Penance (RN: Book 2) (3 page)

“Aye, but how would we then –“

“Thank you Mr Felsroy.” Denz nodded to Cummings and the screen went black as the link closed.

“Well done, sir.” Canthouse said with a wide grin.

“Carrots, Malcolm. Really?”

“When you can’t use the stick, sir.”

Denz raised his eye brows and pursed his lips as he considered this simple reasoning.

“And the ..eh, medicine, sir?”

“Oh, I’m sure the mess can find a little something to donate to the medicine chest. See to it immediately if you would, as we need to start the rescue sweep as soon as possible. I doubt we’ll find anything, but we have to look.”

“Immediately sir.” With that Canthouse hurried off the bridge.

Denz moved to the front of the command deck and turned to address the crew, many of whom still wore amused grins from his dealings with Felsroy. “Right! Your all aware of the Governor Middlemore’s shuttle being reported missing, so effective immediately I’m reassigning the Bristol to search and rescue duty. Navigation, use the coordinates sent to us to establish a sweeping search pattern. Raulin, I’ll need you to monitor the communications systems and listen for anything out of the ordinary, even odd static as they may not be able to transmit. Operations, set the sensors to ... Well, Cummings, you know what to do. Set the sensors to maximum gain and triple check any anomaly. No matter how irrelevant.”

The red haired senior petty officer’s full lipped smile reflected his own more than brotherly attentions, and she nodded her acknowledgement with the bridge becoming a clicking murmuring center of activity as bored professionals were at last given the means to work their intellects.

Denz sat in his chair, his balled left fist supporting his chin as he stared thoughtfully at the sun dominated view screen considering likely scenarios for the mission. It wasn’t unusual for out of the way colony people to conduct a little dishonest trade. And as long as things never got too illicit, the EDP didn’t so much turn a blind eye as momentarily stare into the Sun when paying attention to these regions. These transactions rarely got out of hand, with those that operated in the shadows knowing that if things did escalate they’d eventually have to answer to a powerful warship. Few black marketers possessed ships fast enough to outrun even the oldest gunboat, and this far out there were few places to hide. However, when things did get out of hand people usually got hurt and his intuition continued to shake its head at the possibility of finding anyone alive.

Denz swivelled his chair to face Raulin, “Mr Raulin, send a message to Trent rim-paq informing them of our intentions. Include data as to our sweep and the coordinates. A full report is to follow shortly.”

“Yes sir.” Raulin said and set about his task, his fingers a blur to Denz who marvelled at the man’s ability.

“Search solution complete and ready to be initiated commander.” The pale skinned navigator said turning to face Denz. He too was a red head, though he carried none of the Cummings’s plumpness with his vampire pale body being positively waifish.

“Show me.” Denz said.

The main viewer changed to a three dimensional block of grid lines with a large sweeping spiral boring along the center axis, and four smaller spirals filling the blank areas between the main spiral and the long edges. It was a cruder form of search path that would require a lot of fine tuning to perfect, time they did not have to waste. However, it was serviceable in its present state and corrections could be made en route.

“Time to initial sweep point.”

“Thirty four minutes from our current location, sir.”

“Time to sweep entire area?”

“Twenty two hours, twenty seven minutes, sir.”

“Good. Ops?”

“Ready sir,” Cummings responded.

“Then commence sensor sweep. Navigation, take us to the initial. Best speed.”

“Aye, Commander.” The navigator seemed pleased, snapping his fingers as he worked his console and the bright disc of the system sun slowly drifted to the right of the view screen, only to shimmer and then blink out as the ship entered gate-way.

Thirty four minutes, Denz mused as he stared at the three dimensional cube with his hands clasped under his nose. Thirty four minutes to cross an area it would have taken the Governors shuttle sixty hours to transit. Still, this gave him time to prepare his report and perhaps get a quick something to eat. “Cummings, I’m going to my office to prepare my report and perhaps a bite. Lieutenant-Commander, Canthouse should return momentarily, but contact me when we arrive at the initial. You have the con.”

“Yes, sir.” Denz heard from behind him as he walked towards the small office on the right of the bridge. Only when a couple of feet away with a hand reaching to the handle did it occur to him that his bridge office was now the place of penance with the cot inside. He stared at the door mounted pewter plaque that bore the word ‘REPENT’ in large deep cut letters. He stood immobile, the hand still poised for the door handle, his eyes fixed on that word with his body weak from a certain ambiguity before straightening to a posture becoming an officer and saying over his shoulder. “In my quarters, Cummings.”

A low “Yes, sir.” following after him.

RNO Bristol, deck C. 21 hours and 16 minutes later.

Leading hand Esta Brula slowed her pace as the door to commander Denz’s cabin opened and he appeared in the corridor ahead of her. The commander secured the door giving the handle a double shaking twist to ensure security and then strolled purposely forward, with a quick smile and a curt “Crewman,” as he passed. She returned the acknowledgment accompanied by an attentive nod and glanced after him as he stepped through the bulkhead leading to the bridge, with the door whirring shut behind him. Brula stared after him for several seconds before continuing on to her duty station that was due to start in four minutes.

This was her first penetrating voyage on an actual genuine deep service vessel, or DSV, which meant everyday contact with full insignia command staff rather than the spit and polish junior officers who had dominated the majority of her near Earth service. Yet, despite the time she had served on the Bristol, she still found such relaxed proximity to upper echelon command staff to be a little unnerving. Up to this point the majority of her RNO service had been between the Earth and the stations or facilities local to the Sol system, with only the rare jaunt aboard a DSV to check for any susceptibility to Transit Induced Psychosis -TIP, or gate weariness as it was commonly known, the cocooning of the ship during gate travel.

On entering gate travel, a ship essentially became a magnetic bullet injected between the fabrics of space time, like an orange pip squeezed between two fingers, without breaking any laws so time dilation never applied.

During such transits the ship left behind the peripheral sensory stimuli: the sounds, observations and sensations of everyday life, with many first timers complaining of the ‘anechoic chamber’ affect, or the lack of stars out of what few windows the ship possessed. It was as if the Bristol had sunk into a tar pit, with no light visible to the front or rear, and only the keenest sighted able to make out a faint belt of speckled white, like a distant galactic arm, surrounding the midpoint of the vessel.

Every crewman on reaching the rank of first hand had to take several trips on a DSV to check for susceptibility to TIP. The results of which could greatly impact your chances of ascending the promotion ladder.

As many as fifty percent of RNO personnel were prone to gate weariness, which limited their ability to participate in the deeper missions and saw TIP susceptible officers reduced to berating their subordinates as a way of releasing the frustration generated by their inability to tolerate FTL travel.

Piped in audio stimuli and 3D screens went some way to relieving the stress, but could never completely remove the feeling of disorientation and a low travel sickness. Those who did feel such qualms kept it to themselves, however, for fear of being rotated off the ship.

Brula would be glad to see all that behind her. She had never felt the effects of gate weariness and this mission would earn her the gold collar dash that identified her as FTL mission tolerant. Not just travel tolerant, the ability to travel to a quarter station without sinking into a wide eyed, face scratching psychosis, but mission tolerant. The ability to stay on a ship for indefinite periods without succumbing to gate weariness. A sure source of future favours and her pick of the juicy assignments once she was sufficiently high on the ladder.

Nearing the midpoint of the corridor, Brula passed by the officer’s quarters and neared that of Commander Denz. She glanced toward the door, a door behind which lay the answers to so many speculations and the mysterious screaming the crew often buzzed about, but she herself had never witnessed. There were those that claimed to know the reasons for the tormented wailings that came from within. People who whispered of supernatural ills, who claimed they were this far out to dispose of a demon, a demon trapped inside Denz that was to be released by a spoken incantation when the ship could go no further. Brula laughed openly, instinctively raising a hand to stifle her humor when she remembered where she was and the ridiculous things some people still believed in this day and age.

Brula glanced forward on hearing the whirring sound of a bulkhead door opening, only to gasp lightly when the door slid open to reveal a tall slim silhouette. Her smile dropped as she cast her gaze to the floor, crossed her arms about her chest and attempted to draw herself in to disfigure as much of her womanly form as possible. The figure never moved for some seconds then stooped its head as it stepped through the doorway to become the slim lanky frame of rating Martin Levre, the scourge of the women aboard the Bristol.

At six foot six, Levre was the tallest person on the ship, though any sense of formidability his height bestowed was reduced by a skeletal form that bordered on emaciated. He had insufficient muscle mass to fill out even the meanest sections of the grey overalls that hung off his bony frame as if from a skeleton, and flapped as he walked. Yet despite the lack of mass he possessed a deeper intimidation, an unnerving presence with an unerring serpent like suppleness that allowed him to approach targets undetected, where he used his bullying charm to ensure his indiscretions remained unreported. Yet despite his conquests elsewhere he’d never spent any time with the new girl, as she always used her looks to secure an officer or two in the mess and avoid his attentions.

Levre watched as Brula came toward him in the cautious spring loaded step of a deer approaching an alligator infested drinking hole.

He had tried to be nice to women, but his looks ensured no natural success with the long thin face, hooded protruding eyes and large thin lipped mouth reminding many of a carnival clown, and they stayed away. Levre was all too aware of his physical shortcomings and had developed a con man’s purse of subtle coercion, veiled harm and quick dissolving aids that ensured he got what he desired. However, this one was different. She could see his charms were more snake than prince and had managed to avoid him, but not today.

Brula glanced at him as she approached. He smiled an acknowledgement, one of his more pleasant ones. Yet the loose skin rode onto jutting cheek bones turning it into a disturbing jeer that saw her lower her gaze and move to the right of the corridor as she approached. He moved as if on stilts with his long gangling stride bringing him to her in a few steps, and she moved so her arm brushed the wall.They were about to pass outside Denz’s quarters when a pale long fingered hand blocked her way like a parking barrier.

“Let me past,” Brula said, her gaze still on the floor in front of her.

“Hey. Estel, right?” Levre’s face twitched in a constant battle to keep his smile presentable, yet the loose skin conspired with his treasonous cheek bones to turn it into an unpainted clown face.

“Yes, now please, let me pass,” she said in a single distressed breath without taking her eyes from the path in front.

The blockading hand turned towards her in receptive greeting. “I’ve tried to say hi a few times before, but we always see to miss each other. I’m Martin, I work in the –“

“I know who and what you are,
Martin!”
Brula snapped looking him straight in the eye. A Jack Russell’s tenacity in the face of a demon.
“
It’s a small ship. And everyone’s heard of
magic pill, Martin hard pecker. The WREN wrecker.
But you’ll have no luck here so just let me past.”

This caught Levre by surprise. He knew he had a reputation but had never encountered a woman whose introduction was so coloured by it. The women in most of the crews he passed through knew of him through mess hall whisperings and greeted his inevitable advances with nothing more than a defensive expectation. Something he either broke through or destroyed them for via rumour and scandal. This direct acknowledgement of his intentions was the lamb seeing the wolf through the sheep skin and she needed to be destroyed.

His smile faltered. The hollow companionable spark in his eye guttering to be replaced by a glint of dark brutal appetite as he considered this weak thing, so easily bent to his will given the time and the place, but here he had neither.

“Look, I’m not sure who you’ve been speaking to, but – “ he started to say but stopped himself. He could see it in her upturned eyes. There was no viable pursuit here. It would be pill and punishment for this one. His mouth formed a yellow toothed jokers leer as he looked her over, a hand following the contours of her wide hips, slim waist and oh so ...oohhhh. He closed his fingers into a fist near her face, that perfect tear drop face. The olive skin, those full dark lips that quavered so, the arched then steeply descending eye brows the same colour as the black hair pulled tight across her scalp to fall in a long pony tail. And those big brown eyes, so full of fright and burning defiance that stood on a scaffold sure to collapse if he pushed that little bit harder. He liked it when they were scared, and so enjoyed the potency of the moment as they trembled before him. He had to have her.

He leaned closer, his face gaunt, his cheeks sunken and eyes protruding to a ghoulish degree as he exhaled over her. “You’ll be sorry you did this,” he hissed. “All the girls come to Martin. And Martin comes to
all
the girls.”

“Let-me-past or I’ll report you,” Brula said. Despite a quaver her voice was firm, but her eyes were sick and scared. His tongue flicked snake like as he moved in to kiss her, only for Brula to force past the restraining hand, and then stop wide eyed, her mouth opening in a startled gasp when bony fingers gripped her ass. She spun to unleash a verbal assault only to see him already nearing the far door, his laughter cut off as it slid shut behind him.