The Mutineer's Daughter

by Chris Kennedy

  But—Benno hoped—they stood their watch with a bit more pride now.

  The fleet, as a group, adjusted and jockeyed for exact positions and vectors relative to one another. Thrusters fired, tapping massive ships out and in, forward and back, and from side to side until each was precisely aligned, with all units still and stationary relative to the fleet’s central position, every warship moving at the exact same velocity and acceleration. That velocity, directly out from their current system’s barycenter and straight toward the next target star, well beyond their present sun’s escape velocity, was the sacrificial lamb the universe required for transit.

  “Warrant, we’ve received the first transit synch signal. Group thrust cuts off in three, two, one…” the helmsman, Technician Avera, said.

  As he trailed off, the dark matter conversion drives on each fleet ship shut down simultaneously, though they were all many light-seconds apart. Thrust gravity vanished, and Benno felt his body surge against his tightened seat straps in response. He nodded and checked their alignment. The last thing they needed now was for the fleet to abort its transit for one misaligned unit, not when they had other places to go, other missions to accomplish.

  Lasers scintillated throughout the group as position sensors re-verified the relative position and motion for each unit. In moments, the final calculations were complete. The fleet moved as one, slowed only slightly by the gravitational pull of the system they were leaving behind, and that was but a slight tug along a single vector directly astern. It was important that none of the fleet ships pick up an errant side vector. When their transit drives reached out and tried to connect with the dark energy field, all motion and unresolved forces between ships would become magnified. Precision mattered more than anything else.

  Dark matter and dark energy were the names of the two different types of nothingness people utilized for interplanetary and interstellar travel and were, in fact, the predominant “stuff” of the universe. All the matter and energy that could be seen and touched and interacted with was nothing but the pond scum atop a mighty reservoir of mass and potential. They were labeled “dark” as a synonym for “not-understood” and had only been discovered through inference.

  Dark matter was theorized first as a means of explaining the excessive spin rates of galaxies. Given the amount of mass proposed for a particular galaxy, based upon the number, type, and size of stars it contained, each should have a specific rate of spin where the aggregate gravitational pull and the inertia of its components balanced out. Except they did not balance. Galaxies spun much more rapidly than their apparent mass should be able to counteract. But rather than fly apart, they remained stable. Even allowing for cold baryonic matter that might hold a lot of mass but not emit, reflect, or occlude light—like brown dwarfs or massive compact halo objects—there was still not enough mass for the spin observed. Something else held things together, some unknown force, or some “extra” mass and gravity from some unseen “dark” matter that could be all around everything, yet not interact except through gravity.

  Dark energy was even more esoteric. Based on the mass of the universe, its age and size, and its rate of expansion since the Big Bang, three cases were possible: A) expansion would eventually slow, stop, and reverse itself, leading to a Big Crunch and a potential rebound into another Big Bang and the birth of a new universe; B) the universe was in a steady state and would continue to expand at its current rate, forever; or C) the gravity of the universe was insufficient to halt expansion, and while it might slow over time, it would never reverse and collapse into a Big Crunch. This headlong expansion would lead to an ever-larger universe, growing colder and more distant as the fusion within stars eventually burnt out all available fuel and entropy reached a maximum: the Heat Death, where even protons had decayed.

  Instead, and despite the presence of dark matter, the universe’s expansion rate was increasing through some unknown mechanism, perhaps related to the phenomenon of inflation that had occurred in the early universe, expanding space itself faster than the speed of light. This all-powerful repulsive force was said to be due to “dark energy,” though no one knew what form that energy might take, just as they had no idea what dark matter was.

  But humanity was a resourceful lot. Tell an engineer that visible matter and energy only made up 5% of the known universe, with another 20% comprised of invisible dark matter, and a whopping 75% wrapped up in some inexplicable force due to dark energy, and she will find a way to tap into those two deep wells of potential. Thus, the smartest of Earth’s apes provided the dark matter conversion drive, ripping hot reaction mass from nothingness to circumvent the rocket equation. It gave humanity the solar system.

  And the smartest of the smartest apes then peered into the vast, empty deserts between the stars, went mad, and created the dark energy transit drive, giving Homo Sapiens the galaxy and beyond.

  “Second synch signal received,” Avera said. “Transit in three, two, one…”

  As the helmsman trailed off, the ships of the Alliance Navy fleet flashed into non-existence, presumably to reappear light-years distant in the next target system. There, the fleet vessels would find themselves drawn closer to one another, their exit vectors and exit orientations essentially random, due to the magnification effect the transit produced, as real matter and energy briefly tried to exist in the same continuum as dark energy. They might well find one or more of their number missing, victims of a mis-jump from some unknown side vector or force upon the ship before the transition. No ship had ever returned from a mis-jump, and it was theorized they might be in some distant, other galaxy altogether.

  What the fleet would not find in the next system was one ACV Puller.

  Because they had not transited at all.

  At the same synchronized moment, all the ships but the Puller transited out. Due to their extreme distance from one another, however, the signatures of the other units transiting simultaneously came to the Puller staggered over the span of many seconds. The concentric globes of vessels winked out of existence in flashes of blue Cerenkov radiation and pulses of gravity waves, one by one, starting with the closest and ending nearly two minutes later, like some rupturing soap bubble against the dark firmament.

  Upon seeing the last flash from the opposite side of the formation, Benno checked his displays and breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing they needed was another ship to have failed to transit. Benno was uncertain how they would have explained the subsequent maneuvers they would have to make.

  He keyed his comm. “CIC, Bridge, I’m seeing zero radar returns and no thermal signatures from the fleet. Do you concur?”

  The senior chief standing Tactical Action Officer in the Combat Information Center answered. “Bridge, TAO, CIC concurs. It looks like the rest of the fleet made the transit together. We are alone and unafraid.”

  “Roger that, TAO. We’re going to spin the ship and reverse thrust, back into the system. Please coordinate with ASTRO/NAV and give me your recommendations for our first transit toward Paradiso. We want to be out of this system before anyone from the fleet decides to come back looking for us.”

  “Aye aye, Bridge.” The voice cut off.

  Dufresne peaked an eyebrow in question. “You think that’s likely? Fleet sending a rescue cutter back this way?”

  Benno shook his head. “No. Better safe than sorry, though. Besides, it’ll get everybody motivated and focused if an external threat’s hanging over them.”

  Soon enough, CIC and the bridge settled upon a recommended vector for their first transit in a series of four jumps back into Alliance space and toward Paradiso, all through vacant or under-populated star systems where they would be able to stay out of the central system while moving from transit vector to transit vector.

  The Puller’s dark matter conversion drive, or DMC torch, lit up again and they made for their first entrance at a comfortable one g. The dark energy coupling transit drive, or DEC, could be activated at any time, but alignment, cou
rse, velocity, and position mattered. Every unbalanced force and errant motion upon the ship would be magnified a thousand-fold by the transit. Unless they were aligned along the proper vector, heading straight toward the target system’s current location, directly out from the barycenter or gravitational balance point of the current system, and proceeding above the current system’s escape velocity, the geodesic path inscribed by the ship’s faster-than-light transit would be thrown off and miss the target system entirely. They would not re-enter objective reality until their skewed path did intersect another solar system, perhaps in another galaxy…or else if they failed to achieve escape velocity, they would be sucked into the heart of their departure system’s star. Much closer, perhaps…but just as dead.

  Thus, it would take slightly more than a standard day to move from their original transit vector out to the one for their new target system, on the other side of this Terran Union system. The Puller did not need Benno on the bridge for routine travel from transit position to transit position. The ship could get back to routine…and he could evaluate the mood of the mutinous crew. He unstrapped, nodded to Chief Dufresne, and left.

  As Benno walked aft and down through the mighty tower of the ship, the crew he passed smiled back at him and went about their labors with—to his eye—a little extra spring in their steps. No longer upon the mission handed down to them from central Alliance world aristos, no longer flung at the massive empire of the Terran Union, and no longer just a tiny cog in an enormous fleet, his fellow mutineers seemed to have a renewed sense of purpose and pride.

  He had seen little of that during his many years climbing the ranks. Benno had always before considered himself a patriot. Looking back now, however, all he had been loyal to was what the Alliance Navy could give him, the leg up it would provide to his homestead, and the life it might grant his daughter.

  Pride in the Alliance of Liberated Systems though? No. Not that. Not now.

  And he could finally admit that now that he could see the things he felt on the faces of these young spacers. Benno squared his shoulders, nodded back at his compatriots, and stepped forward smartly.

  It was not long before he neared the mess decks where the crew dined…and heard angry shouts, cruel jeers, and apparent shouts of agony. He picked up speed, first a trot, then a run. Faces flashed by as he passed, and he saw expressions of confusion, dismay, and horror on most…but there were more than a few who looked satisfied and proud. About what, he had no idea.

  The mess decks were the central hub of enlisted life aboard the Puller. Here, crew from all departments mixed and socialized between shifts and sleep. Designed by committee to exude both relaxation and fun, and with one corner dedicated as a memorial to one Chesty Puller, the ancient Marine commandant namesake of their destroyer, the mess decks always represented a low-key, controlled chaos.

  That chaos had been amped now, though. Once Benno burst through the gathered, shouting crowd, the scene took him a moment to parse. He saw Ortiz and a few of his hangers-on sitting at the head of one bolted-down mess table, now draped in a green cloth. Before them stood several of the imprisoned loyalists from the brig, held in place by several angry-looking toughs. The prisoners looked haggard after several days in the overcrowded cells, but it was not just incarceration that had affected them. Several sported wounds, not only crusted-over scabs and bruises from the original mutinous clashes…but fresh marks as well.

  At their feet and immediately before the tribunal table where Ortiz ruled lay the crumpled form of Commander Ashton, the Executive Officer, breathing heavily.

  Benno’s eyes flared. He turned his face away before anyone noticed him and pulled up the data suite on his forearm. Benno quickly shot a text to Dufresne on the bridge: KANGAROO COURT ON MESSDECK. SEND HELP NOW. ARMED. TRUSTED AGENTS ONLY.

  He turned back to the scene and stepped forward, out of the crowd. Ortiz noticed him, smiled, and nodded. He said nothing to Benno, however. Instead, he gestured to CDR Ashton with a dismissive wave and looked at one of the toughs surrounding the embattled officers. “Next!” he shouted.

  They pushed the Chief Engineer, LCDR Garvey, forward, but Benno jumped in front of him and locked gazes with Ortiz. “Hey, Raoul. What’s going on here?”

  Ortiz spread his hands. “Just doing my part, Benno. You’ve been so busy making sure we looked legit and could make our get-away, you neglected to handle the genuine security threat we have on board. That’s no criticism, mind you! No, not at all, but now that we’re free of…scrutiny, this business is long overdue.”

  “And what business is that?”

  “Well, trials, of course. We need to ascertain which of these here loyalists are planning to act against the interests of your—I’m sorry—our mission of liberation.”

  Benno looked around the messdeck. The compartment was full, and all the nearest mutineers seemed quite bloodthirsty and satisfied with the proceedings. It was not until he went back a few layers in the crowd that he could see faces registering shock or guilt. He had to tread carefully here, lest he find himself the next case on their docket.

  He looked back at Ortiz and the two other “judges” next to him, Logistics Specialist Chief Douglas Wan and Electrician’s Mate Petty Officer First Class Stephanie Johnson. Benno knew them both, but not well. Still, he was surprised to find them at Ortiz’s side in this matter. There was no telling the number of different opinions and attitudes that had been set free by their mutiny, by the removal of all social and military restrictions upon their actions. Benno realized he had no way of knowing which way any of them leaned until they voiced their opinions. And though they might be 100% behind his plan to free the Lost Six, it did not mean they were on his side on any number of other issues.

  Benno nodded and gave Ortiz a tight smile. “Thank you, Raoul. I hadn’t realized how pressing the matter of these trials was to the mission. I truly wish you’d mentioned it before. It almost feels like you’re doing this on the sly, like you thought it was something you shouldn’t be doing.”

  Ortiz shrugged. “I’ve got no secrets. Hell, we’re doing this on the messdeck, right in front of everyone. And if I didn’t mention it before…eh, you’ve been busy.”

  “Yes. I’ve been busy, but I’m never too busy for you. Nonetheless, I thought the plan we were going with was to keep the loyalists on board, then dump them somewhere remote in Alliance space.”

  “That was your plan, maybe, but how good a plan is that? Lots of technicians in with those aristo-lovers, lots of mayhem they can cause before we finish our mission or find a place to dump them safely. Maybe they might call the fleet in on us. No, I got to talking to Chief Wan and EM1 Johnson, and we all agreed it’s better to separate the safe from the dangerous now, before any…shenanigans occur.”

  Benno nodded. “And once you figure out the dangerous elements…?”

  Ortiz chuckled to himself. “That’s why we’re doing this now. Lots of Alliance bodies already floating through this system. A few more won’t strike anyone as odd. And tossing the more reactionary types out an airlock could…have a cooling effect upon the ones we let live, convince them to keep playing nice.”

  Benno’s eyes narrowed, and he looked back at the crowd. While a few people blanched at the talk of casual spacings as a form of execution, most seemed unperturbed. He turned back around to look down at CDR Ashton. She stirred on the deck, beginning to recover from whatever they had done to her. A trickle of blood oozed from her temple where she had been struck. Benno gestured to her and looked at EM1 Johnson. “I take it you all found the XO guilty of being ‘potentially dangerous?’ Is that when you knocked the shit out of her? Is that how you’re running your court?”

  EM1 opened and closed her mouth, but her cheeks flushed red, and no sound emerged. Ortiz spoke up in her stead. “She was found guilty of collusion in action against the Lost Six. She overreacted to her sentence, and she was disciplined for it. Sorry if we didn’t observe all the niceties of how you’d run things, Benno. The
decision stands.”

  Benno felt the heat rise in him. “On whose authority?”

  Ortiz rose. “On mine! On the will of all those like-minded souls gathered here! You won, Benno. We’re all going with you on your fool’s crusade, but don’t for one moment think you have some mandate to lead us. You’re not Captain here! So, I’ll thank you to run off, back to your bridge. Keep your hands clean and kindly allow us to clear out some of these enemies to our cause! Unless, perhaps, you identify more with our former CO and XO than you do us?”

  Benno clenched his fists and stepped forward. Ortiz put a foot on the table, preparing to leap out. The crowd bristled, but Benno had no idea if they would help or attack him.

  The ozone-laced snap and crackle of a charge-lance sounded, interrupting the clash. MAC Dufresne’s voice blared out from one side of the messdeck, amplified to an excruciating volume in the enclosed space. “STAND DOWN! Anyone who makes a move wakes up in the brig or the airlock!”

  All eyes turned toward the starboard doorway. Chief Dufresne stood there in full riot gear, her charge-lance—a three-foot combination nightstick and taser—lit by a violet nimbus of St. Elmo’s fire. At the other three doorways, other masters-at-arms stood, similarly armed. Many on the mess decks still carried their sidearms and rifles from the mutiny, but in the close quarters, with the bodies packed in, the advantage would be to the melee-armed and armored masters-at-arms.

  “Ortiz, you asshole, these are my prisoners, not yours. There’ll be no kangaroo courts on my watch. We decide to space these loyalists, it’ll be a group decision, not your ramrodding through some executions just because you’re a dick.”