Space Cruiser Musashi: a space opera novel

by Dean Chalmers

  Cruz just looked up at her, trembling, then released her grip and walked away.

  Reynard approached. He took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress his emotions. “He was a great man,” he said. “A hero.” He turned to Brattain. “Sir, now that the immediate threat is neutralized, I suggest we continue as planned until we’re rescued.”

  Xon moved away, as if unable to bear seeing Kane in this state…

  But Sergeant Molokos continued to stare at his friend and mentor.

  “How long do you estimate? Before rescue, I mean?” Brattain asked Reynard.

  “Could be days,” the Lieutenant responded. “Or weeks.”

  Brattain was numb.

  Kane… He couldn’t be gone, could he?

  I need you!

  You just started teaching me, damn it. You brought me onto your ship, you had the master plan…

  Her paralysis gave way to anger.

  Just like my father.

  Damn heroes, these men… heroes die but I need…

  I still need your guidance.

  And the crew needs you. I’m not the kind of leader you were… Are?

  Please don’t be gone.

  Meanwhile, Molokos stood before Kane. The Drone could not weep; such responses had been engineered out of his kind. But the underlying emotions remained.

  “A broad leaf falls,” he recited. “It faced the wind. No fear.”

  He raised Kane’s katana in a salute.

  Brattain felt strangely moved.

  The Captain was right about Molokos, she thought. Maybe he was right about all of us.

  He could see things no one else could. He—

  “What’s he doing?” Reynard asked.

  Molokos had changed his stance now, gripping the katana with both hands, pointing it towards Kane’s heart.

  “No!” Reynard shouted.

  Before anyone could act, Molokos had buried the blade in Kane’s chest.

  The Captain’s body spasmed, and quickly was stilled.

  Brattain rushed forward—

  But Reynard was ahead of her, jamming the butt of his slug thrower into Molokos’ thick neck. The Drone didn’t even seem to feel it.

  “You stupid bastard Drone!” He shouted. “You goddamned animal! I’ll put you down!”

  Reynard steadied his rifle, pointed it at Molokos’ head at close range.

  Brattain yanked the gun aside, and Doctor Xon interposed himself between Molokos and the weapon.

  “Put the gun down! That’s an order, Lieutenant,” Brattain commanded.

  “Reynard, stop it,” Xon pleaded.

  “That Drone murdered a Republic citizen,” Reynard hissed. “He’s a danger to all of us and—”

  “No, Lieutenant! I’m acting Captain now… and I’m ordering you to stand down!” Brattain placed her palm over the barrel of Reynard’s gun.

  Other crewmembers had come down the ramp now, watching.

  Reynard dropped the gun but he was seething, swearing under his breath.

  “Regulations…” Xon said. He took a deep breath and continued. “Regulations cover the… euthanasia… of personnel in crisis situations.

  Now Reynard whirled on him, stabbing out with his finger. “You don’t have any say here, traitor.”

  Brattain was fighting back tears herself, feeling overwhelmed with emotion.

  But I’m the only one who can keep this under control, she thought. I’m in charge now. I think I understand why Molokos did what he did, and as to Xon… We need him, at least.

  I’ve got to keep us together, keep us working.

  Don’t think, don’t doubt—just act.

  That’s what the Captain would have wanted.

  “Lieutenant,” she explained to Reynard. “Xon is the only doctor here. When we return, he’ll face charges. But until then, we need him. And I need your help to get the crew through this, do you understand?”

  Reynard took a deep breath. “Yessir. I’ll start organizing the salvage. We’ll get the emergency shelters set up.

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s a priority. There are indications that the superstructure of the ship might not be safe. We probably don’t want to stay inside.”

  “Alright,” he said. “Yessir.”

  He turned to leave.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned… It was Xon.

  “We survived,” Xon said. “You survived. That’s what Harry would have wanted. That’s what he fought for. Now you have to get them to safety.”

  “Could the rest of have suffered any sort of permanent damage from that psionic attack?” Brattain asked.

  “I hope not,” Xon answered, “but it’s difficult to tell.”

  “Damage?” came a voice.

  It was Seutter, striding up from behind them. The pathos was gone from his voice. He seemed his old, angry self again. “Does that include Xon’s pet? No brain activity that I can detect there.”

  “Damn it, Graham!” Xon lashed out. “Why do you deliberately provoke people? Is our anger easier to deal with than our grief? Are you so much like your brother?”

  “I was just making an observation,” Seutter replied coldly. “Your little juvenile pet. He’s dead weight. Useless.”

  Pet? Brattain wondered. Then she realized Seutter was referring to the boy Jeremy.

  “Stop it, both of you,” she told them. “No one’s going to hurt Jeremy. The Captain wanted to keep him safe, and so do I.”

  Xon nodded, looking away.

  Seutter strode toward the landing trench below, where the armored bodies of the Valorians were sprawled. Molokos slowly stood, and then moved to follow him.

  “Sergeant,” Xon said. He slowly withdrew the katana from Kane’s body and offered it to the marine. “Trust me, he… he wanted you to have this.”

  Molokos took the blade without a word, simply nodding to Xon, then followed Seutter.

  Brattain’s heart was pounding. She drew in a shaky breath and headed toward the ship.

  By the people, she thought, I hope this was all worth it. The Captain’s sacrifice, the other casualties…

  I just hope the word got out.

  I hope Fleet Command got our signal…

  26

  Capri was the wealthiest residential planet in Republican space. Weather satellites kept it serene and perfect at all times.

  A huge, sprawling villa sat amidst acres of beautifully landscaped woodland... In the center of the magnificent gardens was a marble pavilion, reminiscent of an ancient Greek or Roman temple. The dome of the pavilion was of transparent, tinted plasteel, allowing a view of the perfect blue sky above, dotted with wispy clouds.

  It was here that First Consul H. Gaius Wells held his court.

  The elder politician rested on a hovering couch, studying intelligence reports holo-projected above his head while a young male masseur kneaded his aching legs and feet.

  He would have preferred having a young female to tend him. Perhaps a girl in the unspoiled prime of young womanhood, with ample curves and a bosomy plumpness that was contrary to the current fashion of taut, tight athletic bodies. She might have curling blonde hair, as Katrina had so long ago…

  But such lusts were grotesque in a man as old as he was now. He could no longer consummate such yearnings; and crude physical wants were only a distraction, anyway.

  He had tried to put such desires behind him a long time ago, focusing everything on the single goal of his existence: The protection of the glorious Republic of Coreward Systems—and the perfect realization of the democratic socialist goals which it represented.

  He had dedicated his lifetime to this goal…

  Lifetimes, actually.

  This was not his first identity; he’d been an intelligence officer long before he’d been a politician. He’d been able to forge a new identity, and obtained secret Corporate black-market enhancements that had allowed him to keep going, to keep living long after his body should have broken down.

  And then he’d needed f
urther help to survive…

  Something beyond what even Corporate technocrats could provide…

  Now, a bone-like, spherical device drew black fluid from his heart through a tube of tissue. A second tube fed a whitish fluid in through a port.

  I don’t even know how the treatments work. But Enoch’s gifts have kept me going, at least for a bit longer…

  Hopefully long enough to groom my replacement.

  The Republic needs a man who can act on its behalf without restraint. To violate the principles of democracy, if only to preserve them. That continues to be my burden for now.

  High Censor Gelek stood beside Wells’ couch, delivering political updates to him. The man was physically perfect by current standards, though strangely severe with his close-cropped hair and cold reptilian eyes. He never looked at Wells as he spoke.

  “He obtained that compromising information on Senator Shantil. Remarkable insight, Excellency. I wouldn't have dreamed there'd be—”

  Wells nodded. “Is he going to bury her bill?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. The Colonial Representation Act will never make it out of committee. However, there is one other matter...”

  Wells sensed that bad news was coming. “What is it, Gelek?”

  Gelek took a deep breath before speaking. “A transmission was received a few hours ago from RCS Musashi. They had a violent encounter with the Valorians after responding to a lifeboat beacon.”

  Wells sat up, waving the masseur away. “Why wasn't I informed immediately?”

  Gelek shifted on his feet, nervous. “Excellency, I wouldn't presume to tire you with the matter before taking the basic steps myself. All records of the transmission and distress signal have been eliminated; relevant personnel memory-altered and reassigned. Apparently, however, some of the crew of the Musashi itself survived the encounter, and now have knowledge of—”

  Wells snarled: “Tire me? My primary sources of fatigue are aides who treat me like a doddering old fool. I've got five hundred years of experience in this mind, and it's still sharp as a diamond!”

  Gelek took a step back, bowing in apology. “Terribly sorry, Your Excellency. I have the Valorian Speaker, Enoch, on the real-time. Should I put him through?”

  His longevity treatment was finished for the day. He let Gelek wait for him—enjoying his aide’s discomfort—as he unhooked the tubes from his chest and put on a silken floral kimono.

  “Yes, you may. No more steps are to be taken until I've determined the extent of the damage.”

  Gelek bowed. “Yes, Excellency.”

  Gelek strode out of the pavilion, and in his place a hologram appeared, wavering for a second before becoming solid…

  It was a giant in veined, bony armor, with an oily faceplate that peered down at Wells.

  Enoch.

  But all of them look the same to me, really…

  Wells raised his palm in a welcoming gesture. “Greetings, my friend. I've been informed of an incident—”

  The Valorian’s voice was a deathly rasp. “They have given succor to the Betrayer, Abijah, who is rightly damned. The Templars Lamech, Milcah, and Seth have gone to God. The infidels wait for judgement and the wrath of Heaven is fire.”

  Damn them and their religious fervor… They might speak plainly for once, instead of always sounding like they were quoting ancient scripture.

  Wells shook his head. “You'll do nothing without my sanction. I won't have you ruin everything with an impulsive act.”

  Enoch was unmoved. “You will render to us what is ours.”

  Wells sighed. This was going to require some finesse on his part, in order to keep the matter from blowing up into a scandal that could compromise everything he’d been working for.

  “Very well,” he told the Valorian, “but I will deal with my people in my way. The arrangement must be protected. Now, tell me exactly what has happened...”

  27

  The massive RCS flagship Mars glided majestically through the stars like a sleek shark...

  Even the bridge of the flagship was elegantly beautiful. The control stations with large, comfortable nanofoam upholstered seats were set wide apart, and a wrap-around holographic projection seemed to immerse the whole of the bridge in the stars.

  The lighting was subdued; there were cameras everywhere, and the crew knew that their exploits might be edited and broadcast to every corner of the Republic. They were paragons, role models, objects of hero-worship and sexual desire…

  And Captain Wesley Fitzgerald liked it that way. He’d grown up being told that all eyes were on him, that the Republic depended on him… And through his own hard work and courage, he had taken advantage of every opportunity that had come his way.

  But now, Wesley sat impatiently in his throne-like captain's chair.

  They were sitting dead still in space, waiting to take on a passenger. Someone influential, probably.

  But why use the flagship as a simple transport? And why all the secrecy?

  The rest of the main bridge crew were off-duty, leaving only the B-shift personnel and some trainees… And Wesley, who’d been forced to wait.

  He’d actually been looking forward to some off-duty time for once. His new XO, Lawan Volkov, had been challenging at first, cold to him. Perhaps testing if their personal career ambitions were compatible?

  But when he’d invited the tall, crimson-haired and cat-eared Commander into his bed, she’d accepted… And once their mating had begun, he’d shown that he could maintain control, while allowing for the needs of his subordinates. Their coupling had been a fierce animal dance of desire, and she had submitted to him in the end, growling her surrender as he forcefully mated her on the sweat-slick synthsilk sheets.

  He knew that the cameras had recorded it all, and he hoped that their tryst would be broadcast and streamed across the Republic. Even in this enlightened time, nothing interested the public more than sex and violence. And with their Corporate enemies being quiet as of late, there had been precious little of the latter recently.

  I wanted to ask Lieutenants Silva and Akong to an orgy, perhaps some of the others… And I’ve yet to demonstrate my skills at pleasing other males. I can’t allow myself to be thought of as some purely heterosexual, erotically retarded throwback…

  The Frattera family is looking at me as a possible match for their daughter, and I’d like another chance to show off my body and my versatile love-skills.

  I wasted too much time courting Liz, insecure and prudish as she was. Need to make up for lost time now.

  But instead, he was stuck waiting for an unknown passenger to board; he’d only been given the vaguest ETA. But if it was a VIP, he needed to be ready, on the bridge and in control.

  But the wait was beginning to irk him.

  He accessed the comm: “Docking bay 4. Sergeant, this is Captain Fitzgerald. What's the status of that docking?”

  The Sergeant on duty responded, “Docking completed, Sir. Passenger is en route to the bridge.”

  They were already onboard? What?

  “And you didn't inform me?”

  The Sergeant replied, apologetically, “I was ordered not to, Sir.”

  “Ordered?”

  The bridge’s main doors slid open and a cloaked figure entered.

  Wesley rose from his chair but, before anyone could speak, the figure pulled back its hood…

  The elderly patrician was immediately recognizable to Wesley—

  First Consul Wells.

  The First Consul nodded a greeting. “Apologies for the secrecy, Captain, but a very sensitive matter has arisen. I shall be taking command of the Mars for this assignment, though I would appreciate this being kept on a need-to-know basis, hmm?”

  In command?

  Wesley’s first reaction was to take this as an insult, a seizure of power but…

  No.

  The First Consul would still need him to lead his crew and captain the ship. Wells would be giving out the orders, but Wesley would exe
cute them…

  This was a tremendous opportunity to impress one of the most powerful men in the Republic. Even if the mission was secret, and didn’t end up on the broadcasts…

  “Yessir,” Wesley responded, saluting. “If I may ask, what's the nature of our mission?”

  Wells merely sighed. “We have a problem to eliminate...”

  28

  Sivarek and Xon examined the remains of the Valorian ship.

  Sivarek had expected to find twisted metal and hull plating, the bulky skeleton of a small starship…

  But what remained was mostly a large black puddle of some kind of nano-ooze. Only a small, skeletal frame of strange gray, bony material remained standing in the puddle; the frame itself was much smaller than the ship had been when intact.

  I thought that I knew starships, that I could feel some kinship with any machine, Sivarek thought.

  But I don’t even know what this thing is… Or was.

  “So, you're saying it's... dead?” he asked Xon. “What about the crew?”

  “Those three Templars were the entire crew,” the doctor said. “They don’t need more for a ship of this size. Valorian ships are symbiotic with the Templar warriors that pilot them. And this piece here—this skeleton, if you will—is the key.” He gestured towards the gray framework.

  Sivarek's cyborg eyes scanned across the EM spectrum...

  Nothing.

  “I can't get any recognizable readings. What's it, um… made of, anyway?”

  Xon shrugged. “I don't know; I’m not a Templar. I doubt they really understand it, either. To them, this technology is a gift from God.”

  Sivarek placed a filament-webbed hand onto the frame. Perplexed, he tried the other one as well.

  I have no idea what this is. The Engineer’s Guild never taught me—even they must not even have knowledge of such materials.

  “How can they possibly make this?” he asked.

  Xon closed his eyes and recited: "And when the world had become too corrupt, those faithful whom God had blessed with his sight left in their Ark, The Valor. Returning to distant Eden, they found the lost weapons of Angels..."