
She nodded, continuing in a neutral tone. "Until recently, this was just a shakedown cruise, with a skeleton crew and far too many civilians. Our Marine contingent is thin, most of them green. Well trained and highly recommended, yes, or else I would not allow them aboard my ship. But green."
Antoniy leaned forward in his chair. "And you could use my help?" She must reall
y be desperate, if she proposed putting a spook back in charge of real Marines.
Conagher leaned forward. "Exactly, Lieutenant."
Still seated, Antoniy saluted. "Aye, ma'am. What are my orders, ma'am?" Not strictly protocol, but he wanted to make a point.
Conagher paused, then gave a thin smile and steepled her fingers. "As you said, Lieutenant, prepare for an interesting experience."
Chapter 5: Marius
Klaus found a small vehicle waiting for him outside the Captain's office. It looked rather like an elongated, open-topped golf cart, except for the way it floated a few centimeters off the deck. Maglev, interestingly. Expensive technology, and for a golf cart, yet! After the Ad Astra, he found it hard to get used to the utter waste of resources here. He glanced over the light-brown deck, spying the telltale silvery strips embedded into its smooth texture.
He laughed at Ensign Marius, perched in the driver's seat. “You brought a maglev cart for me? Those are reserved for well-connected civilians and senior brass!”
The ensign sat at attention, looking uncomfortable. “Nevertheless, sir, it's the transportation which we have arranged.” He gestured to the passengers side. “Please have a seat, sir, and we’ll head over to the med bay.”
Klaus climbed aboard and settled back. His knees ached, and his headache just wouldn't quit. Despite his words, he was grateful for the chance to rest. “Huh. Bit more comfortable than I’d expect on a warship. This vehicle can’t possibly be fast enough to get around a ship this size, though.”
“These are for the VIPs, normally.” The ensign swiveled his seat to face Klaus. “The crew just goes superman.” He paused. “Uh, that means we use the grav systems to ‘fly’ down the corridors.”
“Ach, I know what supermanning is.” Klaus growled at the ensign, who could not have been past his very early twenties. “I’ve been working on starships since before you were born. I invented supermanning.” So far as the kid knew. Klaus rapped the base of his seat. “Now, if it's designed for some soft desk-jockey, this crate must be damned slow. So why don’t we just save time and fly instead?”
“You’d need to be re-chipped, first, sir, before you can fly.” The ensign tapped a command into his datapad, and the cart took off down the corridor.
“Chipped?” Klaus asked. “What’s wrong with my own chip?”
“Yours lacks several necessary systems, sir.”
“What? It's only twelve years old! An implantable beacon doesn't go obsolete that fast!” Even though he was talking with Marius, Klaus' attention was on the corridor walls as they flew past. The brown-and-blue color scheme wasn’t surprising, by itself – all spacecraft used a similar interior color scheme. What was surprising was the size of the corridor – Klaus estimated that it must be three meters square, far more room than could possibly be necessary. "And stop calling me 'sir'!"
Ensign Marius swallowed, “Yes si—.,, ah, well, chipped persons are tracked by the ship’s systems. It’s so that the ship can tell friendlies from enemies in case of a boarding action.” he grinned. “Not that anybody’d be dumb enough to try that on a Fleet cruiser.”
Klaus scowled, “I know that." The ensign's grin disappeared, as Klaus turned his head to face him. "You still haven't explained why mine won't work.”
The ensign sobered. He drew a deep breath, and answered in a steady monotone, eyes straight ahead. Clearly a well-practiced speech. “As part of their security function, modern chips are all but impossible to remove by force without being destroyed. They also tell the computers where you are, how fast you’re moving, and in what direction. That lets them control the grav systems to maneuver individual crew through the corridors.” The ensign waved a hand towards the capacious corridor around them. “Where most ships have separate passages for cargo and personnel traffic, we use a single corridor for both. Sir.”
“Ah.” That explained these plus-sized corridors. Klaus pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, the imminent headache drawing closer. He berated himself. Tired or not, he should not have barked at the kid. "Look, I appreciate your help, but —."
He stopped talking. They were approaching a T-junction at speed, and Klaus braced for the cart to decelerate. But it didn't. Klaus shifted and leaned into the turn to account for lateral acceleration.
The cart turned right, suddenly and sharply, around the corner, and Klaus almost toppled off the cart, into the turn. "What the—?" He exclaimed, clutching the grab-bar to keep himself from falling. He had felt no lateral acceleration, even though the sharp turn ought to have thrown him back into the cart.
Klaus peered below his seat. “Hm. Small gravity generators in the vehicle here. Why not just hold your passengers in place with Krugerrands? It'd be cheaper.”
“What VIPs want, VIPs get.” The ensign shrugged, hiding a grin. “Can’t have Admirals or senators falling off the cart.” Admirals with a capital letter, senators without, Klaus noticed.
“Ah.”
After several more hairpin turns, Klaus relaxed enough to release his death-grip on the cart's grab-bar. A few moments later they pulled to a halt at a featureless stretch of the corridor. At first, Klaus could see no reason why they had halted at that specific location. Only when the ensign stood up from the vehicle and approached the wall did Klaus spot the hatch.
Like all of the others they had passed, this one bore no label or distinguishing mark at all. Only its slight protrusion from the wall betrayed its presence.
Ensign Marius keyed it open, and stood aside for Klaus to enter. “Go on in, sir. I’ll wait out here.”
Klaus stepped through, and stared. It was Frankenstein's laboratory. The compartment, perhaps ten meters on a side, had its walls lined with machinery of all shapes and sizes. Four large operating tables were stowed in the corners of the room, with rails on the floor ready to move them, he supposed, into position for use. Each one sported a rack of robotic arms , which looked capable of re-building a Marine using nothing more than his dog tags. Would probably be an improvement, too.
The door at the other end of the room opened, and a tall, thin man stepped through. His white lab-coat was the uniform of a medical specialist, but in this lair of a laboratory it lent a certain 'mad scientist' air. He held his datapad in front of him with both hands, like a shield. “Mr. Ericsson, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I'm Lieutenant Baker. You're here for an exam and a new chip, right?”
“Yes on the chip.” Klaus frowned. “But I don't need any exam.”
“It's mandatory for anyone coming aboard, I'm afraid. It only takes a minute, though. No need for worry.”
“If it's necessary, then go ahead..” Klaus sighed. He was tired, and wanted his rest, but the exam would probably take less time than arguing about it.
The corpsman reached into a pocket on the front of his uniform and attached a square-tipped probe to his datapad. “Ah, here we are. Your hand, please.” He placed the flat tip against the inside of Klaus' wrist, and held it there for five seconds. Klaus' wrist tingled as a mild current ran up his arm. But it wasn't very painful, and he was too tired to ask about it.
Lieutenant Baker withdrew the probe and glanced at his screen. He nodded crisply. “Very good. DNA matches your file. All readings within normal body parameters. Pathogen scan returns negative.” He looked over the top of his 'pad at Klaus, and added, “You're good. No issues detected.”
“Of course," Klaus answered. He always passed his physicals. He eyed the probe. Apparently, the thing couldn't detect anything about being dead tired. "And the chip?”
The Lieutenant held up a syringe.
Klaus eyed the needle. “A hypodermic? That's it? I'd hoped for one of the larger chips.”
“Not necessary. This is easier, cheaper and safer.” The corpsman looked at Klaus, one eyebrow raised in question. “You're a Marine? Miss the scars of the old models?”
Klaus opened his mouth to respond, but Baker interrupted him He looked Klaus up and down
, pausing at his mid-section. “Hmm, no, you don't have the build of a Marine.” He paused, then snapped his fingers. “Ah, I see. You must be from Engineering. In that case, I'm sorry to say you can't play with the needle-inserted chips. Not re-programmable and all that. They stay in the muscle, so it's all but impossible to get at them anyways.”
“So it'll stay with me for life?” A waste, if he couldn't tinker with it.
Lieutenant Baker shook his head. “Oh, no, they biodegrade after five years or so.”
“Get on with it, then, doc.” He rolled up his sleeve.
A few minutes later, Klaus exited the medical bay, rubbing at the sore spot on his right shoulder.
Marius stood by the cart, exactly where he had been when Klaus had gone in. Klaus grinned at Marius, and pointed to the cart. “You can send this kinderwagen back to wherever you got it. It’s been a long day, and the sooner we get quarters sorted out, the sooner I can get some sleep.”
The ensign nodded, tapped at his datapad, and the empty cart sped off down the corridor. “Fair enough. Repeat after me, please: ‘Computer, request standard flight to civilian cabin…’” Marius glanced at his datapad. “…E37. Execute.” He vanished down the corridor in a blur of movement.
Klaus blinked. Either he was getting groggy, or the flight was faster than the transit corridors he remembered. He repeated the proper phrase, and instantly the corridor walls were blurring past him. He grunted as the two gees of acceleration hit him, but he grinned nevertheless. He really missed this form of transit. The Ad Astra's grav systems probably would have killed him if he ever tried to get around this quickly.
After the initial acceleration, the familiar feeling of free-falling was reassuring, even though he was moving much faster than he was accustomed to. Fast enough to make even a veteran feel a slight twinge of nervousness. Furthermore, when he turned a corner, he was surprised to feel several gees of lateral acceleration.
He had expected that the gravity systems would compensate fully, to make for a more comfortable ride. It made sense, of course, that a warship would prioritize speed over comfort, but why spend the money on grav systems for the golf carts, and then skimp on those same compensators for the people who actually work for a living? He clucked reprovingly to himself. Typical Navy.
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