Deagth ship quest

  Deagth ship quest

  William Zellmann

  William Zellmann

  Deagth ship quest

  Captain Rog Fan-Jertril, formerly Lieutenant Fan-Jertril, fell into another fit of coughing and staggered against the bulkhead, trying without success to ignore the agony in his chest. He paused to spit a ball of bloody phlegm to the already-foul deck before forcing himself erect.

  Soon, he told himself. Very soon, the Vir Rekesh would be ready for her long sleep, and he would be able to surrender to the endless peace of death.

  Death. He was going to die. He examined his feelings curiously. Why was he not afraid? Why wasn't he curled up in a corner, crying? Or shouting and cursing his cruel fate? Or drunk? Or stoned? Why this clinical calm, this easy acceptance?

  Even six months ago, he knew, the thought of his own death would have at least sent a thrill of cold fear down his back. But that had been before.

  Before, when he was Lieutenant Fan-Jertril, scion of a wealthy family on Raltha, Recent graduate of the Fleet Academy and a year's advanced training that had enabled his family to buy his promotion, and newly assigned to the Battle Cruiser Vir Rekesh. The assignment, coming so close on the heels of the promotion, had strained even his family's resources, but his father had insisted.

  A slight smile crossed his face at a fleeting thought. If he could only tell his father! He was commanding a Battle Cruiser after only six months aboard! If he didn't know the circumstances, Da would probably be impressed.

  The plague broke out shortly after they left a terrestrial planet they had surveyed. When it broke out, no one was too worried. After all, Rekesh had a full medical staff and a completely equipped sickbay with the latest in diagnostic equipment. But people kept getting sick, and sicker, and dying, and the medical staff could not isolate the cause or devise a cure.

  Rog remembered the excitement when Captain To-Ruffin announced his intention to turn on the plague beacon. It meant that they would not be allowed to approach any settled planet and that medical assistance would be limited to help that could be given without going aboard. Sheol, some planets had been known to destroy plague ships on sight! Nevertheless, the senior remaining medical officer insisted and Captain To-Ruffin finally agreed.

  Rog had been at the rear of the room for the Officer's Meeting the Captain convened to explain his decision concerning their next move. They could drive inward for the Empire, but there was no assurance that anyone would be alive when and if they got there — the deaths were mounting rapidly. Then, there was the problem of what would happen even if they got there. The medical staff doubted that, given the rapid progression of the disease, even the facilities on Prime would be able to come up with a cure in time to save anyone aboard. The senior medical officer had recommended that they rig all the fusactors to self-destruct simultaneously.

  However, it’s hard for a captain to order the destruction of his ship. Captain To-Ruffin decided to run her to a system empty even of planets they had recently mapped and put her in a stable solar orbit, in the hope that she could someday be salvaged.

  That was when the first mutiny occurred. A group of officers led by the Operations Officer decided to seize the bridge, and force To-Ruffin to return to the Empire for help. The Captain actually shot the Ops Officer and two others on the bridge, and had the rest confined to the brig. Officers! In the brig! Rog and the rest of the officers had been scandalized. Normally, Officers under discipline are placed under quarters confinement. However, Captain To-Ruffin considered these officers an ongoing threat — after all, they had attempted mutiny. The wardroom had boiled with anger and excitement, and more than a little guilt.

  Regardless, the Captain brought them back here, and assumed a solar orbit. By this time, of course, every man and woman aboard knew they were going to die. Oh, the medical staff kept trying to find a cure, until they became too sick themselves. But everyone knew they had failed.

  That was when the second, really nasty mutiny broke out. They were down to less than a thousand crew — a third her normal strength — and everyone had seen one or more of their mates collapse and die. Some ratings broke the surviving confined officers out of the brig, and demanded that they take them back to the Empire.

  Captain To-Ruffin tried to talk to the crew, to explain that they had no chance of making it back and tell them that they had an obligation to save the ship for the Empire. However, he only managed to convince about half of them. The rest were sure that if they got back to the Empire, the Empire would save them. It was ridiculous of course, but desperation and panic are hard to resist.

  Rog remembered the endless wardroom discussions and arguments, and the horrible feelings when he realized that three of his close friends were among the nearly one third of the remaining crew participating in the mutiny. Loyalists managed to get to the ship’s armory first, but a force of mutineers arrived while they were gathering the hand weapons. Rog would never forget having to fire on Tru Jorkin, a bunkmate, in the pitched battle that followed. He shuddered as he remembered the fighting retreat from the armory. They had rigged explosives to try to destroy the weapons they had to leave behind, but they must have misfired or the mutineers were able to deactivate them. At any rate, both sides had ended up with weapons, though the loyalists had many more than the mutineers. The mutineers, on the other hand, controlled most of the engineering spaces, including the workshops. They immediately began making improvised weapons.

  The mutineers attacked the bridge, demanding that the Captain take them back to the Empire or surrender command to someone who would. That was when Captain To-Ruffin made what Rog considered his fatal mistake.

  The captain invited the leaders of the mutiny onto the bridge under a flag of truce. He made them watch as he destroyed the Astrogator’s console with a laser and a blaster and ordered the ship’s AI to wipe all astrogational files and programming from its memory. Rog shook his head in disgust at the memory.

  Oh, that had effectively ended the mutiny, all right. However, it also destroyed the last bit of hope among the survivors. Even if they found a miracle cure, even if the plague ended, even the dimmest apprentice wiper knew there was no longer any way to return to civilization — any civilization. A certain death penalty had been imposed, and every person aboard knew it.

  Rog was still undecided about whether what followed was worse than the mutiny. Discipline and order collapsed. Rapes became so frequent that Captain Val-Tiken, who assumed command when To-Ruffin died, granted female personnel special permission to carry hand weapons aboard. Later he had to rescind it — too many women were committing suicide, and their weapons falling into the hands of the human predators to which some of the crewmembers had reverted.

  For many, life became a drunken blur. Rog personally knew of some two dozen stills and three drug labs running in various voids and between-hull areas. There were non-stop parties going on constantly — though most of them had an edge of hysteria to them.

  Rog had assumed the captaincy upon the collapse of Captain Jeffer, though the title and position were almost meaningless by that time. Military organization had almost totally disintegrated and anarchy reigned.

  Rog was determined to reassert military authority and organizational lines. He, Lieutenant JG Tor Colm and Ensign Jak Tur-Ker had ruthlessly imposed order. Rog himself was haunted by the memory of the sixteen crewmembers he'd had to personally execute and the several dozen he'd had to order publicly flogged. But Rog knew that rule by force majeure made him no better than a gang boss. So he tried to balance brute force with a sense of mission.

  Over a period of a few weeks, he managed to convince the ninety-three survivors that they still had a vital mission to perform. Captain To-Ruffin had brought them here w
ith the hope that one day Vir Rekesh would be reclaimed by the Empire. They had to make sure that the ship would be salvageable when found. He had convinced them it was their job to make sure that they and their shipmates cashed in their Round Trip Tickets.

  Rog's weary faint smile returned. It had worked. He had managed to give the ever-dwindling number of survivors something to live for. It was up to them to make certain that whoever recovered the ship knew that her crew had died Fleet, and not an undisciplined rabble.

  That mission was almost complete. For weeks, they had scoured the ship for bodies and body parts, carefully labelled them, and collected their ident tags. Now, the bodies were gathered into cargo nets in the hangar bay, which had been decompressed to prevent further decomposition. It had been a nasty job. Some of those bodies were weeks old. Once that grim job was complete, they began preparing Rekesh for her long sleep. All of the survivors moved onto one deck. They carefully shut down systems and machines that were not necessary for the ever-smaller number of survivors, using the ship’s instruction manuals if necessary. They dumped fusactors as their power became unnecessary, and shut down life support systems. They shut down the ship’s hydroponics and atmosphere plants. The air in Rekesh ’s tanks would last long enough for the few people left. As crew people became sicker and died, they took the bodies to the hangar deck and shut down more and more systems. When they were down to two dozen, all sick to some extent, they began the final preparations.

  They began at the very center of the ship, and wedged open every door and hatch. There are a lot of hatches and doors on a ship half a kilometer in diameter, and there were less than half a dozen survivors by the time they had finished. Just in time, Rog knew. The last of them had only a few days left. He staggered to the bridge and began systematically trying to shut down the ship’s AI. The two other survivors went to Engineering, and began shutting down the last of the fusactors, artificial gravity, and life-support systems.

  Coughing sounds heralded the approach of Ensign Jak Tor-Kur even before he rounded the corner of an intersecting corridor, accompanied by Chief Gunner Kantro. The young Ensign looked even worse than the grizzled Chief did. Rog sighed. All of them were approaching the limits of their energy reserves.

  "All done, Captain," Jak reported wearily.

  Rog nodded. "Me, too," he replied. "All right gentlemen. This is your last chance to back out of our pact."

  Jak merely shook his head. "I'm ready, Captain," the Chief replied.

  Rog smiled. "Excellent. I knew I could count on you. All right, gentlemen. It's time to put the Rekesh to sleep. Chief, please take the Port Three Supply Personnel lock. Jak, you've got the Starboard Four Personnel lock. I'll take the Main Bridge lock." With an effort he forced himself erect. "It has been a real privilege to serve with both of you."

  Chief Kantro struggled to attention. "The privilege is mine, sir. And may I add I've never served with a better Captain." His right hand swept into an arm-cracking salute.

  Jak straightened with an effort and rendered a crisp salute. "Thank you, sir. For Everything."

  Rog returned their salutes with a nod. The two men slowly removed their ident tags, and handed them to Rog, who added them to a box he was carrying. The three of them shook hands and walked away silently and painfully. Rog turned to watch Jak totter down the passage and shook his head. Just in time. He hoped Jak would live long enough to carry out his orders.

  Rog wearily carried his box through what seemed to be miles of bloody and blackened passages, stopping to rest several times against a bulkhead before he reached his destination. He had to lean against the airlock door for a moment to gather the strength to begin donning one of the heavy space suits. As he began struggling into it, a timer clicked down and the last active fusactor began shutting itself down. Suddenly the gravity disappeared, and Rog found himself floating in total darkness until the emergency lighting activated. Rog grinned in relief. That fusactor had been his second-to-last worry. He hoped his companions had made it to their respective airlocks. He had no doubt that they would carry out their orders if they lived long enough.

  Free fall made it much easier for Rog to suit up. Finished, he latched back the inner door of the airlock so it would remain open. Entering the lock itself, he swam to the manual control for the outer door of the airlock.

  The lack of gravity made it difficult to operate the manual control's pump, but he finally wedged himself into a position that let him work the pump's handle. After a moment, a line of blackness opened around the edge of the outer door. Rog could not hear the hiss of escaping air, but he could feel it begin to buffet him and see the rime of frost that grew on the door as it slowly swung aside. Finally, it was open, and Rog bounced on the end of his safety tether as millions of cubic meters of air escaped past him.

  Between coughing spasms, Rog found himself grinning. He was bouncing like a child's balloon on a windy day, and it was actually kind of fun!

  Finally, though, the rush of air ceased, and Rog floated on the end of his tether. He pulled himself hand-over hand along the safety line toward the pool of light that was the lock. The batteries powering the emergency lighting would last a few weeks. The utter silence was unnerving as his magnetic boots anchored him inside the airlock. He had not realized how many subliminal sounds and minute vibrations there were in an active spaceship. Especially one as large as Vir Rekesh.

  Now, though, the only sound was his own breathing in the suit. The Rekesh was silent, dead. A derelict without life circling a sun without worlds until someone came to claim her. Rog hoped someone would find her. He didn't like to think of his ship and her dead crew circling this barren sun forever.

  He struggled to a sitting position just inside the airlock and again wondered if the others had also succeeded. He hoped so. It was all they had lived for these last few weeks.

  He just watched the stars for a while, finding calm in their remote coldness. He recorded messages for his family, and wondered if they would ever receive them. Instead of his father, perhaps his message would reach his great-great-great grandnephew.

  Finally, it was time. He reached up and shut the air valve to his suit, and began simply talking, knowing that the message crystal in the arm of his suit would record everything. After a while, he became groggy and his talk became more disconnected, less intelligible as he exhausted his suit's air. His last intelligible comment was that it was a hell of a way to spend his twentieth birthday…

  PART 1

  THE QUEST

  Chapter 1

  It all began when he broke his Admiral’s jaw, though he didn’t know that for a while. Long, weary months under quarters arrest seemed to drag on forever as the court martial preparations ground on and on. Kas Preslin could see the end of his career in the imperial fleet in the eyes of the military lawyers. But through all the gloom, and the despair, and the boredom, he still knew he’d done the right thing.

  The insistent signal of the vidphone dragged him to consciousness, bleary and groaning. Damn. He had done it again. If something didn’t happen soon he was going to turn into a full-fledged alcoholic.

  He staggered to the desk and keyed the phone to receive. He was also careful to key the privacy button. Whoever was calling wasn’t going to see him naked, unshaven and hung over.

  The image on the screen was of an immaculate Fleet Lieutenant Commander. The man looked like a recruiting poster, Kas thought sourly, except for the scowl that radiated disapproval. “Captain Preslin?”

  Who else? Kas wondered, “This is Captain Preslin.” He was surprised by the shakiness in his voice.

  The Lieutenant Commander noticed it too. His expression became even more disapproving. “Captain,” he said brusquely, “You are directed to report to the office of the commander in chief at 1400 hours. Please be prompt.” The image disappeared before Kas could reply. 1400. It was 1125. Not much time to prepare for an audience with the Grand Admiral.

  Kas took a deep breath and expelled it in an explosive s
igh. He considered himself reasonably brave, but he told himself that even the bravest would be nervous if summoned to the office of Grand Admiral Rev Pankin, Commander-In-Chief of the Empire Fleet and one of the most powerful men in the Universe. He hurried to the ‘fresher.

  Kas regarded his reflection in the mirror in the outer office of the commander in chief, searching for any sign of his agitation. The figure that looked back was not impressive. Kas sighed in resignation. He was one of those unfortunates who always manage to look rumpled, even when wearing a new uniform with knife-edge creases. Though his plain, open face was freshly depilated, he was glumly aware that in only an hour or so a hint of blue would begin to creep over his wide features. If he weren’t in uniform, he decided, he could easily pass for a portfront shopkeeper on any one of a thousand planets.

  He was of average height, and he grimaced as the reflection reminded him that his stocky, muscular body was beginning to sag. His centimeter-long black hair failed to conceal the tinges of gray at the temples. Kas closed his eyes resignedly, then forced them open again as he remembered the original purpose of this self-examination. No obvious nervous twitches. Good. He glumly regarded the reflection. He hoped his appearance wasn’t prophetic. In a few minutes, his twenty-six-year career in the Imperial Fleet could end in disgrace, and he could be on his way to becoming the port shopkeeper he so resembled. He shuddered. He clung desperately to the thought that if the grand admiral wanted him out of the fleet, he could simply have allowed Kas’ court martial to continue. No, for some reason Pankin had intervened. He must have something other than disgrace in mind for Kas. He took another deep breath.

  “You may go in, Captain.” The voice of the aide manning the desk behind him made Kas jump involuntarily. Summoning his courage, Kas knocked on the real wood door. The door slid aside, and he entered the office. The man behind the cluttered desk — more real wood — was hardly impressive. Past middle age, he seemed average in height, though broad of shoulder. His salt-and-pepper hair, thinning and trimmed somewhat shorter than the current fashion, did not impress. But when he raised his eyes, his power and authority were unquestionable. Kas felt as though those piercing, steel-gray eyes could see through his uniform and reveal the naked man beneath. He froze at a strict attention.