The Jovian Sweep (Asteroid Scrabble Book 1)

by Martin Bourne

  Eventually a near-empty track car pulled up to the terminus. Wentzel strode into it even before it had fully come to a stop and took up a standing position near the back. His subordinates trooped in behind, flowing around him as more people piled in, but being careful to maintain a respectful bubble of space into which he might drop his words of wisdom.

  He waited. Even silence could be an indicator of power. His executive officer started to babble some meaningless commonplace, but a single contemptuous glare shut the man up. Wentzel had a suspicion the fool still had some ridiculous hope of getting his own command one day. He gave an inner snort. No chance. Commander Karnik was too old, too stupid and too soft. He had reached his natural limit as a second in command. He just didn’t have what it took.

  The track car lurched into motion. Wentzel had been here before. He had expected the sudden movement and had braced himself. Several of his officers, including his inept number one, were forced to make sudden and humiliating grabs at handholds. The car whisked through the terminus and headed along the famous A1 causeway. After a short tunnel and a flurry of track cars scurrying either side, they came through into the vast expanses of the inner dockyard.

  The place was extraordinarily crowded. Huge buildings - jetties, warehouses, cranes and anonymous machinery jutted out from the walls at every angle, all around them in a vast 360 degree arc. Over the years ever more workshops had been constructed to meet the rising demands of the rapidly increasing fleets of Courage Asteroid. Now the vast complexes virtually enclosed the entire area. Indeed there had been proposals to complete the process by sealing the inner dockyard and pressurising it.

  It was impossible for the Human eye to immediately gauge the distances involved. Spaceships, and parts of spaceships, drifted serenely in between the tumble of gantries and docking links. Small dots crawled over many of them, interspersed by sudden flashes of golden white. It was only after a few seconds that the brain registered that the dots were Humans and the golden flashes the actions of welding tools working on the hulls. It was only then that the brain could comprehend the sheer scale of the place.

  There were no fewer than eight mini-monorails looping around number four causeway and all of them were busy. A never-ending succession of track cars ferried personnel and equipment to and fro. The inner dockyard was where new ships were assembled and existing ones came in for major repairs and modifications. At regular intervals workers, equipment and materials were disgorged from the causeways and onto the berths. The noise was incessant and all-encompassing, even though most of the area was shielded from the ears by vacuum. The stamp of feet, clack of tools, hum of machinery and conversation was so heavy that it reverberated through the very plastisteel under their feet and over their heads. The whole experience was disconcerting to the uninitiated, and could even cause vertigo. Wentzel could see that many of his officers were looking forward to reaching the terminus at the end of the causeway. So he paused at the entrance to look over the inner dockyard, forcing all of them to stop too.

  The inner dockyard was truly one of the wonders of the Middle Solar System. It was a palpable, demonstrative symbol of the industrial and economic power of Courage Asteroid. Even Wentzel felt a swelling in his chest and throat. He was a practical and unsentimental man and he had seen the inner dockyard many times before. It didn’t matter. It was immaterial that he was forcing everyone to look at it now specifically to provide an object lesson. The view was quite genuinely awe-inspiring.

  Even more rousing was their first sight of their own ship. Tourmaline floated serenely in the dockyard, fully visible in all her glory now that all of the repair struts had been retracted. Only a few communication links, impossibly thin compared to her mighty bulk, marred their view of her. His subordinates exchanges grins, but Wentzel positively gloated. He had come a long way to reach command of one of the most modern Depot Ships in the Confederation’s navy, and he wasn’t finished yet. The new ‘Implacable’ class ships were under construction. A good performance on this campaign would make him a sure bet to get command of one of them, and from there it would only be a matter of time before an Admiral’s bars would be a certainty. The track car came to a halt and his subordinates scrambled off. All he had to do was keep these nobodies to the grindstone, and he would be set.

  This time he allowed them to scamper ahead, allowing him to make a steady, stately progress to the docking tubes, as befitted his lordly status as captain and total master of Tourmaline. He exchanged salutes with the sentries, but took care to make a minor and unnecessary adjustment to the buttons of one of them. From there he proceeded to the Bridge.

  There was some chit-chat going on when he entered, but sight of him soon shut everyone up and got them moving. He strode purposefully to his chair, sat down on it heavily, and set his features into a glare. Everyone was suddenly very busy. Normally he would have selected a victim and found something wrong, somewhere, but it had been a tiring day, so he chose the lazy option of the long drawn out pause instead, keeping everyone tensed. He held it long enough for most of them to begin fidgeting.

  “Very well, it’s time to get going. Number one? Are we ready to move?”

  “Yes sir. Fuelling is completed, all personnel are now aboard. We are ready to go.”

  He got up and slowly paced towards his chief subordinate. He leant over the man and pitched his voice low.

  “Then I would appreciate you telling me Mister Karnik. That’s your job. I can’t know myself.”

  “Err…Yessir. Sorry sir.”

  “And keep your voice low. It’s not good for the crew’s morale for them to know their executive officer is being chewed out.” Not that they wouldn’t deduce that of course. The exec knew it too. He glared, but Wentzel knew he was crushed. Satisfied he gravitated back to his own chair. All good fun, but he had indulged himself enough. It was time to get a new kind of attention. This assignment could be a real boost to his career, if he played his cards right.

  “Sound launching stations. Secure the ship. Seal all airlocks. Commence launching protocol sequence with dockyard central.”

  There was a very pretty series of “aye, aye sirs”.

  “On main holotank.”

  “Main holotank is on.”

  The large central holotank flashed into life. Harbour protocol demanded that by default it was set for external view. Mere visual input would be useless when they were underway of course. In the depths of space distances were measured in hundreds of spatials, when even the largest ship could not be seen.

  The external view wasn’t much use in harbour either. All it showed was alternating green and red flashes on Tourmaline’s flanks, providing an emergency visual alternative to the electronic signals flashing from her to the docks and every vessel within them.

  It was a mere hat tip to tradition of course. The electronic links would be far more efficient than Human intervention in the event of an emergency. There was no way anyone could react faster than the computers to a mere flashing light if anything went wrong, assuming anyone was actually looking at them. Wentzel suspected that the manual overrides might not even work.

  But he did have to admit the little show was impressive. The strident colours beat deep into the subconscious. The authoritative pronouncements stirred triggered reactions from deep within, when ancient ape-men had to fight or flee to survive. Stealing looks at the Bridge crew, he could see backs straighten and eyes widen. Yep, it was good for morale alright. The majority of people were still monkeys.

  “Ship is secured sir.”

  “Very well.”

  “All personnel at assigned stations.”

  “Confirmed.”

  “All airlocks now sealed.”

  “Very well.”

  There was a pause. Wentzel glared at the officer on the helm.

  “Helm? What is the status of the launching protocols?”

  “Err, secondary power couplings just completing now sir.”

  “Then why don’t you report that?”


  “Err, sorry sir…”

  “Have primary power couplings been transferred? What about the comms links?”

  “Err.” The unfortunate officer tapped at her console. “Yessir…primary power has been transferred. Secondary…”

  “What about the communication links?!”

  “Err…” The helm officer’s eyes flickered back and forth over her console. “I…yes sir. Comms links are now detached. Secondary power links are detaching.”

  Wentzel gave a mighty sigh, at just exactly the right instant. There was a skill to unsettling people.

  “Oh, well done helm! Now. Would you kindly consider actually moving us out?”

  “Aye, aye sir,” said the now thoroughly flustered ensign. She pushed buttons on her console. On the external viewers Tourmaline began to move.

  “Careful now! Come starboard ten degrees and increase thrust one quarter.”

  “Navigation lights on,” reported the communications officer.

  “Very well.” Wentzel turned back to the helm officer. “Ensign, did you understand my last order?”

  “Err…yes sir…”

  “Then repeat my orders! Otherwise I won’t know if you have understood them!”

  “Yes sir. Sorry sir.”

  “When you repeat, you make it clear to me that you are doing what I told you to do.”

  “Sir?”

  “I said come starboard ten degrees and increase thrust one quarter! Is that so hard to understand?”

  “Yes sir. I mean, no sir.”

  “Then say it!”

  “Err, increasing thrust to one…err… one quarter. And coming to starboard ten degrees.”

  “Finally!”

  The pictures on the vidscreens began to shift as the ship moved. Changed too rapidly in fact.

  “Helm, confirm our acceleration rate.”

  “Err…confirm one quarter sir.”

  “No it isn’t! Check your console.”

  The helm ensign looked over the console. Wentzel could tell she had pressed for one quarter thrust twice. The woman was positively shaking with the severity of his reproof. The foolish slip of a girl was useless! She shouldn’t be at the helm. She couldn’t hold her rank.

  “I said ahead one quarter! Correct that movement now!”

  The ensign desperately tapped at her console, but the shaking hand touched the main engine controls, not the manoeuvring thrusters.

  There was a sudden growl of released power. Deep in the ready fuel tanks more superheated Dee began to course into the engines, initiating an enhanced fusion reaction.

  “Ensign!”

  “Sorry sir, I…”

  “Stop that now!”

  “Yessir, I mean aye, aye…” The ensign flailed. Another voice called out.

  “Controls are not responding sir. The helm is not answering!”

  Wentzel bounded out of his command seat, grabbed the back of the ensign’s chair, and spun it round hard. The ensign was thrown out and collapsed on the floor. Ignoring her, Wentzel pushed buttons on her command console. The engines began to wound down, and then noisily started up again as they struggled to cope with the sudden changes demanded by the Bridge. Then another strident alarm started, loud and urgent. One only normally heard in drills. It was the sound of catastrophe.

  “Proximity alert Captain!”

  Wentzel suppressed a snarl. He glanced up. An ore carrier, big, stately, lethargic, filled the main viewer. Far too much of the vidscreen. Of course it was a slagging proximity alert, master of the slagging obvious! In ordinary circumstances he would have reduced the fool to quivering wreckage. Now there was more important things to do, like save his career.

  He tapped quickly, with practiced ease. On the main viewer ghostly white flashes appeared along the side of the ore carrier. It was using its thrusters too, but it was slow. It was large and cumbersome. There was too little space for it to manoeuvre. There were too many other vessels around, and they were all too close.

  “We’re going to hit!”

  Wentzel’s hands splayed across the console as he saw his future folding in front of his eyes. Tourmaline had begun to veer, but the stupid ore carrier had attempted to evade in the wrong direction. It was too late. It was all too late.

  The impact was gentle, almost imperceptible - positively anticlimactic. It was just a nudge, a simple second of grind and shudder, and then once again there was serenity. It was as if a giant had given Tourmaline a little tap.

  The reaction on the bridge was out of all proportion to the physical shock. Across the front of the command consoles, red lights lit up in serried, terrifying ranks.

  “Structural damage, sections seven through ten.”

  “Hull fracture forward. We’re venting atmosphere!”

  “Stabilisers four and six are offline.”

  “Artificial gravity has failed at sections ten and eleven.”

  “Engines are at stop.”

  “Engines are at stop?” screamed Wentzel. “We’re still going forward!”

  “It’s the momentum…”

  “Full reverse!”

  “Reverse thrusters are offline!”

  “Then get them online, slag it! Quickly!”

  Tourmaline barrelled forward. On the vidscreen the vast bulk of the dockyard wall loomed. Wentzel could just make out tiny figures behind the transparent plastisteel, scurrying away from the anticipated point of impact. It was going to be close. An idea burst through the horror.

  He activated the forward port thrusters and the aft starboard ones simultaneously at full power. Tourmaline shuddered and spun. On the holotank the view careened wildly. There was no time for precision. As soon as he estimated the ship was side on he fired all the port thrusters and killed the starboard ones. Instruments showed their forward momentum decreasing rapidly. As it approached zero he killed all the thrusters. Around him the Bridge crew slowly resumed their stations.

  “Forward momentum has been killed sir. We’re rotating, but at least we’re stationary.”

  Wentzel bit back the cutting reply his mind automatically framed. He didn’t want to think about what had happened. He glared at the helm officer! She was still on the deck, He would have her cashiered! He would have her broken for this! Everything had been going so well, and now…

  “Status request from the station sir.”

  The habit of a lifetime saved him. “Send all reports directly through to them. Tie in damage control and engineering.” He checked a console. ”Tell them we don’t need medical assistance.”

  “Another flash signal from the station sir, marked for your attention only.”

  What a surprise. In spite of himself he swallowed.

  “Pass it through to my personal quarters,” he managed.

  “Aye, aye sir.”

  He turned and gave one parting shot.

  “…and prepare a detailed damage report. Commence repairs immediately.”

  Had there been an exchange of smiles between some of his subordinates? He could not tell. He did not want to think about that now. He stumbled to his private room.

  Chapter 15.

  Light Depot Ship Belofte, Outreach proving grounds.

  The extra personnel and equipment taken on at the Outreach proving grounds put a great strain on Belofte’s already stretched life support systems. Space had to be found for the gear, more people had to be supplied with all the essentials of life. Three days into the new deployment the old ship’s starboard galley synthesiser and recycling plant seized up. At first engineering were confident the unit could be fixed quickly, but days passed and it remained obstinately broken. Soon there was a faint unpleasant tang to the air, and then an odd flavour to the water. Then the distressing news came that it had actually been ‘partly broke’ for some time.

  “How can something be ‘partly broke’?” opined Ben in their collective living space just after the news came through. “Things are either broke or working. You can’t have something in between.”
>
  “Why not? YOU’RE partly broke,” replied Packer. “When you were studying Sensors you were working ‘cos you got a silver eye. But you obviously weren’t working when you did Gunnery, ‘cos you got stuff all.”

  “Yeah? Well how about this for shooting then?” With a quick flick of his wrist Ben sent a spoonful of liquidised carrot right into Packer’s eye. He easily dodged a cup of coffee in return. “Hah, I knew I should have majored in Countermeasures!”

  “Why don’t you two stop playing around?” Marilyn stood up between them. “This is serious. The point is that no one knew the synthesiser was partly bro…not working properly. They haven’t known for weeks, and all that time it’s been spraying organic toxins into the hydroponics tanks.”

  “Ah,” said Packer, his smile disappearing. Everyone else grimaced too.

  A spaceship was a closed environment as much as any asteroid colony was. In fact there were philosophers who theorised that the asteroid colonies were nothing more than large ships that weren’t self-propelled (and others that ships were simply asteroid colonies with engines). Each Human life onboard required set amounts of hundreds of different commodities, but the most important and immediate were oxygen, water and foodstuffs. The ships hydroponics bays played a vital role in removing waste products and reconverting them back into the organic compounds essential to Human life.

  And it turned out the Human life on board Belofte were being poisoned by the recycling units.

  “I’ve just been down to the hydroponics bays,” Marilyn continued. “The latest crop batch is really undersized. In fact they’re positively stunted.”

  Packer opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Ben had after all reloaded his spoon.

  “So what’s happening?” asked Lilybeth.

  “Well,” said Marilyn, “until the starboard galley can be fixed the port galley will have to concentrate on recycling, and that means everyone is going to be on pre-prepared emergency rations for two meals in three.”

  There was a chorus of groans. Asteroid life was such that most Belters had to endure ‘pre-prepared’ and ‘emergency’ at some time or another. It was always a sub-optimal experience.