by Ren Garcia
The helmsman looked confused. Another blast. “Go where? What—what’s our course?”
Stenstrom pointed. “That way, to my left.”
“To my left? What does that mean? What orientation? What declination? What speed?”
“Can’t we improvise here? This is an emergency.”
“No!” the helmsman cried. “We don’t make things up on the bridge! Go back to bean counting!”
There was a marked lack of coordination and initiative on the bridge just short of full-blown paralysis. Everybody appeared to know their jobs, but without Dunks screaming orders at them, they were quite powerless and unable to act. They were the proverbial body with its head cut off.
Stenstrom strode up to the helm. “That way!” he yelled pointing to his left. “Go that way!”
Baffled, the Helmsman pressed a few buttons, and the Sandwich lazily moved from its hiding spot. A mass of twisted metal moved into the windows. “There, there—tuck into that mass just there!”
“Where?”
“There! Go in there!”
The helmsman saw the space in the wreckage Stenstrom was talking about and slid the Sandwich in. Behind, a cassagrain shot blasted the hulk where the ship previously was. The helmsman skillfully backed the ship into the recess.
Through the glass Stenstrom could see the Xaphan ship drift into view. It was a white, somewhat potato-shaped vessel with a flat bottom. He could see the welded outer plates of the hull and its blinking running lights. It was decorated with long red streaks in the shape of lightning bolts painted on the sides of the ship. The engines were housed in cylindrical tubes attached low. It was about twice the size of the Sandwich. The Xaphan ship puttered about, rummaging through the ruined ships. Bluish searchlights panned. Stenstrom could see its gun ports were open.
Stenstrom stared at the Xaphan ship. “He doesn’t seem to be able to detect us.”
“There’s too much metal in the vicinity; it’s fouling his scanners, no doubt,” Kaly said.
A pair of pulsing red beams burst out of the nose of the ship and several wrecks careened away.
“He’s going to smoke us out sooner or later,” the helmsman said.
Stenstrom went to the windows again. “What’s behind us?”
Kaly looked into her sensor. “There’s a burned out area, looks to be the remains of a large A-H freighter.”
“Is there room for us to maneuver?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go further in there. What do we have to lose?”
The helmsman was flustered. “Go in there? I need orientation and declination, AM and PM. I’m sitting here blind. Every button press I make is recorded, and I’ll get court-martialed if I damage this vessel! Besides, I’ll probably tear the bottom out of the ship!”
Kaly turned to Stenstrom. “Bel…” she whispered. “Come here.”
He walked over to her sensing station. She put her arm around him, showing him various readouts in her sensor.”
“Well, what’s this over here?” he asked, pointing.
“That’s the …” she said whispering in reply as they hashed things out.
“I have the coordinates!” Stenstrom said. “Can I send them to you, helm?”
“No!” he said.
“Why not?”
“The helm is isolated on frigates, Belmont. Xaphans in the past have been able to get through our encryption and take over frigates in battle, using our console to control the helm. So, the helm isn’t connected. The captain has to tell me what coordinates to set.”
Stenstrom gazed into the sensor. “Helm, turn to… 7:30…AM by 2:52PM.”
The helmsman looked dubious, but then he slowly began turning switches. The ship spun around slowly, and a vast, dark space within the wreckage came into the windows.
“All right,” he said. “7:30AM mark 2:52PM, moving at station keeping—hope you know what you’re doing, `cause I’m going to tell the court-martial that you hijacked the bridge and I was under your orders for fear of my life.”
Stenstrom bent down over the sensor. “Now, turn to … 7:45AM by 6:12PM.”
The helmsman slowly entered the settings. “Ok,” he said.
Stenstrom moved away from the sensor. “Good. Now, stop the ship and turn us around.
The helmsman thought about it for a moment, glanced over at the fallen Lt. Dunkster, then slowly stopped the ship and turned it around. In the distance, the opening that they had just come through could be seen, lit up by occasional weapons flashes. The ship was within the cavernous hold of a Xaphan A-H Cargoer. The Sandwich was swallowed up by it, like a goldfish in a large metal bowl.
“Let’s wait here a moment,” Stenstrom said.
The Com chattered. “Bel, the Fleet has answered our call. MFV New Faith is nearby and is proceeding to our location with all speed. She’s broadcasting fair warning to all Xaphan vessels not to damage Fleet shipping on pain of retaliation.”
“When will she arrive?”
“Advised fifteen minutes! We’re lucky she was in the area.”
Through the opening beyond, several spotlights shined in through the passages of metal.
“I don’t think we’ve got fifteen minutes, Bel!” Kaly said. “And I don’t think he cares about fair warning right now.”
Stenstrom thought a moment. “What were those guns you said we had?”
“The what? The pennytoots?”
“Can we get them ready?”
“What for?”
“To buy us time.”
The crew looked at each other just before the navigator opened a voice tube and called for the guns to be run out. A minute or two later a reply came. “The pennytoots are ready, Bel, for what that’s worth.”
Stenstrom went back to the windows and looked around. “Seems to me that, if we set two charges behind us, when they detonate, the Xaphan will believe that we are trying to blast our way out and go to the source of the explosion, thereby leaving the way ahead clear for us to make a fast exit through the wreckage field and out into open space. There, with luck, the New Faith should arrive and protect us at that time.”
“That’s a big gamble, Bel.”
“Does anybody have a better idea, and did anybody think to do an honest, under-handed deal with this Xaphan in the first place?”
“But, Bel, we didn’t know this guy was a—”
“Shh!” Stenstrom said. “All right. Let’s plant two in the aft walls behind us, and, when they go off, let’s exit the area in a hurry.”
The navigator looked exasperated. “Fine. Don’t expect a big explosion or anything.” He spoke into the voice tube. “Fire the pennytoots to our aft, will you?”
Stenstrom waited a moment. “Did the weapons fire?”
“Yeah …”
“Fine, helm, move us back toward the opening and be ready to make a break for it.”
The ship began moving. Through the windows, the opening approached. As they neared, there were two feeble explosions coming from the rear of the enclosure. “Were those the weapons?”
“Yeah … see!” the navigator said. “They stink!”
There was no time to wonder over it. The Sandwich came rocketing out of the enclosure through the hole of wreckage.
As they emerged, Stenstrom saw the rear-end of the Xaphan ship disappear around the side of the wrecked ships—his ruse worked, and the way was clear.
“Helm, get us out of this maze, best possible speed!”
“Aye!” the helm said, incredulous that the scheme worked.
Though hardly burning it up, the Sandwich clawed its way out of the field of wrecked ships, barely avoiding becoming a wreck themselves. Stenstrom bent down over Kaly’s sensor. “Helm, steer 5:22AM by 1:15PM and make for clear space! Best possible speed.”
“5:22AM by 1:15PM, Aye!” the helm said.
An explosion came from the Terrabus field and out charged the Xaphan ship. He turned after the Sandwich, and his starboard engine caught some wreckage and was foul
ed with it. He cleared it, squared himself, and came in a hurry, closing the ground with speed.
Stenstrom looked at Kaly’s sensor. “Kaly, what does this bit of data here mean?”
“It means he’s heating his weapons!”
“Helm, evasive to port!”
The helmsman moved his levers and the ship moved to port. A lance of red energy shot out, passing the ship. The beams panned into them and hit the Sandwich in the far starboard side, tremoring the ship.
The Com chattered. “It’s him, Bel!” Varnay said. “It’s the guy trying to kill us!”
After a moment the Xaphan’s voice filled the bridge. “Where do you plan on going, Dunks? You must know you can’t outrun me.”
“We’ve called the Fleet—they shall be here any moment!” Stenstrom replied.
“That’s a daring move considering you’re all a bunch of criminals. We detected your tranmission, but thought it was a ruse. You wouldn’t dare bring the Fleet in on this. Who am I speaking to, please?”
“I am Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont.”
“Really … Lord Stenstrom of Belmont? Ah, Boatswain Pike tells me you are the son of Captain Stenstrom of the warbird Caroline. Ha! The boatswain tells me he thinks you’re a spy sent from the Fleet to bear evidence again Dunks. Is that correct?”
“The reason for my presence here is none of your concern. And, be it known, should you damage or destroy this vessel, the Main Fleet captaincy shall know of it and be none too pleased. I shan’t think you’ll make it back to Xaphan space in one piece what with the armada of warbirds—my father’s included—that shall descend upon this theatre, seeking your worthless hide. Ask Boatswain Pike the truth of that.”
The Com was silent for a moment. Then: “Lord Belmont, I have been cheated for years. Should this scandal become generally known, not only will my reputation be ruined, but I could lose my life as well. I simply wanted my spirits—I wanted what I paid for in good silver.”
Ahead came a clatter of light, as the huge bulk of the New Faith slid into the theatre. The Sandwich went to its side like a baby duck to its mother.
* * * * *
The Sandwich’s crew, all sixty of them, stood in the hold of the New Faith. The first officer, a tall woman with long, brownish hair, had them all lined up and was dressing them down loudly. In comparison with the dapper Marines and immaculate first officer, the crew from the Sandwich were an unshaven, slouching, spotty, and rather motley bunch.
Lt. Dunkster, still holding the Holystone in his limp fingers, was taken to the dispensary on a stretcher.
The New Faith’s captain, a tall blued-haired Vith man, stood and watched as the first officer prowled through the ranks.
“The fine Xaphan gentleman trying to kill you, I’m happy to say, has quit the area after a bit of parlay. However, as he departed, he said he was here to purchase contraband liquor from you, and that you cheated him. Is that true?” she demanded to know.
Nobody said anything. Kaly wiped her nose and nervously adjusted her pink hair band. The helmsman held back a belch and scratched himself.
The first officer was irate. “The jig is up here, people!” she said. “We want to know who was running this contraband operation and we want to know now; otherwise, we’ll have the lot of you in the brig!”
“Will all of us fit in your brig?” the helmsman said in a smarmy fashion.
“We’ll excavate some brand new ones just for you, how about that?”
“I’ll excavate something, all right,” he said.
The captain strode forward. He was breathing fire. “I’m pleased you are enjoying yourself, sir,” he said, towering over the helmsman, the point of his triangle hat bopping him in the forehead. “Yes, I’m told a pending stay at Hagthorpe prison is often cause for merriment. In the meanwhile, you are in my charge and I am permitted to deal you up to 100 lashes whilst you await trial and conviction. Don’t think I won’t go out of my way to make a career out of you, crewman. Therefore, open your mouth again at your peril—am I understood?”
The helmsman swallowed hard, looked at the wall, and said nothing.
The Sandwich crew was now thoroughly quaking in their shoes. The captain stepped back, and the first officer resumed.
“My question remains unanswered!” she yelled. “Who’s ready to fess up?”
There was silence.
“I better hear somebody owning up real quick, or we’re going to start flaying skin off people’s backs!”
Stenstrom stepped forward. “It was me, Lieutenant.”
She strode up to Stenstrom and looked him over, clearly baffled by his mask and his coat. She was a tall lady, but Stenstrom was a fair amount taller. She looked up at him, the point of her triangle hat nearly knocking into his. “I see. What is your name please, Sir?”
“Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont.”
The captain seemed to take a bit of exception. He stepped forward and addressed Stenstrom. “Belmont? As in Captain Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont? Of the Caroline?”
“My father, Sir,” Stenstrom replied.
The captain rubbed his chin. “Good man—great man. I’ve had the pleasure of sailing at his side many times. Is he aware that his son is conducting a criminal enterprise at sea?”
“I don’t believe so, Sir.”
“Very well, and what is your role aboard the Sandwich, other than running contraband?”
“I’m the Paymaster, Sir.”
The captain was startled. “Really?”
“Yes, Sir. In this criminal matter, I ran, planned, and financed the whole of the operation. It was my doing alone—the crew had nothing to do with it.”
“Pure as the driven, huh, this lot?” the first officer said.
“Indeed. In fact I can say the crew vigorously voiced their objections; however, I forced them to accede to my whims.”
“Yeah?” the first officer said. “How’d you manage that all by yourself?”
“With fist and NTH, I terrorized this lot and haunted the ship, though they remained unblemished.”
The first officer laughed. “Wow—we normally don’t see such sterling character coming from frigate crews. This is inspirational.”
“It’s the truth, Lt. This is all my doing and my fault.”
The captain looked him over again. “I see.” He turned to the rest of the crew. “Does anyone here have anything else to add? This man is about to go to the brig for the crime of running contraband goods to the enemy. He’s about to face any number of charges that could lead to his lengthy internment at Hagthorpe Prison, and I am seriously considering putting him to the lash as well for imposing his malign will upon your stainless souls. So, with that in mind, does anyone have anything to say?”
The crew fidgeted about a little, but said nothing. “Very well,” he said turning to a Marine. “Take this man to the brig.”
The Marine came forward and clapped Stenstrom in irons. He reached out to pull Stenstrom’s mask off.
“No!” Kaly shouted. “He needs his mask! Don’t you touch it!”
The Marine looked back at the captain, who nodded and said, “Let him have his mask.”
He then led him away.
As Stenstrom was marched out, he passed the bridge crew all lined up in a row. Kaly looked up, her face red and streaked with tears.
“… thanks, Bel …” she choked out as he passed.
Though he was manacled, he raised a shackle-free hand and wiped the tears off her cheek. “It’s all right, Kaly. I’ll be all right.”
The Marine was shocked—clearly he couldn’t understand how Stenstrom had gotten out of his irons. He refastened them and marched him through.
The other crewmen responded quietly as he passed. “Bel … Bel … Belmont… “ they said.
“That’s our mate!” somebody said.
“Better treat our mate right!” came another.
Though he was being lead away to the brig and a possible session with the lash, Stenstrom reflected on what had ju
st happened. He had led his ship in battle and had gotten his mates out safe and sound. And he had the guts to stand for them. Now they sang his name, albeit quietly, as he passed.
“Bel … Belmont…”
The joy he felt as he passed by. So this is what it feels like …
* * * * *
A day later, Stenstrom was fetched from the brig and led into the captain’s office. What a difference from the Sandwich: clean carpeting, lush paneling, and shining brass. Waiting for him there was the captain, his first officer, and a smallish beautiful woman with red hair, wearing a blue gown. She had a strange mark around her right eye.
Stenstrom stood there as the Marine removed his irons.
The captain looked up at him. “Paymaster Stenstrom, I believe you’ve already met my first officer.”
“The name’s Kilos,” she said sitting there, all arms and legs.
“And,” the captain continued, “May I introduce my countess, Sygillis of Blanchefort.”
“Great Countess,” Stenstrom said, bowing to her, and she nodded in a courtly way.
“Finally, I am Captain Davage, Lord of Blanchefort.”
“I believe I’ve heard my father mention your name, sir, as an esteemed colleague,” Stenstrom replied.
Davage offered Stenstrom a chair, which he accepted.
“Sir,” Stenstrom said, “before we begin, may I ask how is Lt. Dunkster?”
“He’s fine. Just fine. My Hospitaler informs me he was tox’ed up rather severely, but he’s in weather shape now. He had some plants in his mouth and an odd ball in his hand with unique chemical properties. My Hospitaler said those items helped calm his system and prolonged his chances of survival.”
“I see,” Stenstrom replied.
The first officer chimed in. “Yeah, a cautionary tale, you see—mixing a potent strain of The Weed with a bellyful of Zemuda—not good for the body at all. It hits you all of a sudden—you’re fine one minute and flat on your back the next.”
“Which brings me to it, sir,” Davage said. “I’m in quite the situation, aren’t I? You claim to be the ringleader and unchallenged potentate of a contraband outfit aboard the frigate Sandwich, is that right? Am I correct?”
