Her reverie was interrupted by the whoosh of the bridge’s access tube as it dropped an ensign to the deck. It was Ensign Svensen, a navigation systems engineer.
Svensen stepped out from under the end of the transparent tube, gave Darvona a cross between a smirk and a snarl, then strode to his control console.
“Hi, Sven,” Darvona called, giving him a fetching smile. Svensen was cute but obviously didn’t like women, because she had never fetched him with one of her smiles, not even her best man-melter. “What’s new?”
“Word is the new captain will be here today.” Sven began punching buttons and flipping switches.
“I hope we have better luck with this one. We don’t do well with captains.”
“Oh?” Svensen said coolly. “Now, what would make you say that?”
“What would make me say it? We’ve had no less than three in the last standard year. And they’ve all—”
“Four.”
“Four? Has it been that many? Oh, wait, you must be counting the one that got mangled when the shuttle got crushed between the ship and the tanker.”
“Yes. Captain Moore was his name, I believe.”
“Poor Dinty. I don’t count him, ‘cause he was in command only two days.”
“He was captain of this ship. He counts.”
“Well, if you insist. Four.” Darvona ruminated a moment. “Actually, when you think of it, it’s all been a result of bad luck more than anything.”
Svensen grunted, then gave a mirthless laugh as he continued to work.
“What’s with you?” Darvona wanted to know.
“ ‘Bad luck.’ You must be kidding.”
“Well, I really don’t think it was our fault. The crew’s fault, I mean.”
“Aside from the captain that got reduced to puree, we had one suicide, one dismissed in disgrace, and one committed to psych rehab.”
“Poor Captain Chang. I really liked her.”
“I hear she’s doing well in occupational therapy.”
“And I adored Captain Suomi,” Darvona said.
“Mr. Rhodes gave a nice eulogy.”
“Yes, it was.” Darvona shook her head sadly. “Okay, you’re right. I guess we do have our problems. We haven’t been doing so great lately.”
“That’s one hell of an understatement. You don’t get the lowest rating in the Space Forces by being anything close to ‘great.’ And don’t forget the countless reprimands we’ve been slapped with.”
“Who can forget?” Darvona wailed. “I haven’t had a promotion in years.”
“We’ve all been passed over any number of times, so don’t feel singled out.”
“Somehow, I do. I always seemed to get blamed!”
“Quit squawking. We’ve all goofed on one occasion or another. We’re all to blame.”
“I hope this new captain can help us get back on our feet. By the way, what’s his name again?”
“Wanker.”
Darvona scowled. “Wanker?”
“You took the communication. Didn’t you read it?”
“Guess I did, but it didn’t register.” Darvona pouted. “Great. Now we have a Wanker for a captain.”
Sven shrugged, continuing to snap switches. “He ought to fit right in.”
CHAPTER 2
Captain Wanker stepped through the gangway tube, entered an unguarded hatch, and arrived inside the starboard quarterdeck airlock of the U.S.S. Repulse.
He shouldn’t have been able to do this.
He saluted the United Systems colors, then wheeled 360 degrees around, chagrined to find no one in sight.
“Is this rust-bucket deserted?”
He walked to the right down a corridor for a short way, retreated, then went the other way for a short distance, searching.
The ship was a mess, wires hanging like multicolored vines from ceiling panels, plastic pipe and tubing underfoot. Debris of all sorts lay about. Wanker picked his way gingerly over the cluttered deck, wondering if the ship was at all spaceworthy.
On returning to the airlock, he noticed a small desk at a duty station to the left of the hatch. Something rumpled and soiled—a spacebag full of dirty laundry?—was stuffed underneath it. Wanker stooped to look.
It was a common spaceman, fast asleep.
“Of all the—”
Wanker straightened up and cleared his throat before summoning his best command voice and barking, “All right, you son of a mud-humping—” His voice broke. He coughed and tried again. “You, there! Hey!”
The man snored away.
“Wake up and come out from under there!”
No response.
Wanker looked forlornly about for help. Going to the hatch and shouting “Hello-o-o!” down the corridors got him none.
The captain whined in desperation, “Somebody?”
Returning to the desk and sourly regarding the rumpled form of the napping deckhand, he got an idea.
“Wow, check out the curves on that babe!”
The spaceman jerked awake, cracking his skull against the bottom of the desk. “Ow!”
“Knew that would get some response,” Wanker said.
“What babe … where—?”
The spaceman, who wore the white sleeve stripe of a second-class spaceman, crawled out and jumped to his feet, then blearily perceived that he was in deep water. “Oh. Uh, good morning, sir.”
Captain David Wanker was smiling pleasantly at him. “Good morning!”
The spaceman swallowed hard. “Welcome aboard, sir.” He saluted.
Wanker returned the salute. “You don’t even know who I am. I could be a part of a Kruton commando team.”
The spaceman, a short man with pudgy features, cast a nervous glance about the airlock. “Uh, sir, are you?”
Wanker blinked. “Am I what?”
“Part of a… you know.”
“Kruton commando team? Well, I could be. Krutons can change shape at will. Spaceman, what’s your—? What in blazes are you doing?”
The spaceman had reached into a drawer of the desk and pulled out a quantum flamer, which he now leveled at Wanker.
“Put that thing down!” Wanker ordered.
The spaceman’s resolve vanished instantly. Lowering the gun, he seemed confused. “Is this a drill, sir?”
“No, this is not a drill. I’m the—quit pointing that silly thing at me, you incredible idiot!”
The spaceman lowered his side arm again. “Sir, make up your mind, please!”
“I’m the new captain, you boob! Captain David Wanker, United Systems Space Forces, reporting to take command of this vessel. Now do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. But we didn’t expect you till later on today, sir.”
“Excuse me for being early! Didn’t mean to trouble you”—Wanker eyed the man’s name tab—”Able Spaceman Smithers.”
“Oh, no trouble, sir,” Smithers said.
“Sorry to interrupt your nap. What the devil to you mean by sleeping on duty? How would you like to be court-martialed?”
“I’m already being court-martialed, sir.”
“You are? What for?”
“Sleeping on duty, sir. But the legal officer says he’ll get me off. I have a sleep disorder, sir.”
“You have a sleep disorder?”
“Yes, sir. Sleep apathy.”
“Apathy? You mean sleep apnea, don’t you?”
“That’s it, sir. Apnea.”
“Very well. Where’s the officer of the deck?”
“The first officer, Lieutenant Commander Rhodes, is officer of the deck today. There’s hardly anyone aboard, sir.”
“Where is everybody?”
“Breakfast, sir. It’s early.”
“No guards on the hatch, no officer of the deck. What the hell’s the idea, leaving a military vessel unguarded like this?”
“No idea, sir. It’s just that everyone’s dirtside and there’s no one to stand watch during mealtime. It’s only for a half hour at a tim
e, sir.”
“During which a Kruton commando brigade could … oh, for Pete’s sake.”
“Don’t make a move, Krutie!” Smithers ordered, again brandishing the quantum flamer. “Move one tentacle and I’ll blow you to the other side of the galaxy.”
“I don’t have any tentacles, you numbskull! Listen, didn’t you receive a dispatch that I would be reporting?”
“Well, sir, yes, sir. But you could still be a Krutie.”
Wanker considered it. “You know, spaceman, you’re absolutely right. One thing, though—Krutie commandos rarely work alone. You’re forgetting about my buddies—behind you.”
“Huh?” The spaceman whirled, and Wanker leapt. The sawed-off swab proved tougher than he looked, and more wiry. Wanker couldn’t take him down, and ended up riding Smithers’s back trying desperately to wrench the gun away. Smithers kept wildly turning about.
“Spaceman, put down that flamer!”
A tall, gangling, towheaded officer with commander’s stripes on his sleeve came rushing into the airlock. Seeing him, Smithers quit squirming; whereupon Wanker snatched the quantum pistol and slid off.
Smithers was contrite. “Sorry, Captain. I didn’t know you were gay.”
“What?”
“I’m not prejudiced, sir, really I’m not.”
“You are a strange man, Smithers.”
The officer jogged up to Wanker, came to attention, and saluted. “Welcome aboard, sir!”
Wanker returned the salute and shook the officer’s proffered hand. “Mr. Rhodes, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. Happy to have you aboard.”
“I’m not happy to be aboard.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Well, we’re still happy, sir.”
“I’ll bet you’re ecstatic. What’s the meaning of leaving this ship unguarded? A new captain reporting to his ship must be piped over the side and received with a color guard. What do I get? A swab catching forty winks while anyone could come storming through that hatch.”
“Sir, it won’t happen again. Sir, it’s nice to see you, but you just picked a bad time to come aboard, sir. We’re undermanned at the moment, and—”
“Never mind. Ye gods, this is getting off to a great start.”
Wanker now noticed how extremely tall and thin Rhodes was, and how gawkish and curiously put together. With that country-fried drawl of his (Suh, it’s nahss t’see yuh, but y’picked a bad tahm tuh come aboahd), he came across as tall hay gone quite to seed.
“Spaceman, see that the captain’s bag is stowed in the captain’s quarters!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Rhodes.”
Wanker jabbed a finger at Smithers. “No, don’t leave that hatch unguarded! Belay that order, spaceman.”
Rhodes said, “I’ll stay here, Captain. Smithers, take the bag. Sir, if you’ll just—”
“Stay where you are, Smithers. Mr. Rhodes, I want a tour of the ship, now, with you at my side. Have Smithers watch my bag until someone can either relieve him or take it to my cabin.”
Smithers was annoyed. “Well, jeez, make up your mind, sirs.”
“What was that?” Wanker snapped.
“Nothing, sirs. Sir. Captain, sir.”
Wanker took off his officer’s cap and smoothed his unruly red hair, brushing a pesky cowlick from his forehead. “This is ridiculous. I’ll take the damned bag along.”
“Please, Captain, leave it here,” Rhodes said. “It’ll be safe.”
“I’m not taking any chances. Been a rash of pilfering in the fleet lately.”
“I’ll sit on it for you, sir!” Smithers piped.
“You mean you’ll sleep on it. You do and I’ll have you spaced, chucked out the airlock buck naked.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t sleep on it, Captain.”
Wanker threw his spacebag at Smithers, who caught it neatly. “Sweet dreams. All right, Mr. Rhodes, if we’re all squared away now, give me the Cook’s tour of this tub.” Wanker sighed. “Don’t you just love that kind of manly space talk?”
“Always gives me a thrill. This way, Captain.”
CHAPTER 3
“Rusty” was in the cargo hold sweeping up the debris left by some last minute crating. He didn’t like sweeping up, but he wasn’t about to complain. Jobs as research assistants were at a premium these days. Budget cuts. It wasn’t a high-paying job, as jobs went, but it paid the bills and gave Rusty three meals a day. And there were other benefits that were much better than any salary.
The job had given him a chance to travel. Here he was, aboard a military starship far out in space. They were to rendezvous with another ship, the test ship. Once aboard, “Rusty,” “Chicolini,” and the Boss would begin a series of test runs that would be the culmination of years of experiment and research.
Six long years of work.
Well, not hard work, but work just the same.
Six years of spending government money. The equipment and supplies they’d bought! Millions spent on antiproton generators and microfusion reactors and endless varieties of technological extravagance.
The parties they’d had! Hundreds of thousands squandered on wine and women and drugs and kicky off-the-shelf brainware...
Ooops. Better not go into that. But the Boss was in good with the government. He had many and powerful friends in high places. It was okay to throw a little money around, live high, have a good time, as long as you delivered the goods.
Rusty kept sweeping, working his way between high stacks of plastic crates. The overhead lights were few and far between in this part of the ship, and it was getting dark in these narrow aisles.
He heard a sound behind and turned.
Rusty squinted. What was that? Something moving. He stopped. One of the crew, perhaps.
Rusty began to sweep again, but halted. He looked around. Hell, this was clean enough. He started retracing his steps through the maze of aisles between the high stacks.
Squash, squish.
“What the...”
Rusty looked at his shoes. He was standing in a puddle of something.
“Hey, who spilled—? Yuck, what is this stuff?”
Rusty walked through the puddle, made a few turns, and arrived at the cargo bay hatch. He went out into the corridor and flagged down a passing warrant officer.
“Hey, space-guy, know where I can get a mop?”
“Janitorial stuff’s right in that compartment.”
Rusty followed the pointed finger.
“ ‘Space-guy,’” the warrant officer muttered, walking away.
Rusty didn’t find a mop, but this nifty vacuum scrubber would do fine. He hauled the thing back to the cargo bay.
But he couldn’t find the puddle. He searched and searched, threading the maze and becoming more irritated the longer he kept at it. It was gone. Dried up. Or it was just something leaking that flowed away somewhere? In which case, it was the space-guys’ problem, not his. He shrugged and lugged the vacuum scrubber back to the hatch.
As he was leaving he happened to glance back and saw Chicolini coming out of the stacks.
“Hey. Were you back there?”
“I was looking for you.”
Rusty’s coworker wasn’t in character, but then neither was Rusty.
“You know, I didn’t see you when I was … never mind. What’s up? The Boss?”
Chicolini nodded. “He’s getting wild. He’s always wired, never goes out of character. You better go up and see what you can do with him.”
“What can I do with him?”
“You’ve been with him longer, you know him better than I do.”
“Hey, he’s a genius. I’m just a lab tech.”
“Get up to the cabin. If he blows the project, the politicians might want to know what we’ve been spending all the money on. In detail. Get the picture?”
“Got the picture.”
“So, leave. And get into character.”
“Sure. Always do when I’m around the Boss. He hates reality.”
> “All humans do.”
Rusty chuckled. “You’re not human?”
“Forget it,” Rusty’s coworker said.
“Hey, by the way, when you were back there, did you step into a puddle of something?”
“Something? What something?”
“Couldn’t see what it was. Something wet and sticky.”
“Forget about it.”
“Hey, it could have been lubrication leaking from one of our crates. What do you mean, forget—”
“I’ll take care of it,” Chicolini said, taking the vacuum scrubber. “You go look after the Boss.”
Rusty shrugged. “Anything you say.”
“And remember to get into character.”
“I’ll switch on before I go in the door.”
“All right, just don’t forget, you know how touchy he is.”
“Sure. See you later.”
“See you. Don’t worry about the leak. I’ll look after it.”
“Okay!”
Rusty jogged off down the corridor, his tattered trench coat trailing and napping.
“I’ll take care of it. Yeah, sure.”
The one called Chicolini retreated into the shadows of the hold.
CHAPTER 4
“… and this is the bridge!”
Wanker picked himself off the deck. As often happened, the pneumatic intraship transport system had dumped him unceremoniously on the deck.
“Never have gotten used to these damned blow tubes. Rotten things.” He dusted himself off. Then he took a good look around.
“Good Lord!”
The bridge was in an even sorrier state than the rest of the ship, littered with half-disassembled components and heterogeneous junk. The usual jungle of hanging wire proliferated, but this particular plastic rain forest was positively tropical. Sections of metal paneling leaned against the bulkheads, and the holes they left exposed a raw chaos of electronic arcana. The various department stations—communications, navigation, and the like—were more or less intact. They were spaced widely apart. The huge plates of armored shielding that would, when battle stations sounded, slide down to further separate and protect each station were stuck halfway. This intensified the sense of cramping and clutter.
The Kruton Interface Page 2
