Dana Cartwright Mission 2: Lancer (10 page)

“Macao’s right, of course…what am I doing here?” Then, she had to laugh. “SSID? Me?” She scoffed, “No, sir. I’m not with SSID. I have too many…entanglements.”
 

However, Colonel Xalier’s offer of a post with SSID at Scanlos echoed in her mind.
Perhaps they’re testing me? And perhaps the Captain is sensing that telepathically?

That made sense.

A flood of melancholy changed her amusement to a frown. “Guess I better get some coffee and head over to the bridge. Don’t want to be late…”

The lights came back on full when she stood and crossed to the exit doors.

The Captain appeared pensive, and the other Main Bridge officers were noticeably subdued when Dana arrived at 0958 — all of two minutes early. She relieved Mister Billings and busied herself with reviewing all the fleet updates from the last year, verifying the work had been completed and inspected.
 

Big L
had weathered several storms since the last retrofit, and desperately needed a costly, major overhaul. So many of the systems were obsolete. She’d seen her days during the war with the Imperials, was even considered top-of-the-line, back then. Now, however, the Blade Class ambassadorial shuttle actually had newer technology and design features.

No wonder
Lancer
was headed to ‘moth balls’ as Yeoman Mackenna put it.

A series of checks on
Lancer
’s computer circuitry and the memory core showed a good deal of meteor storm related disruptions and damage. Sector Eleven-Alpha Quad, near the outer colonies, might throw a few more at them.
 

Big L
needed a lot of work. Dana rolled up her sleeves, starting with some file reorganization. Her predecessor’s method just didn’t work very well. In addition, she created a list of systems with issues, and drafted work orders for the department. It was all very routine and boring — the kind of thing the enlistment officers failed to mention when enticing techs into the fold. Some days at base the only excitement you would have was the obnoxious blare of the horn signaling shift over.

For more fun and excitement, she would open the Groomsmen file the moment shift ended.

The Captain had other plans.

Macao looked grim. He followed her off the Main Bridge and into the lift when her replacement arrived. Once the doors shut, he ordered, “Deck Six.”
 

As the lift descended, he turned to her. “We have to talk. Take a relief break, and then join me on the shuttle deck in fifteen.” Macao turned away with the fiery color of his face almost mirroring the color of his hair.

“I’m fine,” she responded, deciding to forego the trip to her quarters to freshen up.

“Very well,” he changed their destination to the hangar deck.

The lift ride was worse than grad day at the Academy, and seemed to last twice as long. Macao didn’t say another word and made no attempt to cover his demeanor.

Chief Gordon and five security officers were at the main shuttle deck entry. The enlisted men were well-armed.

The Captain brushed past them and, with a hand signal, indicated to Gordie they should let Dana pass.

She took in a few of their faces with a cursory glance, sensed a jumble of emotions, but didn’t miss a stride as the doors slid open for her and the Captain, closing behind them.

The sound of the lock mechanism echoed throughout the tomb-like bay. A single bank of lights illumined the walkway between two parked minis — the little seven passenger shuttles
Lancer
had for away missions — and
Trader One
. The Captain led to a position about halfway between, out of line of sight from the bay entry doors. There he stopped and turned on her.

“Mister Cartwright, we have a problem.”

He had that same worried look she’d noted earlier while on the Bridge, and she sensed he was struggling with something he couldn’t bring himself to discuss with anyone else — perhaps not even with Jay Gordon.

“There’s something very wrong upstairs,” the Captain began.
 

She thought immediately of a sarcastic comment, but dared not voice it. “Sir?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t picked up on it? I sense resentment over your appointment to
Lancer
; a reaction that extends far beyond what a ‘noob’ should engender.”

Dana chuckled at the term, since she was hardly a newbie or rookie. “It’s only been a day, sir.”

“No,” he countered, “this is stronger than I expected. Something that runs much deeper. I sensed it first at the briefing, but shrugged it off. Just now, before the shift change, I felt it, though I could not pinpoint the source. Have you some previous relationship with anyone on the command team?”

Dana shook her head, “No, sir.”

He frowned, “Could someone know your mentor?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I hadn’t thought of that. They’re all veterans. The possibility exists. Or, perhaps, someone knew DOC Cartwright.”
 

The Captain nodded, “I’ll need your full co-operation.”

“Yes, sir, tell me what it is you have in mind.”

“First, take off the N-link, and see if you can detect anything specific. Use your…”

Dana blinked, “Are you authorizing the use of my empath training?”

He nodded. “Secondly, revise the duty roster. Schedule Mister Billings to all your Main Bridge shifts. Then, unpredictably, make brief appearances to confer with me for some minor item, perhaps seeking an authorization or the like. I will carefully observe and note who is on duty and any reactions.”

Dana hated to contradict, but suggested, “I could just work from auxiliary control and solve the problem.”

He vetoed the idea. “Negative. I want you on the mission…assuming you meet the weapons competency requirement and…” He let the thought go without finishing. “This matter must be resolved. We’ll try this experiment. Shouldn’t take me too long to uncover the culprit, and then I will deal with it.”

He nodded in dismissal. “Send Gordie in as you leave, please.”

“Mister Gordon, aye, sir,” Dana responded crisply, nodding before turning away.

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright.”

She sighed once out of his hearing, and stepped through the hatch. “The Captain would see you, Mister Gordon,” she advised, delivering the request and then heading to her quarters for a few hours of sleep before her rescheduled ‘orientation’ with Yeoman Warren.
 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The orientation, which Yeoman Warren insisted was so critical, turned out to be a lecture and review of Captain Macao’s directives since his appointment, many of which were just a rehash of standardized Star Service operational procedures and customs. Others covered such simple things as seating and etiquette at formal and informal gatherings in the officers’ galley, lounge, and Captain’s dining room.
 

Dana signed off as having read them — actually having memorized them already — and handed back the padlet, deciding her own course.
 

“Yeoman Warren, I need no one to transcribe my log entries. I am perfectly capable of doing that myself.”

“Sir…it’s my job,” Warren reminded, “and you just agreed to the protocol.”

“I did not agree; I did confirm I’d read it.”

The Yeoman didn’t budge.

Dana decided then and there, “Very well…I will have my daily log dictation available at 0600 hours. You may transcribe at your leisure and submit to the archives as required, to meet the captain’s directives. You are authorized to relay and receive any official messages pertaining to my shipboard functions as C-O-C, but shall have no rights whatsoever to handle, receive, or in any way deal with my personal correspondence.”

Warren pointed to the padlets she’d brought, “Mister Cartwright, Doctor Patel reminds you must have a physical exam before the mission.”

Dana protested, “I just had one at Four. Can’t he call it up?”

“I am not authorized to advise you on such matters, Mister Cartwright. Doctor Patel indicated you may drop by any time, no appointment necessary.”

With a scowl upon her face, Dana pointed toward the door and called, “Dismissed.”
 

As the young woman left, a male yeoman arrived, bearing a bundle.

“Ah! Good! Uniforms that fit!” Dana tore into the package. Under the first red shirt was a long-stemmed, red rose with a note of apology that it had taken so long. There was no signature, but it needed none.

“Nice touch, Mackenna,” she muttered, as she changed into the new, size X-small top.

“Like a glove! What a difference!”

The pants fit perfectly, as well. Dana’s confidence level increased several notches.
 

Bridge shift began in seventeen minutes and, though Manning was scheduled to take the next watch and she was scheduled off, she wanted to pop in, as the Captain had requested, before the shift changed.

While on the lift, she removed the N-link from about her neck, sliding it into a hidden pocket. Without it against her skin, she sensed a flood of energy and emotions, even before stepping off the lift.

Unfortunately, Macao was not on the Main Bridge. It wasn’t a wasted trip, however. She got what she’d come for and more. Every eye focused upon her cleavage. Maybe the cut of the new uniform top revealed a bit too much.
 

Next order, high-neck tunics
, she decided.

It took all her Eridani training to calm down before heading to the firing range for an accuracy rating.

The range took up a good portion of the deck below engineering, utilizing a virtual reality targeting system, so no actual projectiles were necessary. The range master, a robo-droid tub, very much like those back on Earth used for security, demanded she open a new file, and required an iris scan because of her mismatched eyes, to prove her identity. Though she bristled every time one was required, there appeared to be no way around it.

Since this was her first visit, she choose a hand weapon, the standard Star Service pistol-style laser. While the range master droid retrieved one from the weapons storage area, she took a long look around.
 

No cobwebs down here.
 
The place must get a lot of use.
Upon the walls were the names of
Lancer
’s marksmen.
 
She guessed a number were security officers in Jay Gordon’s team.
 
Sam Ehrmann’s name was up there at the very top, with a perfect 100.
 
The MAT-SYS Chief certainly deserved to boast.
 

After scoring an impressive ninety-eight out of a possible perfect hundred on the firing range, Dana had the computer forward the results to the Captain for review. The range master inserted her name on the list, below Ehrmann’s. The wall of fame — or shame, as they had called it at academy, since if your name wasn’t there, you should be ashamed — updated, listing her as number two.

“With a bit more practice, I might tie his record,” Dana quipped, mumbling about being, “…only a little rusty. That ought to stir up some trouble among the male chauvinists.”

She headed for the Deck Six galley, near to her quarters and the auxiliary bridge, intending to have a quick meal and a look at the mission file. The duplicator took forever to process her order and she recalled that the system was among the ones scheduled for an update before the ship arrived at the designated mission zone.
 

Finally, the meal appeared. She took the tray, with what the duplicator called vegan stew that looked like tofu and peas and, no doubt, had the texture of chalk, two cups of coffee and a dessert cookie, to an out-of-the-way table and then settled down with a padlet to review the Groomsmen file, taking it all in at one sitting, about a three-hour task for most readers. With her speed reading capabilities, it took one-fifth that amount of time. She conveniently memorized the text. Much of the data needed to be verified against Star Service records, and she needed to make some notes. Some of it didn’t sit too well. It was all very strange.

Smugglers…Raiders…and lots of rumors…very little of it made sense.

She decided to start again at the beginning, breaking off a bite-sized chunk to chew upon while on her shift. Later, she’d go back for another helping. She memorized astronavigation maps of Zone Eleven, Alpha Quad, depicting the trading routes, several outer colonies, and a few outposts located there, in the farthest territories that still claimed membership in the Order of Allied Republics.

Beyond them was the remains of a star system called Fabre, which the mission already had flagged as a tentative destination for the away team.

Fabre logged frequent vessel activity, but all data pointed to privateer crafts of unrecorded design, and ships with no known registry; that made it a sure bet as a possible base used by the smugglers.
 

Yet, pieces of data seemed to be missing — significant pieces of data, at that. Yes, it was all very strange and, more importantly, very illegal.

“Very odd,” she mumbled aloud.

“What is?” Sam Ehrmann asked, dropping down into the chair opposite her without spilling a drop of coffee from his nearly overflowing cup.

“Oh, an astronav map of Fabre,” Dana responded, putting down the padlet, while offering a wary smile. They weren’t supposed to discuss the file so she went no further.

He shrugged. “You nearly bested my record on your first attempt. Nice…very nice…my compliments. Guess mismatched eyes aren’t an issue.”

She bit back a retort, letting him continue, sensing something very unusual coming from the MAT-SYS Chief.

“Who taught you to shoot? A brother?”

“Actually, a classmate at academy… Coincidentally, he had mismatched eyes, too. We made a perfect pair.”

“I knew a guy with mismatched eyes. Said it was rare — one in three million or something. Not sure where he ended up. He couldn’t shoot worth a darn. Said it was too distracting…and that people looked at him like a freak. He often wore a lens to make them the same. Was thinking you might have to do that if you’re going to be coming on…”