I know what she’s thinking, Brattain thought. Cyborg. Can we trust him?
But Engineers had served the Fleet for generations now. The Engineer’s Guild was loyal. There was no reason to compare them to the soulless cyborgs of the Corporate Worlds…
And besides, this Sivarek seemed childlike. Nervous, but eager to please; hardly the kind of cold, ruthless machine-man they’d been taught to fear.
Sivarek seemed oblivious to Cruz’s staring. He was humming along to the soft music that played in the background of the room. It was some sort of ancient guitar music, performed with orchestra and chorus; a very sad and deliberately-paced piece.
Well at least it’s not Cruz’s orgy music again, Brattain thought.
Sivarek took his plate from the machine. His dish was something flat, rolled in tortillas, and covered in a brown sauce. Cruz moved up to the machine and ordered chicken vindaloo. It took several seconds before a plate of steaming food emerged.
“Finally,” Cruz said, “thing’s so damned slow.”
At the other end of the wall, Marine Sergeant Molokos stepped forward towards a protein dispenser. He glared at Cruz, as if he resented her very presence. He touched a button on his machine and a grayish protein gloop flowed from a nozzle into a bowl, which he retrieved.
Of course, Brattain thought, they don’t eat normal food, do they? It has to be optimized to suit their special needs.
I don’t suppose it tastes very good, but I wonder if that even matters to them?
As the next crewman stepped up to get his food and the line moved forward, Brattain looked around the room.
The Psionicist, Seutter, was there, sitting in a corner, as far away from anyone else as possible. He was reading on a datapad and shoveling food into his mouth.
Sivarek approached him with a hopeful smile, holding his tray. Seutter turned his face up for a moment, giving the Engineer a stony expression.
Sivarek scrunched up his face, discouraged, and then moved towards another table. Doctor Xon was there, and… The boy from the lifeboat was with him?
Brattain was surprised to see him. Already he looked less gaunt, sitting there quietly, now clad in a plain, beige set of coveralls.
Brattain ordered a grilled cheese and hummus sandwich and retrieved a glass of water, then turned to find a seat.
Cruz had seen her now and waved her hand wildly about, smiling. “Hey, Commander,” she said. “Why don’t you come sit with Jesus and the rest of us over here?”
“Alright,” Brattain nodded. “But I want to check in with the Doctor first.”
She approached the table where Doctor Xon and Sivarek sat. There were a number of entrées in front of the doctor and the boy, and it was apparent that he intended the child to sample the foods.
Well, Brattain thought, some kids are picky eaters. I have no idea what they eat in the Colonies, anyway.
The boy held a fork, but made no move to try any of the food. He tapped the fork on the edge of a tray, and his eyes wandered aimlessly.
“I’m surprised to see the boy up and out of bed,” Brattain told Xon. “He’s doing well, Doctor?”
“Yes,” Xon said, “Rehydration was easily accomplished. After that he regained consciousness. Kept trying to get out of bed and said he was hungry, so I thought I’d risk bringing him down here. He seems to be doing alright.”
“What’s his name?” Sivarek asked. “Did he say?”
“Yes,” Xon nodded, “he told me that as well. His name’s Jeremy. Jeremy, say hello to Stefan.”
“Hi, Jeremy,” Sivarek said. The Engineer extended his webbed hand with his palm face-up. “Hey! Give me five! Nice to meet you, dude.”
The boy looked at Sivarek for a moment, but didn’t respond.
“That’s alright,” Sivarek sighed. “No one seems to want me around right now.” He glanced back to where Seutter sat in the corner, engrossed in whatever he was studying on his datapad.
“It was good of you to try, Stefan,” Doctor Xon said. “Seutter needs friends more than most.”
Sivarek sighed. “Just not me, apparently.”
“Some things take time. I’m afraid he’s one of them.” The doctor turned back to the boy, Jeremy, and pointed towards some small cubes of cheese on one of the plates. “What about these? They’re yellow. Do you like yellow, hmm?”
But Jeremy showed no interest. The doctor sighed, and looked around for another dish to offer him.
Meanwhile, Sivarek was digging into his own food. “I don’t know why everyone complains about the food system,” he mumbled, his mouth half-full of food. “These are the best Szechuan eggplant burritos I’ve ever had.”
Brattain noticed that Jeremy was now digging hungrily into the latest dish which Xon had offered him.
The doctor smiled broadly. “Ah,” he said, “the stew. Of course you like the stew!”
“Hey, Commander,” came Cruz’s husky voice. “You gonna sit down? Or you just standing there so that I can look at your pretty ass while I eat?”
“Xue,” Reynard said, chastising her. “Please show a little respect. Commander—Sir—we would be honored if you’d join us.”
Cruz slid aside and patted a spot on the bench next to her. Brattain took a seat.
Once again, she was thankful for Reynard’s professionalism.
There were several other attractive men and women at the table, most with holo-tattoos and piercings, like Cruz. Brattain thought she could even recall their names if she tried.
“Thank you for joining us, Commander,” Reynard said. His clean-cut style seemed out of place amidst the others.
“Well thanks for the invitation. I’m sorry I took so long, I just wanted to check on the doctor and his patient.”
Reynard lowered his voice. “Yes, that poor child. I think it’s cruel to force a kid to live like that. We’ve really got to do something about the gene pool in the Colonies.”
Cruz smiled, “Oh, don’t let the Captain hear you say that.”
“Well,” Reynard said, “The Captain’s an exceptional case, but I don’t always think he sets the right example.”
“Really?” Brattain said. She was surprised that he would bring this up so frankly with her, his XO.
Reynard nodded towards where Sergeant Molokos was getting up to leave, having swiftly consumed his bowl of protein glop. “The Captain spends so much time with that Drone,” Reynard said. “What could they possibly talk about?”
Brattain shrugged. “Martial arts and philosophy, I think.”
Reynard shook his head. “That has to be an awfully one-sided conversation. I didn’t think Drones could even understand the word ‘philosophy.’”
“Me,” Cruz said, “I just wonder if the heavy-worlder genes enlarge all their organs.”
The other crewmen at the table laughed.
Snickering, Cruz winked at Brattain—who felt self-conscious for more than one reason.
It’s a stupid joke, Brattain thought.
But was it Cruz herself who was making her nervous?
The petite pilot’s hair was back to its cobalt blue shade now, with a forelock dangling down over her one eye. The other eye had a nano-tattoo in the corner. It was small, subtle, but animated: a stylized, pulsing red heart.
Focus, Brattain thought. It’s important to set an example here.
“Alright,” she told them, “Whatever our opinions, the Sergeant is a member of this crew. Don’t talk as if he’s a piece of equipment.”
“No,” Reynard said, “She’s right. That was inappropriate.”
The others groaned at Reynard, and someone jokingly whispered ‘suck up,’ but he continued, undaunted. “The point I wanted to make was, although it might seem harmless, that kind of public display weakens our social fabric. The Captain may be making a grave error on that point, despite his good intentions.”
Cruz rolled her eyes, moaned, and turned her head down towards the table. “Oh no, not this crap again.”
“I’m seriou
s,” Reynard continued. “The Psionicists and Engineers are people who devote their minds and bodies to the service of the Republic. They earn their equality. And they’re mentally and intellectually worthy being treated as humans. Drones, on the other hand… Drones are like the warhorses ancient people used to ride into battle. You might come to care for them like a pet, but you can’t make them your equal. It just confuses them and demeans your own humanity.”
Brattain was uncomfortable now. She knew that Reynard’s opinion was certainly not unique; many in the Republic shared his views.
She herself had wondered at a Drone being an officer, and being in charge of the marines on board. But she’d also grown up believing in the Republican principles of equality and freedom.
Her father had certainly been a strong believer. He’d taught her that you could judge someone by their character, by their accomplishments… But not by their origins, or by choices that others had made for them before they were even born.
And what was Reynard getting at? Did he just want confirmation of his own views? Was he trying to see if she was on the Captain’s side?
Or was he assessing her—or testing her?
Suddenly, Cruz leaned over the table and punched Reynard in the shoulder. He winced, surprised.
“Hey, Jesus,” Cruz said, “you hadda go and ruin the mood with more political crap, huh?”
He just shrugged. “Apologies, Commander. Ensign Cruz here would often say I’m too serious.”
“Yeah,” Cruz said. But she shifted in her seat, pushing her hip into Brattain’s own and practically leaning up against her. “Why I am I always hanging out with serious people? Is it just because they’re, like, crazy intense in bed?”
Brattain felt herself flush, and she imagined that she could feel the heat of Cruz’s body as if it was being conducted through the fabric of their touching nanosuits.
I’ve felt so cold, inside and out, for so long now… Part of me doesn’t want her to pull away.
But this is neither the time nor the place…
“Xue,” Reynard said, “why don’t give the Commander your opinion of the ship, as a helmsman and pilot?”
Once again, Reynard has rescued Brattain from potential embarrassment…
“Oh yeah!” Cruz sat up, eyes wide, and smiled at Brattain… Obviously genuinely excited by the topic. “These old, smaller destroyers were built for maneuvering, right? Yamato-class, this baby steers like a hawk seeking prey, zoom and swoop in and… boom! Just gotta put in a word with the Captain, let me really open up the throttle and give the maneuvering thrusters a workout sometime, yeah?”
Brattain smiled back at her.
Cruz’s enthusiasm, she had to admit, was infectious…
19
The search for the Colonial ship from which the boy, Jeremy’s, lifeboat had come continued. The crew were at their normal stations on the bridge.
Brattain looked to the main screen. The space in front of them was largely empty, with only the light of distant stars to break up the velvety blackness.
“This is close to where those pirate attacks have been reported recently,” she told Captain Kane. “There are a few Colony worlds in systems on the edge of the Wasteland, and we have transport routes going through here. Mostly automated convoys.”
Kane rested his chin on his hand, contemplative. “Hmm… We’re also near Valorian space,” he said, “But they’re isolationists, tend to stay away from everyone else. Keep scanning,” he ordered to the Sensor Tech. “There has to be wreckage somewhere… something.”
“Captain, getting some odd readings,” Reynard said, frantically scanning his console. “Positional indicators jumping all over the place. Some kind of massive interference in the astrogation system.”
Suddenly, the ship shook hard enough to jostle Brattain in her seat, and there was a deep rumbling.
The voice of the Engineer, Sivarek, came over the comm. “Captain, the gravity spike’s going crazy. Interference, I think.”
“Not more unscheduled maintenance, Mister Sivarek?” Brattain asked.
“No, Commander,” he answered. “It’s not me this time… Not a problem with our ship at all. I’m sure this is external.”
“What could cause that, Stefan?” The Captain asked, remaining calm.
“Well,” the Engineer answered, “Um, a wormhole formation. Close by. Like, really close by.”
“But we’re too far from a jump point for that, right?” Brattain asked.
“Captain, look!” Reynard pointed towards the main viewscreen.
There was a flicker of light blossoming into a disc of blinding illumination. The light from the far off stars rippled around it…
And something was emerging.
The snout-like prow of a ship… its hull black, slick, almost oily.
“What is that?” Brattain asked.
#
Golan Xon sat on the edge of his desk while the boy, Jeremy, sat in Xon’s own chair, his drawing pad on the Doctor’s desk.
The boy was drawing with his crayons, absorbed, as if in a trance.
What was it that he was scribbling in dark shades? The silhouette of some animal, some sea creature?
No…
Not that, can’t be…
The shape that was emerging on the paper filled Xon with dread.
This is a coincidence, right?
It has to be. This is my own personal Rorschach test.
Surely it has nothing to do with what the boy’s actually seen?
But then came the voice in Xon’s mind. Faint, broken… But getting louder with every word…
Find… Betrayer… is ours…
Abijah…
JUDGMENT.
Xon’s chest seized up, and he felt as if he would be unable to breathe.
“No!” he gasped.
Sliding off the desk, he ran to a cabinet in his examination room. He found a cartridge of neural suppressant—the same kind he’d scolded Seutter for abusing. He fumbled about for a nearby injector, loaded it, and pressed it to his neck.
There was a burning sensation as the drug flowed into Xon’s bloodstream.
His thoughts immediately seemed to be slowed, his brain sluggish. But it was small price to pay if it shielded his mind… If they really were close by…
Jeremy continued to draw with his crayons. By now, the shape he was sketching was very clear. Slick and smooth, black with shiny highlights…
It was actually a quite skillful and accurate rendition of a Templar warship.
“Are they here?” he gasped.
He was surprised when the boy nodded in response.
“Monsters,” Jeremy said flatly. “Momma gone. Monsters.”
#
Back on the bridge, Brattain studied the ominous shape of the strange black ship that hovered in space in front of them.
“No response on any frequency, Sir,” the Comm Officer announced.
Reynard consulted with a sensor tech, and then turned back to the Captain. “Sir, the energy surge has abated, but there’s still a lot of interference with our sensors. From what we can tell, the ship’s density reads more like a lifeform than a vessel. Profile’s inconsistent with any known Colonial or Corporate design.”
Captain Kane nodded grimly. “That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”
“We’re transmitting on a wide range of unsecured channels,” the Comm Officer announced. “Standard message, asking them to announce their intentions.”
Brattain leaned forward in her seat, her heart pounding.
There was something ominous about that great leviathan of a ship just floating there… watching them.
“Sir,” she told Kane, “Do you think they’re responsible for whatever happened to the Colonial ship?”
He turned to her and nodded. “Yes, Commander. And if they are, what we have is an unprecedented, and most likely quite dangerous, situation.”
The rear door to the bridge slid open and the Captain was distracted as he s
aw the Psionicist, Seutter, stride onto the deck. He moved in broad, measured steps, his expression blank and unblinking.
“Graham,” Captain Kane said. “Good. I’d like your advice. I believe you might have some experience with these—”
“We are the ones called Valorian,” Seutter said.
The voice was not his own. It sounded raspy, pained—as if his vocal chords and mouth were being forced to work against their will.
“The Unity speaks through this one.”
“Seutter?” Brattain asked. “What’s going on? Are you able to tell us?”
“You hold that which is ours,” Seutter said.
Brattain met Seutter’s gaze. Those dark eyes were wide open, unblinking—and impossibly cold, as if she were looking into the endless vacuum of space. Beyond him, she could see the menacing black ship, projected on the main viewscreen.
“Captain,” she told Kane, “I think this is their way of announcing their intentions.”
Kane stood, stepped forward, and stared directly into the eyes of the stiff, blank-faced Psionicist. “You are trespassing in Republic space, in clear violation of treaty. And I don’t appreciate you using our Psionicist as your mouthpiece. Release him immediately.”
“He will not be harmed,” the possessed Seutter rasped. “You will render unto us the one who is ours.”
Kane sighed. “Alright, and who would that be?”
“The Abandoner,” Seutter rasped. “Betrayer. He is here. We have felt him.”
Could they mean the boy? Brattain thought. Jeremy?
But why come after him? The black ship had attacked the Colonists, and the boy was the only survivor.
But then… the boy, with his disabilities, had trouble communicating with anyone. Could he really tell anyone about the identity of the attackers? And, by approaching the Musashi, the ones on the black ship would be exposing themselves to a great deal of scrutiny.
“Abandoner? Well that clarifies things,” Brattain said. “Do you have a name? Who exactly are you looking for?”
“Render unto us that which is ours,” Seutter repeated.
Kane shook his head, and held up his hand. “I won’t listen to any demands under these circumstances. Release Seutter, explain clearly what you want… and then we can talk.”
Space Cruiser Musashi: a space opera novel Page 9
