Nimisha's Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  She made a second and successful attempt to get to her feet and made her way to the medical station. Wove her way, she amended. She’d had quite a crack.

  “Doc, how long have I been unconscious?”

  “Three hours, twenty minutes, six seconds and—”

  “Thank you, Helm,” she cut off the hundredths. “I asked the Doc.”

  “Helm needs to hear your voice, Nimi,” the medic said in Lord Naves’s soothing baritone. “Now lie down before you fall.”

  The change in position made her head throb, but the infirmary unit’s extensions had snaked out of their niches to clamp on her body for readings.

  “Shaken but nothing stirred,” the Doc said reassuringly. “We’ll just relieve the symptoms and clean up that cut. A spurt of nu-skin will close it neatly.”

  Nimi grimaced as a swab made her aware of how tender the spot was, but the sudden coolness on her arm from a hypospray meant that the discomfort would soon disappear.

  “All systems functioning normally,” Helm said. “No damage reported in any section despite the turbulence of the wormhole. The hull has been scraped on both sides but has not lost integrity.”

  “Wormhole!” Nimisha would have shot upright if she hadn’t been entangled with extendables, which were still checking her over.

  “Let’s just keep our cool,” Doc said.

  “We were drawn into a wormhole, ma’am, and you were rendered unconscious by the buffeting,” was Helm’s contribution.

  Somehow she got the distinct impression from Helm’s voice that it was her puny human fault that she was vulnerable and he was sorry for her. Hmmm . . . maybe she should reprogram Helm when she got back to the yard. That actor had embroidered on the script with some emotional content that was not to her liking. Damn him.

  “What is our position?”

  There was a long pause, during which she was given another injection “for shock,” the Doc said.

  “I’m waiting, Helm.”

  “Working, ma’am, on establishing our present position with star identification program.” Helm was almost a misnomer for the functions handled by that AI: It was not only guidance, but engineering, communications, navigation, defense, and science, as well as commissary for all the supplies on board the Fiver which were not for human consumption. And it ordered those in from the lists supplied by Cater.

  Nimi craned her neck to get a glimpse of the main screen.

  “You’ll have time enough to look at it when you’ve been cleared by me, Nimi, and have had something to bring your blood sugar up to normal. Cater, prepare a sweetened and restorative drink, high protein, full trace elements.”

  “Yes, indeed. My pleasure.”

  Nimisha wondered if she actually heard a note of relief in Cater’s voice. The manipulative arms of the infirmary withdrew. “Move slowly now,” Doc advised. “No permanent damage, but you gave yourself quite a crack.”

  “I’ll have to see to the armrest design. Pad it better,” Nimisha muttered. “Take note please, Helm,” she added as she walked slowly toward the dispenser and the cup of steamy liquid awaiting her. Judiciously sampling it, though it was at just the right temperature to be ingested immediately, she thanked Cater and got a fervent “You’re very welcome, Lady Nimisha,” as she returned to the pilot console.

  “It shouldn’t take you this long to match spectro-analyses, Helm. What’s the problem?”

  “I can find no matches, ma’am.”

  Nimisha blinked. “You’re programmed with every single data cube available to the Fleet on every single star system. You mean, that wormhole took us outside the Delta Quadrant?”

  “That would be a correct assessment of an inability to identify any of the primaries visible. We are substantially closer to the Magellanic Clouds, so we must be nearer the southern celestial pole. I believe I can identify the constellation Doradus, but it is the only familiar starscape.”

  Nimisha looked out, not precisely doubting Helm but unwilling to concede that she, and her ship, were lost in space. She knew what configuration of stars she should have seen from the Fiver at the position where the wormhole sucked her in. There were no comfortingly familiar star-patterns visible, but she was still in a populous area, to judge by the multitude of primaries shining all around her.

  “Well, if my brains were scrambled, at least yours can’t be, Helm.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What about that double star? Surely it’s unusual enough to have turned up somewhere on Fleet explorations?”

  “It does not match within the necessary parameters for any double stars on file.”

  Nimisha eased herself into the pilot’s chair and sipped at her beverage. It had a minty flavor and something else, more exotic, but she could feel its restorative rush.

  “Int’rusting,” she said, matching a tone her mother would use when faced with some unusual situation.

  “Shall I log it in?”

  “Might as well. Do the whole panorama,” Nimisha added with a sweep of her free arm. “Might be useful sometime. No answer to our Mayday, I suppose?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  At least Helm didn’t sound worried. No, the worry was all hers.

  “Helm, have we moved from where that wormhole spat us out?”

  “No, ma’am. I awaited your orders.”

  “Yes, of course, since you weren’t programmed for the standard operating procedure on exiting wormholes.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  For that matter, she didn’t know what that would be either, but she could wish he had less need for so many negatives. Had she been conscious, her first action on being spat out would have been to send a probe back through the hole with the present star patterns. However, she hadn’t been awake and she couldn’t fault Helm for not knowing what action to take in such a situation.

  “Then please prepare a new beacon, giving our registration and com-pulse configurations, the spectro-analysis of the stars in our spatial vicinity, and repeat our request for contact with any Fleet or civilian vessel.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  An affirmative was a nice change.

  “Beacon away,” Helm said a few moments later.

  That was one advantage in having AI units managing the ship. They didn’t have to take breaks or eat or go to the head at awkward moments, and they worked with great speed and efficiency. She sighed and drained the cup.

  “That did the trick, Cater, Doc.”

  “I recommend some rest, Nimi, while you’re awaiting a response.”

  “Aren’t you the optimist?” she replied with a snort. But the idea of getting horizontal and sleeping was a good one. She’d be able to think better when the headache, as well as the medication that had reduced it, was gone. “You have the conn, Helm.”

  “I have the conn, ma’am.”

  She slept her normal six hours and woke refreshed. After a quick shower in water that her purifying system kept fresh enough to allow such a luxury, she dressed and, leaving her quarters, gave Cater orders for her breakfast.

  “Good morning, Helm. Any report?”

  “Nothing to report, ma’am.”

  “Good morning, Doc.”

  “You sound perfectly normal,” Doc said cheerfully.

  “Thank you. And thank you, Cater, for breakfast.”

  She asked for music since she liked it in the background when she was thinking hard. Indeed, she had no idea at all of what to do next, apart from waiting beside the beacon, hoping its pulse would alert someone. Her meal finished, she resumed the pilot’s chair, staring out at unfamiliar constellations. Why, that band of stars in the grouping to the upper right vaguely resembled Orion’s belt, but the rest of the constellation did not match.

  “Helm, has your inspection of the immediate vicinity turned up any M-type planets nearby?”

  “Three, ma’am.” A red light briefly circled the three primaries.

  “That many?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

 
; “Well, when I find myself twiddling my thumbs, we can always go take a look-see. Might as well.” Action was preferable to sitting like—who was it on her tuffet? “I’ll give it another three days. That would give time for our initial pulse to reach main shipping lanes.”

  “Or the curious of this Quadrant,” Doc added.

  “A search of the records of ships missing in the general vicinity of that wormhole has proved fruitful,” Helm suddenly volunteered.

  “Oh?”

  “Eighteen ships in the two hundred and fifty years of recorded space exploration.”

  “Oh!” She paused, smiling ironically. “Make that nineteen, Helm, since we’ve just joined that elite group.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “When was the last one reported to Fleet?” She held her breath for his reply.

  “Fifteen years ago, Exploratory Vessel FSPS 9K66E, the Poolbeg, was reported missing. Her last report came from this general area.”

  “Fifteen?” Well, she was not going to miss Cuiva’s Necklacing. Somehow she’d find a way home before that auspicious event in her daughter’s life three and a half years from now.

  Three days later there had been not so much as a peep from the pulse. As it had been sent out in all directions, she was obviously far from any responder, even those discreet Fleet “ears” that Caleb had told her dotted known space. However, that did not mean that there wouldn’t be a response. Nimisha was not constitutionally patient. She required action. If she’d been traveling to a destination, there would have been other matters to involve her. Hanging motionless in space—even though she programmed a day full of the various activities she had for diversion—exercise in the gymnasium, playing interactive games, and an immense library of tri-d and tapes—was not the same thing as having a destination.

  She also spent time with Helm in gathering a file of spectro-analyses of all the primaries in their present starscape. These were inserted into the beacon’s data file.

  “Helm?” she began firmly after her breakfast on the fourth morning. “How much time does it take a pulse to get from one side of Delta Quadrant to the other?”

  “Nine full ship days with the strength of the unit on board.”

  Slowly she came to the bridge and looked out at the uninformative and strange starscape.

  “We shall remain in position then, to allow any searchers time to reach us,” she said. “I shall make use of the suspended animation facility, Doc.”

  “Always ready to comply, Nimi.”

  “Helm, you will monitor any incoming pulses. You will have Doc revive me instantly if you have received any response. If, however, the wormhole reappears—” She paused, wondering if using that escape from her present position was sensible considering the erratic behavior of unprobed wormholes. “—you will immediately enter it, deploying a second beacon stating the time of this reentry. Doc, if Helm takes us into the wormhole, revive me.”

  “Is this advisable, Lady Nimisha?” Helm and Doc asked in chorus.

  “I can’t be more lost than I am now, can I?” she replied. “At least I can leave behind proof that I was here and am still very much alive.”

  “There are three primaries with habitable planets, Lady Nimisha. Why not investigate the possibility of establishing a planetary base?” Helm suggested.

  “A good idea,” she said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully as Helm red-circled the three prospects again. “But there is every possibility that the wormhole would return us to our starting point, and that would be the best solution.”

  “Shall you stay in suspended animation until that time?” Doc asked. “If there is no response to the pulse message?”

  “A good point. Who knows when that wretched hole will reappear. All right, let’s set a limit of a year to this day for revival if neither a message arrives nor the wormhole appears. I don’t want to stay away any longer than necessary.”

  “No, of course not, Nimi,” Doc said, his tone approving.

  To herself she put the question: Which way would I have to go to get back home? Helm had registered no directional bend in which the wormhole had bridged the space from there to here. Once again she thought how, if she had only been conscious when they reached the end of the wormhole, she could have launched a probe with her current starscape back through the hole before it closed. Though what good that would have done was moot when there were no recognizable primaries at this exit point to guide a rescue party. Eventually, the beacon would guide in a rescue vessel. Eventually!

  Helm repeated the orders.

  “I am also to be roused if anything . . . extraordinary should occur in our current spatial neighborhood.”

  “Anything not covered by standard operating procedures, ma’am?”

  “You got it, Helm.”

  Nimisha rose, walking with stiff steps to the infirmary unit. She didn’t like this expedient but it was better than waiting around and fretting herself over her inability to take action. She’d had several short spells of suspended animation and was none the worse for them. She did dislike not being present, but she could trust Helm and Doc to rouse her if anything untoward happened.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Doc,” she began but wasn’t sure how much of the sentence in her mind she actually spoke aloud, because the walls around the medical couch rose and snapped shut over her head, the sleep gas already hissing into the enclosed space.

  “Lady Nimisha has only been gone five months, Cal,” Admiral Gollanch remarked to Commander Rustin, who was pacing up and down in front of the desk. He sighed. “I know it seems a lot longer but you cannot deny that we have done everything possible, impossible, probable, and improbable to locate her. Finishing up the second Fiver would be a good idea. Especially, if putting her through a shakedown cruise will give us any clues as to what happened to Lady Nimisha’s ship. And you tell me that Jeska Mlan, who is the Yard’s executive director, agrees. So what’s the problem?”

  “We can’t find the final specs to complete it.”

  “Hmmm, yes, well, she did warn me that she did not intend to give the Fleet all her secrets. But surely you . . .” and Admiral Gollanch extended his hand invitingly toward Rustin.

  “I?” The commander grinned ruefully. “She trusted everyone up to a point. I, perhaps, further than her yard supervisors—equally, I believe, as much as she trusts Jeska Mlan. But she finished some units by herself, in her private machine shop.” He paused a moment and amended that statement. “She usually had her special mechanic, Hiska, on hand, but she won’t say anything. Not even if there were additional specs that Lady Nimisha kept someplace else.”

  Gollanch sighed. “She wouldn’t have left without storing the final plans somewhere. Would she?”

  “I was hoping that she had left them with you, sir.”

  “With me?” The admiral was surprised enough to jerk a thumb at his chest and cleared his throat. “I’d’ve said you would be the logical recipient. You seemed to have no trouble working closely together during the Fiver’s construction. Surely she confided in you?”

  “Up to a point—the point at which we are now stymied in completing the second Mark Five. Oh, we can fly her and she’d be an asset to the fleet as a long-distance scout. She could be sold as a yacht, but she’s not yet a replica of the Fiver that Lady Nimisha took out on that run.”

  “Ah, I see,” the admiral remarked, steepling his fingers and bouncing the tips together.

  “Sir?”

  The admiral gave a droll chuckle. “She did warn me.”

  “She also wouldn’t leave, even on what should have been a routine shakedown cruise, without leaving such vital information in a safe place. She was too precise and careful a designer not to leave a backup.”

  “I concur. Would she have left them in her residence?”

  “I dislike intruding on Lady Rezalla . . .” Rustin said, shaking his head.

  “So would I,” the admiral replied with much feeling in his voice, “but the concern is not frivolous. And y
ou have been welcomed at the Boynton-Chonderlee House, have you not? Even since Lady Nimisha’s disappearance?”

  “No problem there . . .” This was true enough, even if he had rarely seen Lady Rezalla. It was Cuiva whose company he sought, taking the girl on outings with Belac, who had similar interests in “designing things.” He always made a point of asking the Residence Manager to convey his respects to Lady Rezalla and usually brought some small token for her—a delicate blossom, a rare fruit, or the sweets of which Lady Rezalla was inordinately fond. There was always a brief note of thanks for him at his next visit, handwritten in an unusually bold forward stroke. A penned note was such a treasure that he kept them all, filed in a lacquered box, as examples of a lost art. However, asking could he find a secreted file in the Boynton Family Residence was another matter entirely. “I could ask.”

  “That is all you can do, Commander,” the admiral said with a snort, understanding both the etiquette and the audacious course of action he was asking his subordinate to undertake. He wouldn’t have dared, but he was not on such terms with the Family as Rustin was. And he very much wanted to commission this prototype for Fleet use—once it had proved itself on trial runs. To have stumbled into a wormhole was a wretched piece of misfortune and not to be considered the fault of the pilot, much less the vessel.

  Trying very hard not to show how ill at ease he was, Lt. Commander Caleb Rustin appeared at the door to the Boynton-Chonderlee House, a baroque creation of outstanding elegance and beauty in the Old Quarter of Acclarke City, at precisely one minute before the appointment received from Lady Rezalla.

  It wasn’t, however, the Residence Manager (one of the latest Class T AI’s) but Lady Cuiva herself who opened the door.

  “I heard Grandam say you were coming today,” she said, slipping outside.

  Caleb smiled down at the girl’s anxious expression, and since they were not in a public spot, he gave her a quick hug. That was when he realized that she had both hands clasped behind her back.

  “You don’t happen to have news about my mother?” she asked so plaintively that Caleb wanted more than ever to have good news for her.