Death of a Starship Read online

The nöosphere showed him the requested zoning overlay for the Sixth Wharf. He toggled for historical use. And there it was, the godown four buildings west of The Newt Trap. It was built on top of an old dry dock.

  Pearl was sitting in a dry dock. A real one, the original kind, not the metaphorical sense of the word as applied to a Level Three ship maintenance facility. A dry dock, at that, which had just flooded.

  So...he powered up the gravimetrics, an inversion of the artificial gravity systems that managed inertia during space maneuvers and doubled as a taxi system under g force. That gave him slight positive buoyancy. He then applied one half of one percent thrust, portside reaction clusters, parallel to gravity plane only. That would shift the hull toward the breach in the foundation wall. Locks, he thought they might called. There was a lot of debris floating in that water, judging from the camera feed. The boardwalk street must have collapsed when those locks opened.

  He powered up. Pearl rocked. Something groaned as whatever had secured her pulled loose. On the viewscreen, water boiled and steamed in response to the thrusters. He wasn’t doing the building any favors, but at least he wasn’t blowing it sky-high.

  Albrecht steered the reaction clusters on dead minimum power, moving the boat toward open water outside the locks. And this, of course, was how they’d gotten in here, he realized. Landed it somewhere out in the swamps, beyond approach control’s oversight, then steered or towed it through the waterways and on into the dock. Which probably already had a superstructure framed over it to hide Jenny’s Little Pearl. Do the whole operation late on a Saturday night, close the locks, drain the dry dock and bring in enough bracing and fill to hold up the floor above, finish the building, secure and power down the ship – a secret hiding place, physically safe, with its own built-in escape mechanism.

  Much simpler than shutting down approach control, as he’d first theorized. Damned clever, in fact. But then whoever had been maintaining this thing had been a little too hard-nosed among the watermen, until the locals’ hatred had finally trumped their natural secretiveness.

  All his screens lit up. The boat was now riding low in open water, out in sunlight. Albrecht opened the viewport shields as well, but all that did was let in the light.

  From the hull cameras, he had several odd-angled views of the docks. There was a hell of a ruckus going on out there. A riot, really. He spotted Public Safety troopers in ballistic armor, water sailors swinging tools and hooks, and a whole lot of ordinary people fighting it out. Pearl’s sensors helpfully highlighted several knots of people in chameleon suits. That would be whoever had tried to break into his hull, he figured. A few people were shooting at him, but there was nothing in that crowd which would make a dent in an atmosphere-rated hull.

  But he couldn’t light up his drives out here, either. He’d cook several dozen people minimum, and possibly set fire to the docks. All of them. So Albrecht upped his reaction cluster power a few points and steered for open water, ignoring the shuddering as he ran down slow-moving waterboats.

  In a few minutes, he’d have enough clearance to fire off his drives and lift out of this damned gravity well. Assuming approach control didn’t call down an orbital interdiction strike or something equally drastic. Once he was in orbit, there would be new problems, but a one-horse planet like Halfsummer wouldn’t have much in the way of gunboats with which to run down miscreants like himself.

  He hoped.

  ‡

  Golliwog: Halfsummer Solar Space

  Dr. Yee found him a few hours after the ship emerged from c-transition. Golliwog had been violently sick upon returning to realspace, and too weak since to clean his spew.

  She looked around his cabin briefly, then stared into his misery. “It doesn’t affect human beings, you know.”

  “Not human,” Golliwog croaked. “Bione.” His systems all checked normal. He was pretty sure a medical scan would show his physiology within baseline tolerances. That the inside of his mind could be this disrupted frightened him.

  “Of course. It doesn’t affect biones, either.” Dr. Yee’s expression softened slightly, for a moment. “The universe is a dangerous place. Dangerous places sometimes call for dangerous people. Which leads me to wonder how suitable you really are, if you can lie there groaning.”

  “Ma’am.” Golliwog reached for his straps.

  “You left me a note.”

  “I did?” He tried to remember doing that.

  “I assume it was you. You appeared to sign it.”

  “Appeared, ma’am?”

  “Do you remember anything about the c-transition, Golliwog?”

  “Colors,” he blurted.

  “Colors?”

  Golliwog found his feet, towering two heads taller than the woman who held his life at her word. “Colors, ma’am.”

  “No one remembers c-transit. Ever. It’s widely known to be an instantaneous process, relative to one’s personal timeline. But strangely enough, I believe you.”

  He wiped the spew off the front of his shipsuit. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said in a very quiet voice. The world was much stranger than even he had imagined.

  Yee waited until Golliwog was finished cleaning himself before touching his elbow. “I want to show you something.”

  “Ma’am.”

  He followed her into the passageway, which seemed oddly spacious for some reason Golliwog couldn’t quite parse out. They walked forward a few meters, and into her cabin. She waved him to her workstation.

  Her dataslate’s screen was furrowed, plowed like a muddy field, with a note. It read, “WOKE DURING C-TRNST TRIED TO REACH YOU - G.”

  “I don’t know anyone on this ship who would have thought to enter my cabin,” Yee said. “It’s widely viewed to be a terminal experience. Perceptive crew, these sailors. You, however, possess a combination of naïveté and familiarity sufficient to take that risk.

  “I am further at loss to explain how someone even with your powers and skills could carve cultured diamond lattice. That would ordinarily require industrial machine tools.” Golliwog realized Yee was nervous – he’d never seen her rattle on quite like this. She continued: “And the furrowing effect, as if the diamond had been liquid. This...” Yee tapped the slate, “is why I believe you.” She leaned in close, her breath hot against the bottom of his chin. “How, Golliwog? How?”

  “I...I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t remember.”

  “It’s important. Very important. I suggest you consider remembering. When we are done with our business here in Halfsummer, we shall investigate this most thoroughly.”

  Golliwog shrank inside. “Investigate” to Dr. Yee meant going back inside the world of labs and clinics and operating rooms. Possibly for the rest of his life. Which might not be long at all.

  The unfamiliar seed of protest lodged in his heart. Golliwog was smart enough to say nothing.

  “As to our business here on Halfsummer, I expect to be updated shortly on local conditions. You should spend some time in the ship’s gym, as we may soon be transferring to a fast boat.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Golliwog saluted and left. A workout would give him time to think and burn away some of this newfound fear and anger.

  ‡

  Later, Golliwog watched a virteo in the ship’s tiny closet of a training room. It was a roughcut of various security feeds and system control records, documenting the whys and hows of starship disappearances – hijackings and insurance scams for the most part.

  He knew his combat ship types, but civilian vessels were a blur to Golliwog. All the talk of switching keel numbers, hacking transponders and IFF codes was logical enough, but it wasn’t sinking in very well.

  People do wrong, Golliwog thought. That idea had never made sense to him back on Powell station. There were attackers and defenders, people to be supported and people to be eliminated. That one might deliberately violate a regulation had always seemed something between stupid and suicidal, especially on a ship or station.

  But he th
ought he was beginning to understand wrong. Breaking ranks. Running away. Ignoring orders.

  He was afraid of what would be done to him, because he’d damaged Dr. Yee’s slate.

  Maybe those people who stole starships were afraid, too. Was fear the basis of wrongdoing?

  Golliwog was fairly certain that someone somewhere understood this question, but it wasn’t him. Then the virteo caught his attention again, with an image of ragged men in ragged shipsuits being slammed against a bulkhead by a squad of Marines in combat armor. Some of the slammings looked fatal to Golliwog’s practiced eye. Not that he needed the power assist of combat armor to do that to someone.

  “...Black Flag, routed from a hideout in the belt of the Feodora system,” said the narrator. “These criminals proclaim a political agenda, but financial gain is very clearly their highest priority. In the past five baseline years, the Black Flag has executed over two thousand innocent...”

  His attention drifted again. Hiding in a belt. What could a Golliwog do on his own in an asteroid belt? Not much. But those men had stolen ships, protected themselves.

  No matter, he told himself. It was an impossible thought. Dr. Yee was his controller, and thus she would remain.

  But what could someone who walked during c-transition do to a ship?

  He folded that thought away along with his fear, and watched a discussion of dark beacons and c-transition navigational diversions on the virteo.

  ‡

  Menard: Halfsummer Solar Space

  CPO Kewitt woke the Chor Episcopos from his doze in the ward room.

  “Sir,” said the old man without a trace of irony. “You’ve a priority message in the comm queue, sir. From His Grace. The Bishop of Halfsummer, sir.”

  Menard’s eyes ached with sleep and the pressure of blood where his face had been pressed against his dataslate. “Fine,” he said, stifling a yawn. His breath smelled like stale coffee. Only one cure for that – more coffee. “I’ll look at it immediately.”

  “Can I get you some coffee, sir?” Kewitt asked.

  “That’s alright, Chief. I’ll fetch it myself.” Menard stood, wobbled slightly, then made it to the little coffeemaker. It was still percolating. Percolating again? How long had he been asleep?

  “Very well, sir.” The elderly CPO left. Menard got new coffee, sat down, tried to see if the angel’s red, stabbing fingernail had damaged his dataslate. Surely he hadn’t dreamt that? Oh Lord, he prayed, preserve me from my own fears.

  Fear was perhaps a greater enemy of faith than superstition, after all.

  Message. From the bishop. Menard squinted at the timestamp on the slate. He’d only sent his message about four hours previously. Allowing for lightspeed lag from the outer system, that meant that the bishop, or someone on his staff, had responded almost instantly. He called it up and read.

  ‡

  To: Chor. Ep. J. Menard/St. Gaatha/In Transit

  Fr: Diocesan Offices/Gryphon Landing/Halfsummer

  Re: URGENT re Your inbound message

  Chor Episcopos –

  I pray for Your Reverence’s blessing and beg forgiveness for this hasty, too familiar correspondence. Speed seemed to be of superior virtue to etiquette in this matter, given the content of your recent message, specifically its reference to a starship known as Jenny’s Diamond Bright.

  A major incident broke out two days ago along the water docks here in Gryphon Landing. In a peculiar coincidence, a boat from the ship you named in your message seems to have been involved. The local authorities permitted the ship to make an illegal departure rather than engage it on the ground in an inhabited area. The Imperial Resident has ordered orbital defenses to intercept the wayward boat. Our poor solar system’s one Naval Reserve light cruiser is currently in the process of being deployed to that end.

  His Grace advises that if you have an interest in this Jenny’s Diamond Bright you might wish to put whatever influence you have to bear toward breaking off the current pursuit. His Grace further offered several colorful metaphors regarding the chances of the rogue pilot surviving the intercept.

  I hope this letter finds you in health.

  – The Priest Enxo Danel, Amanuensis to His Grace the Bishop of Halfsummer

  ‡

  Saints and martyrs, thought Menard. A ship had finally come back from the dead. Or at least a ship’s boat. Maybe Sister Pelias’ K-M analyses were paying off. It was certainly an anomalous event, whatever the likelihood that there was to be xenic influence somewhere at the heart of it.

  Menard shivered. And then there was the angel’s interest in Jenny’s Diamond Bright. If “interest” was the appropriate term for the sort of fatal intensity usually associated with being an angel’s focus of attention.

  He couldn’t allow that boat to be overhauled and destroyed. “Currently in the process of being deployed” was vague but ominous. Menard flipped the dataslate to ship’s comm and buzzed McNally.

  “I’ll be right in there, Chor Episcopos.” The lieutenant was as good as his word, making it to the ward room a minute or so later. He looked crisp but slightly hurried as he stepped up to Menard’s station chair and visibly suppressed a salute. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Do we have any authority here in the Halfsummer system, Ken?”

  McNally’s look became a stare. “Chor Episcopos?”

  Menard sighed. “Do we have any authority here? Practical authority, to intervene in an impending military action by the locals?”

  “Uh...no. Strictly speaking, no. Sir.”

  That wasn’t the first such opening Menard had ever heard in an official conversation. He caught the toss. “And not so strictly speaking?”

  “Well...St. Gaatha’s a fast courier. Not a warship as such. But all vessels of the Church Militant are armed, sir. For the greater glory and to be of full service to the Patriarch. According to our files, the only armed vessel stationed here is a pre-Imperial light cruiser with a reserve crew. She outguns us by about a hundred gigawatt/seconds of nominal firepower, but our weapon systems have a century’s worth of engineering improvements, and much better range.”

  “So that’s authority through superior firepower.”

  “Yes, sir. Unfortunately we’re still about fifty transit hours from being in effective reach of any action occurring in Halfsummer planetary space. We do of course have the moral authority of the Church, especially with Your Reverence’s presence here.” McNally pitched his voice down. “I assume the Bishop of Halfsummer would be in accordance with any actions we might take within his diocese, of course.”

  “Of course,” murmured Menard, fascinated. McNally had all the makings of a politician. He’d already realized that the lieutenant was more than just another Church Militant missilehead, but even so, it was a new side to the man’s character.

  McNally held up two fingers. “Authority through force, authority through moral suasion.” He lifted a third. “We also have authority through misdirection.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re not a civilian ship. We don’t dump our files out to information auction when we hit the system. Some of them, yes. But not en masse. So you can send a message to the Imperial Resident or the Naval Reserve commander asserting authority over the fugitive ship. No one will be able to contradict you, since St. Gaatha’s systems have the most current information in Halfsummer space. Only we know the truth. I assume this regards the Jenny’s Little Pearl, yes?”

  “Yes...” Menard was still processing the concept of authority through misdirection.

  “Excellent. Tell them you’ve got an Edict of Attainder against the vessel and its crew. The Bishop can manage the local arguments if you’re using the authority of the Prime See.”

  “That would absolutely constitute bearing false witness,” said Menard in a faint voice.

  “Not if you swear one out. This is a Church courier, sir. We have a Patriarchal Seal in our ship’s locker. For just such emergencies. There’s a procedure in Church Milita
nt regulations for the Hierarch on the scene to swear out an Edict by proxy. That would be you, sir. As long as the Bishop endorses it, the Edict will be valid here in system. If there’s a challenge, the canon lawyers can argue about it later back at the Prime See. You might wind up in Ecclesiastical Court someday, but meanwhile, you’ve asserted legitimate authority in pursuit of the mission assigned you by the Patriarch. Which St. Gaatha can back with force of arms, sir.”

  “You’re a dangerous man, Lieutenant McNally,” Menard said after some thought. He needed that boat. He needed that pilot. “I predict you’ll go far.”

  McNally bowed his head. “Perhaps, sir. I have been counseled in the past on my need for humility.”

  “Park the humility ‘til we’re done pushing around the locals, Ken.”

  “In that case, sir, you might want to commence your misdirection with an immediate transmission. We’re still over ninety light-minutes from Halfsummer planetary. You’ll want your Edict there as soon as possible. I can assist you with the Seal and other formalities after the fact.”

  “Bless you, my son,” said Menard.

  “Thank you, Chor Episcopos. I live to serve.”

  “As do we all.”

  ‡

  Albrecht: Halfsummer Orbital Space

  “Get off my ass!” Albrecht screamed. It wouldn’t do much good, but it made him feel better. The main screen plotted the merciless hours of his demise.

  He’d spent the better part of two days in a hyperbolic orbit, avoiding defense satellite footprints, bolting down the various bits of equipment which had broken loose during his departure from beneath the soil of Gryphon Landing, and reprogramming the boat’s systems to respond to him. There had been a variety of threats and entreaties via comm, both of which Albrecht had ignored in equal measure. The lightly armed orbit hoppers which provided screen defenses to Halfsummer Station didn’t have the range or speed to catch a ship’s boat powered for system-wide operations.

  All he had to do was avoid them.

  But now the locals had scraped up a God-damned Naval Reserve light cruiser so old it probably burned fossil fuel. The beast had lurched into action from Halfsummer Station about forty minutes previously, presumably after shaking off a few tons of rust.