by Jim Rudnick
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
The RIM Confederacy
A Message to you from the Author
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Epilogue
Desert Planet Prologue
Reviews
BOOK FIVE OF THE
RIM CONFEDERACY
Hospital Ship
by Jim Rudnick
This is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book may not be re-sold or given away without permission in writing from the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, or distributed in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means past, present or future.
ISBN-13: 978-1-988144-03-0
Copyright © 2015
Jim Rudnick
All rights reserved.
For my Susan…
The RIM Confederacy: Hospital Ship
"After exploding with rage and injuring some Caliphate marines, Tanner is sent to the Barony Hospital ship on a ninety day observation to see if he's really sane. At the same time, he is challenged by his doctors and psychiatrist to see if he can defeat his alcohol addiction and to combat his PTSD too.
Also on the ship is the Barony Secure labs where the research teams are trying to find the Ikarian virus vaccine to give longevity to the RIM—and the Baroness is interested in their success.
While the Caliphate continues to try to find a way to steal the vaccine, they end up using a vacjumper—someone who can go right out into outer space with no suit and attempt to break into the lab that way.
Called on to forget about his illness, Tanner must rise to heed the call to defeat the vacjumper and to do that he must jump out into space on his own. Death, virus vaccines and love all play a part for him and his quest…"
A Message to you from the Author…
I just wanted to say thanks so so much for reading Book Five of the RIM Confederacy!
As my Amazon bio says, being a youngster in the 1950's meant that I was a voracious reader in what has been called the Golden Age of Science Fiction. That meant that for me, my heroes were not on the hockey rink or gridiron - but instead in my local Library where at 12 I had a full Adult card (thanks Dad!) and took out more than 5 books a week.
Everyone from Heinlein, Norton, Leiber, Pohl, Anderson, Simak, Asimov, Brackett, Gunn, Van Vogt and more....I fell in love with and eventually owned Ace Doubles of my own. And while I never knew who wrote the Tom Corbett - Space Cadet series, I fell in love with them and they had a place of honor on my own bookcase too!
With that kind of an introduction to Science Fiction, it's no wonder that when I got my writing work done, I turned my own fictional side of my brain to writing same. It's one thing I know how to write - and a totally different matter to release same to the world - something that I've just started to work on....
Suffice it to say my own works are rooted in that Golden Age and it's that era that I'd like to one day be known as a teensy contributor to in some small way...
So once again, thanks for beginning my RIM Confederacy series and wait'll you learn about the alcoholic spaceship captain that is my hero, who fights and beats aliens but not the bottle!
Enjoy and remember, in a series, characters develop and mature not the way we sometimes want…instead, it's like they have a life of their own!
And while you can read the series in any order, I'd highly recommend to start with Pirates, then Sleeper Ship, Prison Planet, Ancient Relics and then Hospital Ship!
Prologue ~
The chief of police for Neres City got out of the robo-cab and walked directly over to the closest corporal.
"Son—can you tell me who's on this case?" he said quietly as he looked around.
The ambulance attendants over to his right were working on somebody on the street near the curb, and from here, he could see the victim's face was a real mess. No nose. It looked like the man's nose was gone ...
"Sir, yes—Lieutenant Carlisle is the man, Sir," the corporal said, as he pointed over to a man who was not in uniform either.
The chief said his thanks and stooped under the yellow tape that stretched around a whole bunch of cars and robo-cabs parked in front of the OneTon bar. He picked his way through the broken glass—no windows on the OneTon he noted—and made his way around some Barony marines who were milling about answering questions from some of the provost officers.
"Dunno ..." one said and shook his head.
"Didn't see shit," another said and tried to walk away but was yanked back by a city cop.
"Just got here," said one man, and from what little the colonel heard, he knew something was up.
He reached the front door of the bar and entered slowly as the provost corporal at the door checked his ID before admitting him.
Guess when you wear your pajamas under a trench coat, you're gonna get asked, but at four a.m., what else would you be wearing?
"Lieutenant ..." he called out. The area close to the door of the bar was empty, so he moved deeper toward the big room at the back.
Glass under his feet crunched, and he kicked a couple of pool table balls as he tried to pick his way through the crime scene.
Entering the back room where the pool tables and more than a dozen people were, he again called, "Lieutenant" and received a nod from a Provost officer at the far end, who saw who was calling him, left the group, and came right over.
"Sir, Chief—I am sorry, but I had no other choice but to call you," the young lieutenant said and referred to his tablet.
"Wait, before you give me an update—what's the toll on injuries, Lieutenant?" the chief asked first.
"We've got seven at Neres General with various injuries, Sir. Broken bones, cuts from flying glass, a couple with bad lacerations too, it appears. No deaths but there are two more getting shuttled up to the Hospital Ship, as they have some serious skull fractures. All in all, eleven very seriously injured men—only two of which are our own Barony marines," he said as he looked down at his tablet.
The chief nodded to him.
"It appears that one of our own—Navy Captain Tanner Scott is to blame—well, allegedly only, yes, with the eleven injured. Seems something set him off and he went crazy. He literally beat the hell out of four Caliphate Navy sailors, mounted a couple of the pool tables, and began to whip pool balls all over and that took out a couple more patrons. He used a pool cue to try to shoot more ... guess the fact that the cue doesn't actually shoot bullets was a bit of a surprise, but that allowed him to be grabbed and held for the city cops and us to arrive to take him into custody. Sir, I wasn't here for that—but everyone who was says the same thing—the captain is crazy, Sir. Went off the deep end, babbling about 'violet eyes,' and we've got him inbound to city lockup. Sir," he said and looked up from his tablet report.
The chief nodded.
"Crazy, eh?" he said and looked around. Known for being a navy and marine bar, it was turf for the forces of the Barony and others too. It looked like the Caliphate Navy had paid a price this time around. He shrugged and nodded once more to the lieutenant.
"He'd be indicted tomorrow in the a.m., right?" he asked and received a nod back from the lieutenant.
"The
n I better—yes, I'll do this—notify the Captains Council on this as he's one of their own. And yes, this is going to be messy too, I'd imagine," he said and wondered exactly how this was going to play out.
"Sir, there may be charges too, from the bar owners—damages and loss of business come to mind immediately, Sir," the lieutenant said.
"And wait'll the lawyers get involved," the chief said, and taking the lieutenant's hand and giving it a great shake, he left to go home and make the call to the Baroness.
CHAPTER ONE
Knowing you're hurting, hungover, and feeling like hell was one thing.
Having an arm that you can't even move on top of that meant more serious injuries.
But having no memory at all of the previous evening's event is the worst, Tanner thought, especially as he knew he was lying on a steel bunk in what could only be a brig.
No idea whose brig, but a jail cell for sure.
Arm. His arm was slightly bent, and he knew it felt funny—not that he could move it.
He fought with his other hand, his left, to get it to work, and slowly he was able to drag it up to his face to rub his eyes, which were caked with something. As his fingers rubbed into a massive bandage that circled his brow, he got more depressed. But his eyes opened, watery and bleary yet open.
Lying on his side, he was able to look down just a bit to see his right arm was in what looked like some kind of a cast—heavy white plaster was on his arm from above his elbow down to his wrist. It was so heavy he couldn't lift it.
But I don't need to do that, either.
Opposite his bunk was a solid cinder-block wall, gray in color, and he was happy he at least remembered colors.
He tilted his head up a notch and saw a sink and a pedestal toilet ... pretty standard brig hygiene items. Water was running too, he thought but he really didn't care a damn.
What happened last night? He couldn't get rid of that thought, and he broke out in a sweat since all he could remember was the sound of sirens. Cop sirens and ambulance sirens. All getting closer and closer ...
He grimaced and he would have shaken his head, but years of hangovers had taught him to avoid moving his head like that, if possible.
Instead, he looked down at his feet and saw the last wall of his cell was bars, many bars, and a plain corridor beyond it. Nothing more.
As his focus came closer, he saw his uniform pants were badly soiled and bloodstained, and his belt and shoelaces were missing.
Suicide watch. As the perpetrator, he had been put in the brig, his belt and laces taken, and put under surveillance too.
So he looked up and up to the ceiling, and there was a camera pointed down at the bunk.
If I could smile, I would, he thought, and then he closed his eyes.
Hours later, he once more awoke to find a tray with food on a stool in front of him.
Jail food was notoriously bad, but he tried to lift his head to look at it—some kind of macaroni and cheese with a large bottle of water and pudding. Wonder what flavor, he thought as he gently sent out his left hand to grab the bottle.
Having barely enough strength to open the bottle with one hand, he wedged the cap into his mouth and tried to use his teeth like a set of pliers to grasp the cap and turn.
He couldn't.
It took more than he could handle at present, and he drifted back off to sleep with the bottle lying on his bunk beside him.
A few hours later, he was awakened by some kind of a buzzer, and as his eyes opened, he saw someone had come in to open the bottle and had left it open on the tray in front of him.
He greedily swallowed the whole bottle.
Should have added a whole vial of anti-hangover pills too, he thought as he drifted off again.
####
Almost a full day in stir, at least that's what it used to be called, Tanner thought, and he finally had a visitor.
The guard who came to take away last night's tray and bring him some kind of a burrito for breakfast was dressed as a city policeman—a corporal if he could still read ranking insignias correctly. He had asked him "Where am I?" The only reply was a grunt. No lunch tray either.
After some work, he was able to sit up and balance his right arm in its cast on his lap. Wiggling his fingers worked, he was glad to see as he looked around.
Still the same cinder-block hallway and the bars between me and freedom.
The sound of footsteps—two sets of footsteps it sounded like—coming down that hallway made him half-sit up, and he looked out and saw the same corporal but behind him, Bram!
He said nothing as the corporal undid the lock and pushed it to one side as Bram came into the cell. There was nowhere for him to sit, so he sat opposite his captain right on the floor, which made the corporal grunt.
He locked the cell door and ambled down the hallway back to where he'd come from.
Bram looked at Tanner and half-smiled.
"Sir, how are you feeling?" he said, his voice low and monotone as if he didn't want to upset his captain.
Tanner nodded. "Hurting—at least my arm—and my head is still ringing from whatever the hell happened last night," he said. While not a question, it was as much of one as he could ask at this point.
"Yes, well, it was quite an evening, Sir. I—you do remember that I didn't come along to the OneTon, right? I only know what I know from what others have told me—our own marines and the desk sergeant down the hall. But there is quite a bit of, or rather a lack of, verified knowledge of the events, Sir. Can you help a bit there?" he said, and Tanner could tell he was being honest. So he would have to be the same.
"Yes, Bram ... I really have no idea. I went to the OneTon alone, met up with some of our Atlas marines as I remember, and then I lost track of all. I suppose that I got pretty blotto—but other than that, I have no memory of anything between say 2300 hours and then waking up here yesterday in mid-morning I'd think. Not a single thing do I remember—but perhaps with some time ... " he said.
This had happened before. He'd been out for a night on the town, and for days, the events didn't come back to him after the memory blackout. Something triggered those memories, but he had no idea what those triggers were. He sheepishly smiled at his Adept officer.
"Can't you just look in here," he said pointing at his own head, "and tell me what happened?"
The fact that Bram, an Issian, had the ability to look inside someone's conscious mind to see what he could find was a given out here on the RIM, but all Tanner got was a headshake.
"Sir, yes—that is one of the reasons I was able to talk my way in here—well, along with a request from Lady St. August too. But no, what I see is a muddled mess ... you're still very hungover and it's been about thirty hours since this all happened, Sir. But I'll continue to monitor, Sir," he said.
Straightening up a bit, he looked out at the hallway and then moved closer to Tanner, crabbing along the floor until he was close enough to speak in a very low tone. Tanner pointed up above his head, and Bram nodded, acknowledging he knew the cell was under surveillance.
"Sir, here's what I know—at least what I was told. At about 0030 hours, for a reason that no one can as yet list, you attacked a Caliphate marine over at the doorway to the big back room. You held your own—fact someone said you were winning 'til some of his squad got involved and you were quickly getting the tar beat out of you. That brought up some Atlas marines, and the brawl got big, but for a reason no one knows, you got up on a pool table and began to throw the billiard balls at some selected targets. Some marine lost his nose they say, two have fractured skulls and are up on the Hospital Ship in orbit—serious injuries I'm told. Then, Sir ... don't know if it's true or not, but you grabbed a pool cue and used it like you'd use a Merkel and tried to shoot many in the room. You—I'm told—were screaming about 'violet eyes,' and that stopped the various brawling marines. Sir," he said and looked at Tanner with a raised eyebrow.
Tanner nodded. The 'violet eyes' was troubling, but as to everyth
ing else, he still had no idea, no memory, and could add nada.
"Thank you, Bram, that does help somewhat—but I've no memory of any of it."
Bram half-smiled at his captain.
"Sir, the only other issue appears to be who has jurisdiction on this matter. OneTon is a civilian bar, under the Neres City police department—yet you and all the rest of the participants were military—the Barony Navy, marines, and the Caliphate marines too. So it's being argued later today in Superior Court as to who looks into this for the state. I'll attend and then get back to you, Sir," he said.
Tanner smiled. "Bram ... I don't know—"
"Sir, not a problem, let's just get by this, shall we?" he said, and Tanner was glad to have such a friend.
The two navy men looked at each other and there was little else to say.
####
Research Associate Nathan Ward hated going to work.
The work itself was the second best thing in the world that had ever happened to him—getting this assignment on the Barony Hospital Ship had been a real test of his selling himself, but it had worked out well.
But getting to the lab was the real thing he hated.
He smiled at himself in his mirror. His wall calendar showed that exactly one year ago he'd had that big win on the Nerian Station at the casino he liked so much. He'd had seventeen, he remembered, the deck had just been reshuffled, and he felt he should ask for a card. Playing twenty-one was not his real thing—that was craps—but he'd just lost half his stake, and he'd sat down to play a bit of cards to mellow out. Seventeen, he had seventeen, and the dealer asked him again if he wanted another card, and she had a queen up.
