Willful Child, Page 2

  The man spoke. “Lieutenant DeFrank, Buck. Chief engineer and science officer, Guild Number 23167-26, first class, in good standing with the Church of Science.”

  “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,” Hadrian said, nodding. “I understand that you served aboard the AFS Undeniably Exculpable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That is a Contact-class ship, yes?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Or rather, was. Lost during the Misanthari Debate, Year Eleven, in the White Zone.”

  “The risk of ignoring the rules,” Hadrian said.

  “Sir?”

  “Never park in the White Zone.”

  The chief engineer’s brow made a gnarled fist, evincing confusion. Then he said, “I was one of twenty-two survivors, sir.”

  Hadrian nodded. “It would have been unusual, don’t you think, had you numbered among the crew members lost.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, you were lucky, Lieutenant, which I count to be a good thing, especially when it comes to my chief engineer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I prefer survivors. As I’m sure you do, as well.” He smiled and then added, “What do you know? We already have something in common. Very good.”

  Hadrian moved on to the next officer.

  The man before him was Varekan. Back in the twentieth century—long before the Pulse and the Gift of the Benefactors—there had been a spate of extraterrestrial kidnappings, conducted by an as-yet-unidentified alien species, in which humans had been transplanted to a number of suitable planets in some kind of seeding program gone awry. The aliens’ strategy had been flawed from the start, as their human-sampling methods inadvertently selected for loners, misfits, the psychologically imbalanced, and a disproportionate number of long-distance truck drivers. The seeding of one planet, Varek-6, had created a quasi-functional human civilization with only modest genetic tweaks to accommodate higher gravity (1.21), frigid climate, and monthlong nights. The psychological profile of the resulting culture was just within acceptable guidelines for the Affiliation.

  Physically, the man standing before him was short and wide. He was dressed in standard Varekan garb: tanned hide shirt from some native caribou-like ungulate, a collar of horn teeth, baggy hide leggings, felted boots, and a faded black baseball cap. His Space Fleet bars were marked by beadwork, rather nicely done.

  He bore the usual Varekan expression on his broad, flat features: existential angst. Varekans viewed all animation as shameful and embarrassing; considered any displays of emotion as weakness; and held that anything but utter nihilism was a waste of time.

  “Lieutenant Galk, combat specialist,” the man said around something in his mouth that bulged one cheek.

  Hadrian nodded. “I trust you have already examined the combat command cupola, Lieutenant.”

  “No, sir.”

  “No?”

  “I have utmost confidence in its state-of-the-art mundanity, sir.”

  “‘Mundanity’? Is that even a word, Lieutenant?”

  “Its entry in Dictionary of Common Varek, sir, runs to thirty pages.”

  “Thirty pages?”

  “Connotative variations, sir. The Varekan elaborated on Common Terran during their century of isolation, albeit selectively.”

  “Ah, right. The Dark Side of the Dictionary.”

  “Precisely, sir.”

  “Are you well?”

  “Under the circumstances, sir.”

  “Excellent. Welcome aboard, Lieutenant.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  Hadrian moved on to the next officer in line, a woman wearing Affiliation attire with appalling precision, not a crease out of place. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes oversized and intensely blue, posing a nice contrast to her short, dark brown hair, and porcelain skin. “Ah, Adjutant, we meet again.”

  “This surprises you, sir?”

  “I’m not one to invoke the Yeager philosophy of droll understatement, Adjutant.” Hadrian raised his voice slightly, to ensure that all on the bridge could hear him. “I am a captain of the Old School. As you will all soon discover. We are about to set out into the infinite vastness of interstellar space. A place of wonder, of risk. A place fraught with the unknown, with potential enemies lurking in every shadow, every gas cloud, every asteroid field or partial accretion of proto-planetary rubble. Hostile planets, hostile aliens. Hostile aliens on hostile planets. And out there, in that unending cavalcade of danger, I intend to enjoy myself. Am I understood, Adjutant?”

  The woman’s eyes had widened during his speech, a detail that pleased him. “Sir, forgive me. I spoke out of confusion, since you personally interviewed and then selected me from the available adjutant roster on the Ring.”

  “Indeed I did. Now, for the sake of your fellow crew members, do please identify yourself.”

  “Adjutant Lorrin Tighe, chief of security, ACP contact liaison in high standing with the Church of Science, rated to serve all Engage-class vessels of the Terran Space Fleet, such as the Willful Child.”

  “Very good, Adjutant. I look forward to our working together to ensure ongoing cooperation between Terran Space Fleet and the Affiliation. After all, we’re in this bed together, sweaty tangled sheets and all, aren’t we?”

  Those lovely eyes widened even further.

  Smiling, Hadrian stepped over to the next officer, and looked down.

  The first alien species to join the Affiliation, the Belkri averaged a meter in height during their middle stage—a period of somewhere around fifty years when the Belkri were sociable enough (and small enough) to engage with other species. Round, perched on three legs, and sporting six arms—these arms projecting from the middle and spaced evenly around the torso’s circumference, with each arm bearing six joints and hands with six fingers and three thumbs—the creature before him had tilted its eye cluster—atop the spherical body—upward to meet his gaze. Mouth and speech organs could configure as needed and, for sake of the mostly Terran crew, were now formed just below the eye cluster. In a voice like the squeezing of an overinflated beach ball, the Belkri said, “In Terran tongue, I am named Printlip. Medical doctor, surgeon, rank of commander, chief medical officer rated for the following class of Terran vessels: Contact, Engage, Initiate. Belkri exoassignment Cycle One, Initiate.”

  In Printlip’s file, the gender designation was listed as Indeterminate, which, Hadrian now reflected, was probably a blessing, since the alien wore no clothing beyond footwear that resembled Dutch clogs. Its skin was smooth and looked stretched, mauve in color fading to pink at the poles. The eyes—at least a dozen of them and the color of washed-out blood—wavered on their thin stalks like anemones in a tidal pool.

  During the Belkri’s speech it had visibly deflated, and upon its conclusion there was the thin, wheezing sound of reinflation.

  “Doctor,” said Hadrian, “welcome aboard. Are you satisfied with the configuration of sickbay? Are the raised walkways of sufficient height alongside the examination beds, diagnosis feeds, biotracking sensors? Are the analysis pods set to bilingual display? How is the lighting, floor traction, suction drains, decontamination units? Have you met your medics and nurses?”

  “Sir,” Printlip whistled, “sickbay is now fully reconfigured. Raised mobile walkways function as expected and are of sufficient height alongside examination beds, diagnosis feeds, biotracking sensors. Analysis pods are properly set to bilingual displays. Lighting commands responsive. Floor traction optimal. Suction drains functional. Decontamination units within spec range. Medics and nurses are hrrrlelluloop…”

  Hadrian studied the deflated, misshapen sack lying on the floor at his feet. “Excellent,” he said, nodding as he moved on.

  “Lieutenant Jocelyn Sticks, sir. Navigation, helm, screens.”

  “That is a lovely perfume you are wearing, Lieutenant. Do I detect patchouli and frankincense?”

  “Uhm, maybe, sir. I’m like, I don’t know.”

  He smiled at her, studying her round, pre
tty face and expressive eyes. “Is the Willful Child your first off-planet assignment, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. Like, it’s all very exciting. You know? Exciting!”

  “Indeed it is, Helm, indeed it is.” He wondered, briefly as he stepped to the last officer on deck, if his selecting certain bridge officers on the basis of their file photos was perhaps somewhat careless. But then, the task of ship pilots was hardly taxing. Besides, from his position in the command chair, she would have to twist her upper body round to address him. He was looking forward to that.

  The last man snapped a perfect salute and said, “Lieutenant James ‘Jimmy’ Eden, communications. First off-planet posting. Honored to be serving under you, Captain.”

  “I’m sure you are. Thank you, Lieutenant. If I recall from your file, you were in the last Terran Olympics, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir! High-g beach volleyball, sir. We came in fourth.”

  “Well, I can see that kept you in shape.”

  “Indeed sir. I have volunteered for all surface assignments, sir.”

  “So I noted. But as I am sure you understand, we are about to receive combat marines, marking the debut of interservice cooperation in Terran Space Fleet. Also, the role of ship-to-surface communications is essential when we have people on the ground, on a potentially hostile planet. Accordingly, I expect you to be planted in your seat at comms during such excursions. And, in keeping with my desire to assure myself of your readiness in such circumstances, I am double-shifting you on the duty roster for the next seventy-two hours.”

  “Of course, sir!”

  “Now then, best man the phones, eh? We are about to de-lock and get under way.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Comms was always a problematic specialty, as no cadet in their right mind would ever want to end up on a starship as little more than a teleoperator. From Eden’s file, Hadrian knew the man had barely scraped into the Academy on intelligence and aptitude tests. But then, an athlete out of the medals didn’t have much to look forward to in the way of future prospects, much less a career. Jimmy Eden counted himself lucky, no doubt. But the likelihood of assigning the overmuscled, gung-ho, bright-eyed, all-too-handsome-in-that-square-jawed-manly-way officer to the glamour of surface missions—and potentially upstaging Hadrian (who intended to lead every one of those missions and to hell with fleet regulations, brick-brained marines, and all the rest) was as remote as finding an advanced civilization of spacefaring insects in a ship’s bilge dump.

  Striding to his command chair, Hadrian swung round to face his officers and said, “Welcome to the inaugural voyage of the AFS Willful Child. Our ongoing mission is going to be hairy, fraught, and on occasion insanely dangerous, and when it comes to all of that, I’m your man. I mean to get you through it all—no one dies on my watch. Now, to your stations. Sin-Dour, take the science station. Comms, inform Ring Command we’re ready to de-lock.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Helm, prime thrusters. Prepare for decoupling. We’ll smoke later.”

  Buck DeFrank spoke from the engineer station. “Antimatter containment optimal. Surge engines ready, Captain.”

  Hadrian sat down in the command chair and faced the forward viewer. “If anything but optimal, Buck, we’d be spacedust, but thank you.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “No problem,” Hadrian replied. “It’s all very exciting, isn’t it? Don’t worry, we’ll shake things out soon enough, and I look forward to your panicked cries from engineering level.”

  “Panicked cries, sir?”

  Jimmy Eden swung round in his seat at comms. “Ring Command acknowledges, Captain. Good to go.”

  “De-locking complete,” Helm reported.

  Hadrian studied the forward viewer, which presented a colorful wallpaper of a Hawaiian sunset. “Someone turn on the hull cameras, please, Ahead View. Helm, maneuvering thrusters. Take us out.”

  TWO

  Once they were clear of the hangar, Hadrian ordered Comms to enslave a station camera, permitting the bridge crew to watch the Willful Child move serenely away. A fine ship, he mused. The oblate main hull rippled in shifting patterns as the ship’s skin reacted to ambient radiation beyond the station’s screens. The in-system antimatter engine pods yielded a fuzzy discharge from the nozzles, dull yellow in color. The twin railguns were slung low from the hull’s belly, splayed slightly out to the sides, like fuel tanks or enormous missiles. The main FTL T drive was a bulge on the hull between the railguns. Some uncharitable person might describe the ship as looking like a beluga whale with infected udders. But there was word of an upcoming paradigm shift in ship design. Of course, rumors like that were little more than pillow talk for engineers. Still, Hadrian would not be upset to see a whole new range of sleek, swept-back cruisers come off the line, all painted white with little lights blinking and flashing.

  Still, the Willful Child made plain its purpose. Engage class. Exploration and combat. Primarily combat, but of the deep-space, you’re-all-on-your-own variety. So, in blunter terms: Find and Kill! (Of course, only if necessary. Subjugation is even better.) But … Engage class! The most prized ASF command, as far as Hadrian was concerned. And here he was, twenty-seven years old, his first starship, his first venture into space. It all seemed so … unlikely.

  “Captain!” James Jimmy Eden pivoted in his chair, his hair perfectly coiffed and his jaw still square. “Admiral Prim is hailing you.”

  Hadrian rose. “About time. I’ll take it in my office.” He turned to his first officer and studied Sin-Dour for a moment, during which he mentally tore off all her clothing and flung her down onto the deck. He smiled. “You have command.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sin-Dour replied, eyeing him searchingly.

  Still smiling, Hadrian turned to the engineering station. “Buck. Head down to your lair. Make sure we’re ready to get this wagon rolling at my command.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  In his office once again, Hadrian sat and said, “Configure prerecorded animation, Hadrian Attentive 01.”

  He rose from his chair and stepped to one side, watching as his simulacrum materialized, seated at his desk. “Note the usual prompts.”

  The version of him at the desk assumed a stern expression and nodded.

  “Excellent,” said Hadrian. “Now, phase the real me out and open the channel to Admiral Prim.”

  A holographic representation appeared directly opposite the desk, the admiral seated behind his own desk back on the Ring. “Ah, there you are,” the silver-haired man said, gaze fixing on the simulacrum. “I suppose I should be offering you congratulations, Captain, and a rousing send-off, but I can’t. I just can’t.”

  Hadrian watched his doppelgänger nod and say, “I understand, sir.”

  “Completing the Mishmashi Paradox is a three-year problem, even for space-hardened officers. I am not alone in taking this personally, Sawback. I mean to find out how you cheated, even if it takes me the rest of my unnaturally extended life.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The admiral leaned forward. “You did cheat, didn’t you?”

  “No, sir. Cheating is wrong. Cheating is bad. Bad cheating. Bad.”

  While this was going on, the real Hadrian walked to the wall off to the left of the desk and collected the Polker Sniper Belt Rifle from its wall mounts. He dusted the stock, studying the faint claw marks made by the last Polker to own it. He checked the charge and was relieved to find it still flat. Then, taking up the weapon, awkwardly as it was not designed for Terran physiology, he aimed at the admiral’s head.

  Pop. Splat!

  “… will never be repeated,” Lawrence Prim was saying. “The regulations are being rewritten even as I speak. And damn to all the hells the idiotic fool who slipped that fast-track into the command chair. Darwin knows what obsessive psychosis led to that insanity.”

  Plop. Splat!

  “I can’t imagine, sir. But it sounds bad.”

  Hadrian’s brows rose, i
mpressed with the program’s intuitive algorithms. Then his eyes narrowed on his simulacrum.

  Prim was speaking, again. “As for this newfangled automated assignment protocol, well, all I can say, clearly someone’s taken the ‘I’ out of the AI. We’re looking into that, too, so don’t be getting too comfortable with that Engage-class ship, Sawback. If I get my way, you’ll be a damned ensign on an Initiate-class within a month.”

  “I humbly await my mission orders, Admiral,” said the doppelgänger.

  “Shakedown patrol,” Prim snapped. “We’re not risking that ship while it’s under your command. Sector III-B. We have reports of a smuggling operation active in the Blarad System.”

  “Smuggling, sir?”

  “Knockoff apparel of various Terran sports teams.”

  “Sounds serious, sir.”

  “What are you, an idiot? This is two-crew patrol stuff that wouldn’t stretch an in-system black-and-white.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Then why are you smiling, Sawback?”

  “I am delighted to be commanding the Willful Child, Admiral.”

  “Blarad is a crowded system.”

  “I will try not to hit anything I don’t mean to hit, sir.”

  “You’ll hit nothing! Contraband search and that’s all, do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir, the latest blow in our ongoing Jersey War.”

  “What war? You damned fool—”

  The hologram flickered and the doppelgänger frowned and said, “My apologies, Admiral. Transmission difficulties, I’m afraid. New ship and all.”

  “What? I’m barely twenty klicks away!”

  “We’ll iron it out soon enough, sir, I assure you. Oh dear, you seem to be dropping out. Until later, Admiral!”

  The hologram sputtered, audio cutting out—which was probably good since the red-faced admiral was rising from his chair, gesticulating wildly—and then the image vanished with a faint hiss.

  Hadrian returned the sniper rifle to its mounts. He’d lifted it from a marine’s discharge gear crate downside, when serving a week’s assignment as a quartermaster’s aide. A worthy reward for that purgatory. After a moment admiring the strange weapon, he faced his doppelgänger and said, “Don’t even think of trying to incapacitate me and taking over my role on this ship, until such time as I can win my way free and confront you in front of my officers, forcing the lovely Sin-Dour to decide which one of us is real by stripping us naked and weighing our balls. All that, friend, won’t happen, do you understand me?”