The Kruton Interface
Page 5
Wanker waited, intrigued and puzzled.
The woman’s face contorted into a tortured mask. “GET OUT! GET OUT! HIDE! WHATEVER YOU DO, DONT TRY TO COMMAND THIS SHIP! IT’S A JINX, A TRAP! IT’LL KILL YOU! THEY’LL DRIVE YOU CRAZY, THEY’RE ALL INSANE! EVERY ONE OF THEM, LUNATICS! IT’S A SHIP FROM HELL! AIEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!”
Wanker lunged for the cut-off switch.
The screen went dark.
“Oh, my God,” David Wanker said in a small voice, his freckled face ashen.
CHAPTER 6
Over the next few days, none of the skeleton crew so much as glimpsed the new captain, who spent the time sequestered away, taking his meals alone and admitting no one to his sanctum.
Scuttlebutt didn’t know what to make of it. Meanwhile, on the planet below, the rest of the crew—mostly enlisted personnel with a few warrant officers—were getting restless. The base’s laundry was overwhelmed, jammed with piles of mud-encrusted uniforms.
Captain Wanker called no executive meetings. He did request numerous computer files: ship’s logs, data bases, procedural flowcharts and such. He also tapped the ship’s computer for a flood of other data. This behavior was unremarkable in itself, but coupled with his becoming a virtual recluse, it caused some speculation.
“It’s our next assignment,’’ Darvona surmised. “He’s already been briefed by Operations. It’s something big, I’ll bet.”
“Fat chance,” Sven said dourly as he looked at some instruments close to Darvona’s console.
Darvona gave him a haughty look. “Well, how do you know it isn’t?”
Sven shrugged. “Dream on. Before you do, though, why don’t you find out who’s sending out that distress call?”
“Huh? What distress call?”
“The one registering on your console.” Sven reached and flipped a switch. A loud beeping sounded. “You had the scanning alert off.”
“Oh, that distress call.” Darvona squinted at the display. “It’s only a third-class call. Nothing really to worry about.”
“What ship is it?”
“It’s a cruiser, the Anson MacDonald. Must be having minor mechanical failure. It’s requesting a berth at the graving dock.”
“Either that or it’s coming to take us away on a mystery tour.”
Darvona’s pretty blue eyes went wide. “No kidding, do you think… ?” She thought about it. “Nahhh. Sven, you’re so silly.”
Sven’s eyes rolled as he continued to take readings.
“Hey, here’s another call,” Darvona said. “From Command Central, scrambled. For the captain.”
* * *
David Wanker sat at his work console, exhausted and still stumped after days of research. He had been doing detective work, trying to get to the bottom of the Repulse’s jinx, to find out why this ship had so many black marks against it.
It didn’t figure. There was nothing mechanically wrong with the ship, at least not fundamentally wrong. Yes, Sadowski was a terrible engineer, but that didn’t explain everything. Yes, most of the crew were inveterate screw-ups, but that didn’t sufficiently explain the mystery either. The ship’s operational procedures were standard—hell, they came out of manuals. Chain of command was standard … What, then, was the problem?
A beep from the comm panel interrupted his thoughts.
“What?” he growled.
“Oo, Captain, you scared me. What’s the matter?”
“Huh? Oh. Sorry, Ms. Roundheels. Look, if it’s another message, I’m not in.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“It’s another message, and you’re not in.”
“Right. Wait a minute. Who is it?”
“Who’s what?”
Wanker slapped his forehead. “Who’s calling, for Pete’s sake?”
“Oh. Uh . .. it’s Rear Admiral Dickover.”
Wanker sat up. “Holy crap. Lyman Dickover?”
“I’ll tell him you’re not in.”
“No, wait! I’ll take the call.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Do you think I’m going to stiff an admiral?”
“I would,” Darvona said peevishly. “Enough of them have stiffed me.”
“Never mind. Put the admiral through.”
David Wanker cringed inwardly as he sat and waited. Admiral Dickover was not exactly one of his favorite people, and he was certain the feeling was mutual. In fact, he had long suspected Dickover of gunning for him. Throughout Wanker’s career, Dickover had remained just above in rank, hovering like a hawk. And every time Wanker goofed, Dickover swooped, going for the kill.
The blue-jawed face of Lyman Dickover appeared on the screen. He was a study in blue. His eyes had the deadly luster of gun steel, his Earth-sky-colored uniform and the blue-gray stubble on his shaved bulletlike head complementing the color scheme.
“Good day, Admiral Dickover,” Wanker said. “What can I do for you?”
The admiral growled, “You can complete your new assignment without screwing up.”
“I intend to run a taut ship, sir.”
Dickover grunted. “We’ll see. By the way, we’ve finally located the last ship you ran tautly. Found it in a scrap yard in the Orion Nebula, its serial numbers filed off and stripped of just about everything, including the main reactor.”
Wanker shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m … I’m glad we got it back, sir.”
“Worth about a hundred credits as scrap metal,” Dickover snorted. “But of course the board of inquiry did clear you.”
“I was completely innocent of any negligence!”
“So they said. Well, let’s put the past behind us. New orders will be coming to you by messenger.”
“Hand-carried? From the base?”
“No. The Anson MacDonald is carrying the messenger and is being diverted to your area, using a bogus distress call as a cover. You can infer from that how important this mission is and how highly classified, too.”
Wanker stiffened a bit with pride. “Yes, sir! Admiral, I relish an assignment like this.”
“Relish it all you want. Just don’t end up with egg on your face, Wanker.”
That’s Vahn-ker, sir.”
“What?”
“Vahn-ker. My name.”
“Right, sorry about that.”
Captain Wanker was nettled, but could hardly complain. Dickover had known him for years and had never learned to pronounce the name correctly. Or refused to (which was more probable).
“I think the ship needs a challenging assignment,” Wanker ventured.
“That scow needs to be sent to the scrap heap!” Dickover said acidly. “Along with that crew of yours. Screw-ups, every man jack and jill of ‘em.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I’ve been meaning to ask about that. How could so many foul-balls end up on the same ship?”
Dickover replied, “In any organization you essentially have two options for dealing with incompetence. You isolate it, or spread it out. I myself favor the second method.”
“I see.”
“Incompetence is sort of like manure,” the admiral said with a sardonic smile. “All together in one clump, it’s poison. Spread out and allowed to percolate into things, the stuff might do some good, serving as a cautionary example as you deal with it case by case.” Dickover leaned back and folded his arms. “The Department of Personnel, though, favors the other remedy. At least they have up till now. For years they’ve been funneling all the flakes and foul-ups in the Space Forces into the Repulse. The result is the ship’s sorry record.”
“I see. But, Admiral, why did—?”
“Then Personnel came up with a bright idea,”
Dickover went on, falling into his annoying habit of dominating a conversation. “The idea was to assign a skipper who could whip that tub into shape.” The admiral lunged forward and pounded his desk. “A real hard-nosed, ball-busting, give-’em-hell kind of a skipper!”
Wanker swelled. “An
d that was why I was—?”
“And the upshot of that was three ruined officers. Two in the bouncy cubicle and one with a slit gullet!” Dickover dragged his forefinger across his throat and made a horrid sound.
“I see.” Wanker’s shoulders slumped.
“And then they threw in the towel and gave you the job. I guess the theory was the blind leading the blind. Or to shift the metaphor a little bit, a manure-processor instead of a ball-buster.” Dickover cackled.
“Very witty comment, sir. Clever.”
“Thanks, just kidding. Listen, Wanker—”
“Vahn-ker!”
“Wonker, whatever. Listen up—”
“Sir, I don’t understand one thing.” Wanker thought it was his turn to interrupt.
“What’s that?”
“If this ship is a hopeless case and so am I, why have we been chosen for this supposedly important mission?”
“You’ll understand when you open your sealed orders. I can only refer to the orders indirectly even over this secured channel, but suffice it to say that the basic mission of the Repulse will be changed. It’ll be devoted exclusively to testing.”
“Testing?”
Dickover nodded. “New hardware, procedures, weapons systems. That sort of thing.”
Wanker was taken aback. “My ship … you’re going to take it and turn it into a … a test bench? A target drone?”
Dickover nodded again. “Yup, that’s about the size of it. Have any problem with that?”
“But, sir, the crew, how can they—?”
“Forget the crew. When you get your orders, you’ll proceed immediately to your assigned destination. Most of your people are dirtside, correct?”
“Yes, sir. Shore leave.”
“On Epsilon Indi Four? That’s a laugh. Anyway, you’ll leave them on the planet.”
Wanker couldn’t believe it. “L-leave them, sir?”
Dickover put a hand to his ear in feigned concern. “Is there some interference on this channel? Hello, hello?”
Wanker gave a tiny groan. “No interference, sir.”
“Good. Yes, I said, leave them. Keep any and all security personnel aboard, but shuttle down any remaining enlisted men and women. They’ll all be given new assignments. Keep your department heads. I don’t know what good they’ll be, but you’ll need someone to look after your guests.”
“Guests?”
“Yes, you’ll be taking on civilian passengers. Well, not really passengers. Uh—you’ll see what I mean. Now, do you have all that straight?”
David Wanker couldn’t find the words to speak. He merely nodded.
“Good. I’ll be back in contact with you when you receive your orders. Dickover out.”
The screen went dark.
Captain Wanker sat in silent misery for a long while. Then, his arm leaden, he reached for the comm panel.
“Mr. Rhodes?”
After a pause there came, “Rhodes here, sir.”
“Have all officers on board report to the bridge in a half hour.”
“Yes, sir. Something up?”
“New orders. Did another ship arrive at the dock?”
“Yes, sir. The Anson MacDonald. Having technical problems, I believe.”
“Don’t believe it. There’ll be a messenger. Send him or her to my cabin. Also, we’ll be taking on civilian passengers eventually. Before that, I will speak to the crew—at 1400 hours, sharp.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Wanker out.”
The captain waited a moment, then spoke. “Dr. O’Gandhi!”
There was a long pause before the doctor’s ebullient voice sounded from the speaker. “Captain of mine! How are you feeling?”
“Tired, run-down, nervous.”
“Begorrah, I am feeling so very sorry for you.”
“I need something,” Wanker said dully.
“Oh, yes, and I am having exactly what you need. Little pills that will be making you quite happy, singing songs and feeling, oh, by gosh, so very fine!”
“I want lots of them. I want to feel very, very fine.”
“I am giving lots! Sure and I am handing them out like candy.”
“Send them to my cabin.”
“I will be doing this very thing, Captain.”
“Hurry. Wanker out.”
Down and out, the captain thought.
CHAPTER 7
An orderly delivered Dr. O’Gandhi’s nostrums and was dismissed.
The courier from the Anson MacDonald arrived shortly after Captain Wanker devoured all the pretty pink, blue, and yellow pills the good doctor had sent him. He washed them down with the glass of purple liquid that came with the tray. The stuff looked like grape juice, and tasted like it, but carried quite a jolt.
“Wow. I needed that.”
The active ingredient was probably pure ethyl alcohol, fresh from the ship’s medical lab.
“An ethanol purple passion,” Wanker remembered. He had gotten blasted on them at an illegal party at the Academy. The binge had cost him fourteen demerits and a close brush with being cashiered out of school.
Maybe, he thought ruefully, it would have been for the best if he had been booted out. So far his military career was spotty to say the least.
Wanker signed for the mail pouch and dismissed the courier. Opening the pouch and removing the microdisk, he considered reading the orders in private first, but thought better of it. He dreaded the contents.
He decided to boot up the orders in front of what was left of his crew.
He put on his full-dress uniform, steeled himself, and left his quarters for the first time in two full standard days.
* * *
“We’ve been waiting for an hour,” Darvona complained as she checked her makeup in a compact.
“Do you have something else to do, Ms. Roundheels?” Rhodes asked mordantly. “If not, please remain silent.”
Darvona snapped the compact shut. “No need to be nasty, Don.”
“Look, let’s skip the first-name bit for a while. At least until we get things squared away with the new captain.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Rhodes, sir,” Darvona said with arched eyebrows.
“Aw, c’mon, Darvona, cut me a break.”
“I’m sorry, Don. Uh, Mr. Rhodes. Does this mean I have to sleep alone tonight?”
Rhodes flushed, looking around nervously. “Keep your voice down,” he said in an embarrassed half whisper.
With impish delight, Darvona reached around and squeezed his left buttock.
Rhodes turned beet-red and moved away. “Please!” he hissed. “Not on the bridge!”
“So-o-o-rry,” Darvona said, still grinning.
Sven Svensen coughed elaborately, then flashed a devilish smile at Darvona.
“You keep quiet,” she told him.
Rhodes glanced at the chronometric readout on his left thumbnail. “Now that you mention it, what the devil is keeping him?”
“He will be along shortly, I am thinking,” Dr. O’Gandhi predicted. “And he will be feeling much better.”
“Oh?” Rhodes elevated one eyebrow. “You gave him happy pills?”
“Begorrah, I am giving him a great shitload of happy pills.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Plus a wee bit o’ th’ grape, by Jesus, Mary, and Krishna.”
“Oh, God,” Rhodes said. He sighed. “Then again, maybe it’ll be an improvement over suicidal depression.”
“I would really like to know,” Sven Svensen said, “why the rest of the enlisted personnel were shuttled planet side. What are we going to do for a crew?”
“Captain’s orders,” Rhodes said simply. “We have automatic systems that can run this ship.”
“A human crew always does it better.”
“You can say that again,” Darvona agreed.
“Sure, a human crew is best,” Mr. Rhodes said. “Except in our case, I’m afraid. In any event, our people will have to make the best of it down there.”
“I’d give anything to be down there with them,” Darvona said dreamily.
Warner-Hillary tapped a finger against her data screen. “Report here says that fights are breaking out, even among the enlisted women.”
Rhodes shrugged. “Regrettable, but it can’t be helped.”
Just then, from the drop tube came a hollow thud and a peevish voice that said, “Ouch, dammit!”
“What was that?” Rhodes said.
“Th’ parastatics’ve gang agley again,” Sadowski said, striding purposefully toward a small hatch that led to an access bay.
“That’s the captain!” Sven said.
As Sadowski disappeared inside the access bay, Rhodes went to the mouth of the transparent tube and hollered up, “Captain Wanker?”
“That’s Vahn-ker!”
“Sorry, sir. Are you hung up in there?”
Wanker’s voice rang hollowly. “No, just thought I’d sit awhile in something that evokes a human colon.”
“Oh. You’re stuck.”
“Oh, no. This environment is very conducive to meditation.”
“You don’t sound far away, sir. Sadowski has gone to find out what’s wrong. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can fiddle with these controls.”
With the heel of his hand, Rhodes hit the pad marked BLOW. Air whooshed from the tube.
“How’s that, sir?”
“Didn’t do anything.”
“Oh. Well, let me try the suck option.”
The first officer hit the pad labeled SUCK. Air was drawn into the tube.
“Ouch,” came the reply up-tube.
“Sucking doesn’t work either, sir?”
“No. Tell you what, blow a little more.”
Rhodes did. “Negative function, sir. Any ideas?”
“What the hell, give it another suck.”
Rhodes tried that again. “Any better, sir?”
“I’ve moved a little. Try another suck.”
“How’s that, sir?”