Brattain took a deep breath. Composure, she thought. This one’s just an undisciplined child.
“You need something, Ensign?” She asked.
Cruz smirked. “You always this uptight? Or are you making a special exception for me?”
“No exception,” Brattain replied. “Um, I mean—”
Cruz reached out and tapped her elbow. “Wait, I’m sorry, ‘kay? About the shuttle ride, and my being a show-off and all. And I guess I owe you for not reporting me and I appreciate it, Commander.”
“Your apology is… duly noted, Ensign,” Brattain said.
“Thank you.”
Brattain thought about what Kane had said to her earlier.
He’s all about building them up, she thought. Wants them to focus on their strengths.
“I saw that you work well with the rest of the bridge crew,” Brattain said. “And your piloting skills are notable, even if I don’t approve of the way you demonstrated the earlier. But I think you could be a great asset to this crew.”
Cruz smiled, and her eyes stared away for a moment, as if she was genuinely pleased by the compliment—but slightly embarrassed by it as well.
“Well, Commander,” she said, “I’m already pretty tight with a lot of the crew, you know? Trying to establish that bond, like, we understand that. As a matter of fact, we wanted to invite you… I mean, Jesus and I were going to catch some casts, jack a mood with some stims, and maybe throw together a little orgy if we could get some people together. We were, uh, wondering if you might wanna join in?”
This type of request had always been awkward for Brattain to handle.
Not my way, she thought. Definitely not who I am.
But what if… she thought.
What if Cruz had come alone, and wanted to spend time with her… alone? The Captain seemed to smile on fraternization, so—
No, she thought. Fantasies are one thing, but I can’t indulge in any thoughts like that. Besides, she’s clearly already committed to some kind of group scene anyway.
“Uh, no,” Brattain said, “Ensign, thanks for the offer. I appreciate the gesture, but I’ve got… Things to do.”
Cruz shook her head and gave Brattain a sad smile. “Maybe it’s just a pilot thing,” she said. “I used to be a fighter jock, you know, when you could be blown out of the sky at any moment. But I always feel like you gotta live for the day, do what you want while you can. You sure you don’t want to come along?”
“Yes,” Brattain said, “I’m sure.”
Cruz shrugged and walked away, striding down the corridor.
Brattain watched her go, and caught herself staring at the pilot’s pert hindquarters for a moment before she finally gestured for the door to close.
That’s lovely, she thought. Now she could add feeling awkward and embarrassed to the stress that was already churning in the pit of her stomach.
I need something to focus on, she thought. An old standby. Reliable.
She went to the nearby desk and sat down. Her fingers tapped the desktop and a holographic display appeared. “RCS Fleet Regulations,” she requested. “First Officer duties and protocols.”
As the numbered lines and chapters scrolled in the air above the desk, she focused on the regs, reciting them silently to herself.
Captain Kane may have his ancient philosophy to meditate over, she thought. This is what helps to keep me sane.
But tonight, it wasn’t working… She still felt restless, the focus she sought not coming.
Is it guilt, because he told me not to study the regs?
But that was a joke, right?
“All right, Captain,” she said aloud. “What would you read?”
She pondered this for a moment, and then said “Musashi.”
“Requesting operating status report for RCS Musashi?” a computer voice suggested.
“No,” she replied. “Give me listings for… Musashi, the person. Ancient Earth philosophy. Cross-reference ‘the Void.’”
“The Book of Five Rings—by Miyamoto Musashi,” said the text which appeared in the air over her desk. “Book Five—Book of the Void, also known as Book of Emptiness”
She read: “The essence of the Void is a place where there is nothing. It is not part of conscious knowledge. It is logical that the Void is nothingness. However, by knowing the things that do exist, you can come to know that which does not exist, the spiritual reality. That is the true Void.”
The gist of it seemed to be that, with enough practice, a swordsman could act without thought… The emptiness, the Void, was a place of instinct and certainty, where even the spiritual could be perceived.
So the invisible can be perceived when one is in tune with the Void? Sounds like some kind of quantum sight… Was this Musashi some kind of proto-Psionicist, too?
She could understand how a martial artist, like a swordsman, could train his body and mind to act without conscious thought. But how did this apply to starship operations, where numerous personnel and systems had to be taken into account whenever a decision was to be made?
“I don’t understand, Captain,” she said to herself, and sighed. “But I’m trying to.”
11
The XO’s chair on the bridge didn’t feel quite right to Brattain… not yet, anyway.
But it felt better than the Captain’s chair had, and it felt like something she might be able to get used to.
She sat below Captain Kane and to his right. She could feel his presence above her: paternal, relaxed, and confident. The bridge crew’s demeanor was still quite informal by Fleet standards, the crew joking and chatting while performing their duties. But they seemed to focus well enough on their tasks, and when their Captain spoke, they paid rapt attention.
“What’s our jump status, Jesus?” Kane asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“Local quantum variance is baseline,” Reynard replied. “We’re in position, and inertial compensation is complete. We’re reading full stop.”
Brattain touched a soft rectangle on the side of her chair, then sat back. Her suit was instantly nano-bonded to the chair itself: a highly effective form of restraint. Crossing through a wormhole was usually a smooth operation with little stress on the ship, but the regulations recommended that they take such precautions, just in case.
She was happy to see the rest of the bridge crew do likewise, all securing themselves to their seats.
“Commander, do the honors,” Kane told her.
Brattain nodded. I’ve done this a hundred times before, she thought, why am I so nervous now?
“Comm, ship-wide,” she ordered. “Attention. Prepare for wormhole formation. This is not a drill. Engine Room—Mr. Sivarek. Gravity spike status?”
The nervous Engineer’s voice came over the comm. “Charged and eager to go, Commander.”
“Lieutenant,” Brattain told him, “Deploy sensor sails and activate the theta generators.”
A hologram at the front of the bridge now showed an external view of the Musashi, extrapolated from its own internal and external sensors.
Brattain watched the miniature, holographic version of the ship as glistening sensor sails extended and unfurled from their recesses at the rear of the ship. They tilted until they were perpendicular to the main body of the ship, flanking the vessel like giant moth’s wings.
Now it’s all up to our Psionicist, Brattain thought. Our dear Mister Seutter.
“Mister Seutter?”
Over the comm, the Psionicist answered, “Ready.”
12
The Psionicist’s pod was only several meters long, fashioned from reinforced nanosteel, with a curved window of transparent carbon weave at the front.
Technically, Seutter didn’t need the window, didn’t need to look out at the blackness of space… But he liked to see. On some primitive level, the visual stimuli helped him to feel at one with the fabric of spacetime.
He reclined in his comfortable seat, the foam upholstery cushioning his body. Rather than
a nanosuit, he wore a simple linen tunic and pants, and was barefoot.
That wasn’t regulation. In fact, it was a safety risk; in the unlikely event that the pod was somehow compromised, he’d be completely unprotected.
But Seutter had always been a highly sensitive person in just about every sense of the term. He needed to feel comfortable—as unburdened as possible—in order to begin the process.
The pod rode on a magnetic track, gliding between the booms at the front of the ship. Inside, Seutter slowly traveled toward the front of the booms.
The gravity spike would be focused directly in front of the booms, and the theta generators would be focused on him. They were all tools at his command, to power his process as he sought to get spacetime to dance for him.
It was also comforting to be away from the others on the ship for a while, not to be bothered by hearing their thoughts in his head… The endless cacophony of words and emotions which made it so hard to focus when he was onboard the ship.
Had he always been so uncomfortable around people? He’d been a shy child… But then the Psionicist’s training had done something to him, psychologically and neurologically, that had not been intended by the Guild’s masters.
He’d started to experience random, uncontrolled telepathic feedback from those around him… And they’d never been able to cure him of that. It was like what the ancients used to call “schizophrenia,” except the voices in his head were real and they belonged to his crewmates.
But the voices were disturbing, distracting—an endless, grating pain.
And yes, speaking of pain…
His brother, Griffin, had made sure he’d experienced enough of that. His brother had been broken in the training, too—but in a different way. His telepathy was not uncontrolled, and rather than succumbing to his pain, Griffin had sought to master it. To use it.
And then, he’d sought to understand the pain of others… And finally, he’d learned to cause it, to torture others with his psionic abilities. He’d been a sadist of the worst kind, a cruel telepath.
But Griffin had still been a master Psionicist, the best the Guild had ever seen, superior to himself in every way, Graham knew.
That’s probably why they’d let him get away with his little games for so long…
When Griffin wasn’t opening wormholes, when he’d gotten bored… He’d liked to get into people’s heads. Use little thoughts as weapons, twisting like a knife to inflict a wound that might bloom within minutes, days, or months. He’d cause depression, breakdowns, deaths, murders… So much that could never be proved, never be traced. And always, he had shared his victim’s pain with Graham, his brother.
Anyone who Graham became attached to, Griffin would torment them and let Graham feel their agony.
It’s a wonder, Seutter thought—and not for the first time—that I’m as sane as I am. His death was a blow in itself, even after all that…
But then, at least I still have one thing that always soothes me.
The quantum dance.
My work.
Seutter’s pod reached the end of the booms. Before him was the vastness of space, stars glinting from a cold eternity away. But that vastness was all dependent upon how one looked at things…
“All space is one point,” he whispered. “My consciousness is infinite.”
Seutter closed his eyes, seeing now solely with his mind. His viewpoint was from nowhere and from everywhere, simultaneously.
He felt himself rushing outward, the ship itself growing rapidly smaller.
Diminishing. Disappearing…
His consciousness expanded, and he found himself viewing things from another order of magnitude. Star clusters appeared, then the spiral of the galaxy itself.
“All time is one heartbeat. I exist in every moment.”
He had reached that place: a place that was selfless and yet connected to all things. Peaceful.
It was ironic. His superiors always worried about Seutter, so angry, so withdrawn, practically insubordinate… Could he do his job? Could he make the jump?
Of course he would make the jump!
He lived for this. To dance with the universe, to feel that peaceful sense of linkage with everything. He was aware of every particle of micro-stellar dust. Aware of all matter, from the threads and weave of his garments to the folds and contours of spacetime itself.
And now that he was in that place, he opened his eyes again.
Stared at the space directly in front of the ship.
On a subatomic level, particles existed in a state of unpredictable flux. Indeterminate. Their natural dance was wild and reckless…
But now he took control of the dance, his mind whirling through probabilities, nudging this one to spin in this direction, and that one in the other.
Many light years away, another set of particles was doing the same dance, now connected—all choreographed by Seutter’s mind.
Two sets of subatomic dancers, beckoning to each other, probability coalescing—
—until the space directly in front of Seutter’s pod seemed to stretch, the light of the distant stars wavering.
An iris of blinding light opened, dilating, growing larger.
Seutter stared at the light, unblinking. At this high point in the dance, the rapture he felt was greater than any drug could provide.
“All life is one life,” he chanted. “All minds are one.”
And indeed he felt that connection…
From the subatomic particles whirling around the widening mouth of the wormhole, to the bright flames of the conscious minds of the crew of the ship behind him. He felt his connection to them, links of culture, species… He felt a melancholy yearning in the middle of his ecstasy, to be a part of that web of humanity.
Foolish, really. But that was easy enough to push aside.
“The infinity of human will is mine to channel,” he whispered.
And the wormhole grew, and grew.
The brilliant tunnel in front of him was an awesome spectacle. The Psionicist knew how to bring it about…
But as a shortcut, the conduit of the wormhole existed outside of the universe itself. That extra-universal space was beyond any man’s understanding, beyond the rules of the dance.
But Seutter knew that it was warm and beckoning. He could feel it tugging at him and at the ship…
13
On the bridge, Brattain watched as the wormhole grew on the holographic projection.
“Dilation at two hundred meters,” Reynard reported. “Three hundred… Gravity’s at jump velocity.”
That white light was blindingly bright on the main view screen. Not technically energy, or matter, or plasma… But something else, something they barely understood.
The stuff outside the universe…
And they were about to plunge through it.
Brattain couldn’t help but to think of the “true Void” from Musashi’s philosophy.
She could feel a tingling all over her skin, even beneath her suit, caressing like a lover yet prickly, impatient.
Cruz turned in her seat and smiled back at Brattain. “Whoa! You gettin’ the tinglies, Commander? I love how that feels.”
“Ensign…” Captain Kane warned gently, and Cruz turned back to her console.
“Don’t worry,” Cruz said. “It’ll swallow us up, but I’ll get us out, ‘kay?”
Now the white light filled the view screen. The holographic, miniature Musashi that floated at the front of the bridge was being swallowed by the disc of the holographic wormhole, even as the real ship itself was consumed.
Then came a strange moment of absolute stillness.
Brattain was aware of herself secured to her seat, the Captain behind her, and the crew in their chairs in front of her.
Yet basic awareness seemed to be all her brain was capable of. There was no fear or anxiety; just an overwhelming stillness…
And then she jerked, shook herself awake. It was as if she’d suddenly been rous
ed from a deep sleep; but she knew only a few seconds had passed.
People reacted differently, but this was how she always felt, making the jump. And now, she felt acceleration pushing her back into her seat as the main ion thrusters kicked in.
The miniature holographic Musashi was now exiting the wormhole, the disc of white light shrinking behind it as it pulled away.
When the white light finally disappeared, the screen at the front of the bridge showed a very different field of stars.
We’ve moved hundreds of light years, Brattain thought, but it doesn’t feel like we’ve gone far at all.
She took a deep breath, knowing the disorientation would soon pass. The ship continued to accelerate, with Cruz in control.
“Welcome to the Wastelands, people,” the Ensign announced cheekily.
“We’ve stabilized our course,” Reynard added. “Distress signal locked in.”
“How’s the Psionicist?” Brattain asked. She knew that his work could be dangerous. It was rare, but there had been a few instances where psionicists had suffered cardiac arrest or brain aneurysms, having pushed themselves too far in order to make the jump.
It was the engineer, Sivarek, who answered the question over the com. “I think he’s fine. He’s, uh, sleeping,” he said.
Another voice on the comm—Doctor Xon’s—added “Yes, this is typical for him. A healthy reaction. He'll need a few hours rest, but his vitals look fine.”
The Comm Officer brought up a hologram of the inside of the Psionicist’s pod, which was now slowly retracting, sliding back down its track between the booms at the front of the ship.
Seutter was reclining, in a deep slumber… but Brattain was surprised to see the expression on his face.
He looked completely childlike now, relaxed, wearing a smile of wistful serenity.
14
Brattain held her hand to the door for a moment, and there was a soft chime.
Doctor Xon answered it, giving her a curious expression. He was wearing a thick robe, and he looked as if he might have just awakened… Though with his perpetually disheveled hair and the thick beard covering his face, it was hard to tell.
Space Cruiser Musashi: a space opera novel Page 7
