Empty Space

by Alan Black

  He took a whiff of clean, ship’s air. The sim pod was working hard to clear the odor of vomit. The mess covered his uniform from neck to crotch. He would definitely have to shower and change before going to Lieutenant and Sadie Brown’s—”

  York’s thoughts came to a crashing halt as someone punched him squarely in the nose. His eyes watered and blurred. He’d been punched in the nose before, yet the previous experiences didn’t do anything to build immunity against this time. He squatted down, wrapped his arms around his head, trying to clear his vision. He’d had his share of fights at the orphanage, though they were mostly shoving matches between children, except the time Fredonia Seventeen punched him in the mouth. He’d stopped fighting back by the time he entered the military prep school at age nine. He’d had the full complement of required self-defense courses, but training was different from taking a punch in the nose with a bare fist. Sure, he’d been hit, ganged up on and hit more, nevertheless he hadn’t fought back … directly.

  Shaking his head, he stood up. Blade Balderano glared at him, daring him to fight. However, he wasn’t sure who had punched him. Getting a punch in the nose was a guaranteed way to make your eyes water. Lieutenant JG Bartol Samdon stood shoulder to shoulder with Balderano, it could have been either man, or any of the other junior officers in the cluster around him, most of whom were wearing sweat stained flight uniforms. They must be some of the blue squadron pilots. The flight was simulated, on the other hand, the stress, adrenaline, and sweat was real.

  Samdon was a close friend of Balderano’s, their fathers were political allies back on New Hope. He wasn’t a pleasant or handsome man. Looks or personality weren’t military requirements for a FAC pilot. The man was also a moron who didn’t know he was stupid, making him cruel and an odd brand of foul that York had tried to avoid the entire voyage. The two men formed the core of Balderano’s new dog pack. York pointed a finger at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling.

  Samdon snapped a finger and the red light on the camera winked out. “Camera malfunction.” York was tempted to take a swing at the man, but Samdon outranked him by two steps. Even Balderano outranked him one. Even with the overhead security camera out, York would have everything recorded on his personal dataport for later review.

  Since the night Balderano and his dog pack sandbagged him at the graduation night poker game, he recorded everything he could on his dataport. Even knowing it might be used against him someday, he often wished he’d thought to get the recording of Pietre Ibrahime ‘slipping’ and breaking his neck on the stairs. He did occasionally enjoy a quick review of Rocky Telluride’s ‘accidental’ slip and fall in the showers so soon after graduation. The video of Brother Calvin’s vehicle crashing into the commandant’s came from hacked traffic cameras and newsfeed offerings.

  He sighed. Shipboard accidents happen. They were just more difficult to manage. He knew why he hadn’t removed Balderano from his circle of contacts. The man was known to ride him at every opportunity. Any investigator would automatically think of York as a suspect no matter what his alibi. Nevertheless, Balderano’s time would come, too; not soon, but soon enough.

  “Lieutenant Samdon, I know Ensign Balderano is too much of a coward to fight me one-on-one face-to-face and always has to come at me in a group. Are you a coward, too?” He would carefully check his database later to see if it recorded who threw the offending punch.

  Samdon said, “Easy with the name calling, Sixteen. You are speaking to a ranking officer.”

  York nodded, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply all of you ladies and gentlemen were cowards. Only someone, and I didn’t see who, just sucker punched me and threatened me with a crowd of his supporters at his back. I mentioned Ensign Balderano because this is … what? Blade, is this five or six times you’ve been around when I was hit while outnumbered or unable to defend myself?”

  Samdon said, “I’ve been here the whole time.” He sneered at York. “I didn’t see Ensign Balderano strike you even once, much less five times.”

  York looked from Samdon to Balderano and back again. “Pardon me, sir. I know Ensign Balderano didn’t strike me, because Ensign Balderano hits like a girl. This time it hurt and confused me for a moment.”

  Baker, a female ensign, spat out, “Hits like a girl? You want to try me, budger?” York knew the woman had an especially nasty mean streak and was known for her abuse of lower ranking enlisted when there wasn’t anyone around to stop her. Even in his isolation, York had heard rumors she favored catching young female spacers alone in dark corners late at night leaving whimpering messes in her wake.

  York smiled, although there was no humor in his voice, “No. I mean he hits like a little girl, not like a trained naval officer of any sex.”

  Samdon, a junior grade lieutenant, was the highest-ranking officer present. He said, “Enough. Ensign Sixteen, your uniform is a disgusting mess. I am putting you on report for failure to adhere to dress codes.”

  York nodded his acceptance. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Taking punishment wasn’t fair, wasn’t right, and wasn’t something he could even contest. Technically, he was a passenger on the Gambion and not subject to Lieutenant Samdon’s inspection. Being dinged when coming out of a sim wasn’t accepted practice, nevertheless it hurt a lot less than getting punched in the nose. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “No. You will clean your own sim pod and clean yourself before any enlisted gets a look at you.”

  SEVEN

  York was going to be on time for dinner at the Browns, but far too late to help with any preparations. His arrival at their cabin was constantly delayed as enlisted from all over the ship flooded the corridors wherever he went. He was saluted at every turn, not with the proper military flat palm to the forehead, but with a variety of nods, upraised chins, winks, and outright grins. It seemed that every budger on the ship had heard about the budger officer who single handedly wiped out an opposing squadron.

  The acknowledgement felt good. The computer had automatically updated his scores. Nobody in the sim center had even looked in his direction. Whether his victory was luck, skill or incredible stupidity on his opponent’s part, nine to one was an amazing kill ratio for a single engagement. An upper class officer, whatever their rank, would have been feted, wined and dined, given accolades, attaboys and awards for such a win, simulated or not. It stung York. He should be immune to being ignored, it had been happening his whole life. Repeated experience didn’t bring any more experiential immunity than it did when being repeatedly punched in the nose.

  He did want to fit in, or so he told himself, although he knew any change in his social status would have to come on his terms and not by current societal dictates. Did he have to be less than his best to gain the acceptance of his peers? He could resign his commission to become an enlisted rating. He could easily fit in with the budgers in the lower rates. Taking a demotion would just prove the upper class was right, that budgers didn’t have what it takes to improve themselves. He didn’t want to rise up to join the upper class. He just wanted to rise up to his own level, not upper class, middle class, or lower class. It felt good to receive the minor accolades of the enlisted ratings. The victory felt good simply for its own reward.

  He arrived at the Brown’s cabin right on time. Sadie glanced at him through the receiver comm and slapped the hatch open. Rather than step aside to let him in, she stepped into the corridor and slapped the hatch closed.

  She spoke before the hatch to their cabin cycled shut, “York, I’m sorry. Tonight wouldn’t be a good time.”

  He nodded politely. Not staying for the meal wasn’t a problem for him. He’d been working hard to overstay his welcome. “I understand—”

  The hatch flying open again interrupted him. Harp grinned at him. “Hey, York! You’re late. I had to empty the smoker myself.” He stood in the hatchway, preventing it from closing behind him.

  He smiled back. Having no previous experience with friends, he wasn’t sure wh
at to do with people who were friendly. He certainly wanted to count this couple as his first true friends. He understood if they needed some time without him. There were plenty of days when York wanted time away from himself. He knew what kind of person he really was and that he wasn’t always pleasant to be around. He only managed to hide from himself by escaping into books.

  Sadie put a hand on York’s arm. “I don’t think it would be a good night for you.”

  Harp asked, “Why not?”

  “Well, since York is a budger and our—”

  “Sadie!” Harp interrupted. “You should be ashamed of yourself. You of all people should know better. York Sixteen is an officer and always—”

  Sadie interrupted with a finger across his lips, shaking her head. “That isn’t what I meant—”

  A voice bellowed from inside the cabin. “Is that Ensign JG York Sixteen?”

  Harp said, “Yes, Captain.”

  Sadie spoke to her husband quietly enough her voice wouldn’t carry back into their apartment, “That’s what I was trying to spare York from. I’m a budger, Harp. You don’t understand, no matter how long we’ve been married.”

  “Nonsense, the captain isn’t a bigot.”

  York tried to get in a word, but Sadie waved him to be quiet. “Harp, you’re a good man, but dammit, all you see is the good in others. The captain is—”

  The captain’s voice bellowed again. “Sixteen, get in here. I might as well talk to you now as later.”

  Sadly Sadie said, “I am sorry, York.” She stood aside, letting him into their cabin. She and Harp followed him into the crowded room filled with officers, wives, and half-empty beer bottles.

  The social gathering wasn’t an official meeting, yet York couldn’t stop himself from coming to attention in front of the captain. He had never met the man before. He was passingly familiar with the XO, the chief engineer and even the head chaplain who were already present, but until now, the captain was only a video, a voice, and a flurry of written orders.

  “Ensign Junior Grade York August Sixteen, Captain.”

  The captain looked York over as if inspecting a minor species of bug from a third rate colony planet. “Sixteen, I got a report on you a little while ago. I’d forgotten all about it until just now, so we best take care of you while I’m thinking of it.”

  Out the corner of his eye, York saw Sadie give Harp one of her wifely ‘I told you so’ looks.

  “I’m more than impressed by your performances in the sims as of late, especially the little trick you pulled today.” He glanced at the XO. “Remember Pookie Trimble? She pulled the same missile stunt back when we were rookies. Of course, she ended up sucking vacuum about a year later. Nice trick, though.”

  The XO laughed, “Pookie was a good pilot. She was a sport in the sack, too.” That earned him a poke in the ribs from his wife and a laugh from the chaplain.

  “Be that as it may. Ensign Sixteen, you’re wrecking havoc with our FAC pilot training. How can my pilots get better if you keep blowing them out of the sky before they get a chance to shoot back? I’m rescinding my offer. You’re no longer authorized to train with them. You’re going into communications anyway, so FAC training won’t do you any good.”

  The XO nodded. “I think that’s wise, Captain. His presence hampers building a cohesive esprit de corp. We also have squadron commanders complaining about his taking sim slots they could use for their training.”

  Harp said, “Captain, I may be a navigator and not much of a FAC jockey since my first rookie cruise, but it seems to me our pilots would get better training against the best we can throw at them.”

  The captain glared at Harp. “Lieutenant Brown. First, they are my pilots, not our pilots. Second, they need training and seasoning in how to win a battle, not how to die and lose. They will learn about dying soon enough.”

  The chief engineer said, “Soon enough? Do you mean we have a combat mission?”

  The captain shook his head, “No, dammit. With the last war drawing down and the next one not heating up yet, we’re going into the ass end of nowhere doing police work. We’ve been getting reports of slavery and human trafficking in some of the outer zones. We’re going to need to see if there are any organized activities that need full-on military support to bust up.”

  York almost snorted in derision. The Republic’s system of government made budgers possible. It had degenerated into nothing more than a fancy way to keep a whole segment of the population, the charity cases, in economic slavery. Many upper class families made their initial fortunes using real slaves. They advanced their fortunes continuing to use real slaves for their second and third tier colony operations. He almost snorted, but didn’t. This was the captain speaking and the conversation wasn’t really an open discussion.

  The chaplain nodded sagely, “Human trafficking certainly needs oversight.”

  York didn’t need to parse the sentence to know ‘oversight’ wasn’t the same as ‘stopped’. The upper class didn’t want slavery to stop. They just wanted to ensure they were the ones with their hands firmly on the controls. Slavery was pervasive in Republic society. It included economic slavery, sex trafficking, and the actual ownership of human beings. The only publicly released metric came from historical records of the United States, old Earth. They admitted that .0028 percent of their population went missing every year. The reports were always followed by a caveat about how most were found, recovered (alive or dead) or returned home of their own accord. Even in that era, in a supposedly enlightened society, the number of people kidnapped, tricked into, or outright sold into slavery was obscured, mainly because many were enslaved outside of the country and smuggled in, unknown and uncounted by authorities. The authorities also pointed out that many people of legal age simply went missing by their own volition and didn’t want to be found. The authorities even helped people disappear in a bizarre practice called witness protection.

  The only way the Republic and its upper class ever took official notice of the slavery issue was when one of their own went missing or someone threw a kink into the works upsetting their bank balances. Slavery patrol was little more than busy work when the military got involved. The navy was currently ramping down their war footing and in the upper class owned media, the navy could get a nice publicity spin for continuing present budget levels by policing slavery.

  New Hope’s government refused to release any clear information on the continued practice of slavery. They obfuscated the data with the same excuses used for centuries and buried any meaningful numbers in thousands of pages of irrelevant data. They even argued about exactly what constituted slavery. The planetary population of New Hope was forty billion, extrapolating the same percentage, .0028 of forty billion results in eleven million people going missing annually, an astonishing number. The result was over one hundred thousand souls per year if only one percent of that number was sold into slavery. All reports, inaccurate or not, were from first tier human worlds, never second, third, or fourth tier worlds. Second and third level colony worlds generally underreported such statistics, or if reported, the data was lost in the huge Republic bureaucracy before the government eventually released the statistics to the public. Fourth tier worlds were such raw colonization efforts that survival was more important than reports of any kind. None of the Republic’s reports took into account the economic slavery of the lower classes and the ever present budger population who had no say in how to live their own lives and little to no way of improving their station in life.

  A person had to look no farther than Sadie Brown to see that a budger couldn’t get out of their class. She had married an upper class gentleman. Her family by hard work and diligence became wealthier than many upper class. Yet, she was still considered a budger and the only reason she was tolerated by the ship’s officers and their families was because she served them, cooking their food and cleaning up after them. Harp and Sadie always entertained at their place because no invitation to the cabins of upper class off
icer’s families that included Sadie had ever been forthcoming. Harp did what he could because he loved her. Everyone, including Sadie, knew Harp could drop her at the next planet they came to and no one in the upper classes would bat an eye at her disappearance from their social circle. They knew, without a doubt in their own minds, she and her family wouldn’t be where they were without the patronage of Harp Brown. To York’s way of thinking, the upper class saw Sadie as little more than a well-trained house slave. In some societies in the distant past, Sadie’s class was regarded as one of the ‘untouchables’. York often wondered how much flak Harp took for marrying so far below his own class.

  York himself was an example of the inability to escape budger slavery. He hadn’t been given the choice to enter the navy. Some random bureaucrat had decided that for him with the full expectation he would fail. When he didn’t fail, he still wasn’t given any choice about his own future. He knew choice was the true basis for the hostility directed toward him upon achieving the highest class ranking at the Yards. For the first time that class rank at graduation would provide a budger with a choice from available assignments. Giving budgers a choice beyond which sock went on which foot in the morning would set a bad precedent. The navy told him what to wear, where to go, when to get there, what to eat along the way, and what to do when he got there. That was as it should be for any budger.

  The captain looked back at York. “Still, that leaves us what to do with you. We still have a couple of months left to get to your station. It makes sense to assign you to communications shifts, but we already have more than our fair share of FNGs the old hands are trying to train, so I’m not going to throw more kinks at a bad situation.”

  The XO said, “We have a couple of officers to shift around in duties due to promotions. How about this?” He tossed a reader to the captain.