The Kruton Interface (13 page)

CHAPTER 12

Two days passed.

The captain was kept informed of the status of the alterations done to the ship, reports that he ignored. To pass the time, he watched all fifty-seven hours of a cosmophone miniseries based on Marcel Proust’s
Remembrance of Things Past.
He did not know it, but the original material had been heavily adapted. In fact, the story line bore little, if any, relation to that of the original French novels. The first cycle of episodes, “Up Swarm’s Alley,” was a sex romp cum action/adventure melodrama in costume featuring chases, flamer battles, and steamy group polymorphous sex scenes.

At first he viewed with passing interest. Soon, though, he got absorbed, and watched the entire series.

At long last, the final credits rolled and the music swelled. He sighed. After switching off the screen over his bed and laying aside all his personal autoerotic gear, he lay back in deep thought.

“Boy, I don’t know about French literature, but the twentieth century sure was great!”

In fact, he’d been quite surprised. A question occurred to him, and he thought about it. He failed to find an answer.

“Thing is, though, how do you power a starship with that stuff?”

* * *

Captain Wanker decided to visit the power plant control module for the first time since he had assumed command of the
Repulse.
First, though, he decided that he needed to do a stint in the fogger.

Yes, he reeked. He checked a mirror in the tiny head. His beard was in patches. He thought of letting it grow in. No use. Maybe it was about time to get hormone treatments and grow a fine crop of whiskers. What the heck, lots of men did it. And women.

But no. He liked being a clean-shaven kind of a guy. He applied depilatory.

He stepped into the fogger stall and turned on the controls. A fine mist began to fill the air and condense against the walls.

Soon, though, the temperature rose and the mist changed to steam, and it scalded him. He whooped and lurched out of the stall, whacking his head in the process.

“Mother fogger!”

Rubbing his aching head, he carefully fiddled with the controls until he thought it safe to rinse off, and reentered. He made a quick job of it and escaped the stall without further injury.

He donned a radiation suit and left his cabin.

* * *

Having arrived at the entrance to the control pod, he used his authorization microdisk to let himself through the massive hatch.
 

“Ye gods.”

The place was even more of a mess than the rest of the ship. As this was his first visit to the pod, he had no idea whether this condition was normal or a result of Strangefinger’s tinkering. He suspected the latter. Masses of wiring like congealed pasta trailed through the place, and willow trees of wiring drooped from the overhead. Myriad tools lay about, along with bits of uneaten sandwiches and soft drink containers.

“What a sty.”

Wanker walked around, shaking his head, his only consolation being that this wasn’t his ship any more. He was only the caretaker of this space-going laboratory.

No one was about, as usual. Laboratory? The ship felt more like a graveyard. A ghost ship.

“Anybody here?” he shouted. Then to himself: “Where the hell is that fraud of a physicist?”

As if on cue, the hatch rose, admitting Strangefinger hand-in-hand with Darvona, who was smoothing her clothing and looking content.

“Can’t stay, Doctor. I have duty now. Must go.”

The physicist broke wind loudly. “Farting is such sweet sorrow.”

“Doctor, you’re so witty.”

“So true, so true. Well, I suppose I’ll have to get back to work sometime.”

“When did you start?” Wanker demanded.

“Captain, top o’ the morning to you. I trust you rested well?”

“Actually, according to ship time, it’s seven in the evening.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t overeat at dinner. You can be such a glutton. You should get more fiber in your diet. Try this insulation material with fruit and skim milk.” Strangefinger kicked at a shard of foam paneling.

“Thanks for the tip, Strangefinger.”

“You two talk nice,” Darvona instructed. “Don’t fight.”

“Yes, Momma,” the scientist said.

“Give Momma a kiss. I have to go.”

“Can I have a raise in my allowance, Mom?”

Darvona pecked Strangefinger on the cheek before scurrying out of the bay.

Wanker gave the oddly dressed scientist a disparaging scowl. “Dr. Strangefinger, it’s against regulations for members of the crew to fraternize with nonhumans.”

Strangefinger walked over to him, waving his ever-present cigar. “I highly represent that remark. I’m as human as the next baboon.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. Besides, I couldn’t resist her charms. She’s the kind of girl a man could take home to mother.
Her
mother, but I’m not picky.”

“I wouldn’t know much about women. I’m no stud.”

“Be careful, the walls have ears. And they have studs, too.”

“Enough of this pleasant banter,” Wanker said. “Are you through installing your Proust whatsit?”
 

“What’s it to you?”

Strangefinger wandered over to inspect a veritable Gordian knot of wiring that bulged from a cylindrical component.

“Doctor, are you incapable of a straight answer?”

“Not when, you ask the question with a crooked tongue. Oh, all right, we have one small item left to install. And the installment payments are killing me.”

“Will it work?”

“Will what work?”

“Your gizmo, of course.”

“Are you kidding? They call me the Miracle Worker. It’s a miracle if anything of mine works.” Strangefinger absently kicked the huge cylinder before him. I wonder what the heck this is for.”

Wanker’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t know?”

“I usually leave the engineering to my staff.”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t seen hide or hair of your staff yet.”

“Not a surprising turn of events for a hermit.”

Wanker shuffled his feet. “I admit I haven’t been getting out much. Anyway, where the devil is your crew?”

“They’re making some alterations in the reactor module.”

“They’re fiddling with the dark-matter reactor?”

“No, they won’t go near the reactor. They just need to pound on the control dampers a bit.”

“Pound on the .. .” Wanker suppressed a scream. “Ye gods!”

“‘Ye gods.’ Wonderful expletive. There’s much that’s quaint and charming about you, Captain Wanker. Sorry … Voinker?”

The captain didn’t bother to correct him.

Strangefinger made another stab. “Volker?”

Wanker waved the issue aside. “Forget it. Incidentally, why don’t you have your radiation suit on?”

“Oh, a little stray ionizing radiation never hurt anyone.”

“So you say. The reactor and the thrusters are only thirty meters from this bay and that’s close enough to require all personnel to—”

“I was just about to leave, Captain. The final installation will be on the bridge, anyway.”

“Oh, very well. Frankly, I couldn’t care less if you want to fry yourself.”

“I like to think of myself as a man of taste, but I’m not going to fry myself to find out for sure. If you’ll excuse me, Captain Volkswagen. See you on the bridge.”

The hatch rose again and Strangefinger stepped out, leaving Wanker to his thoughts. He wasn’t thinking nice thoughts.

* * *

Another first for Captain Wanker: a visit to the ship’s mess.
 

“What a mess!”

“That’s not very original,” the service mech named Cookie told him as it served him a Synth-A-Chik sandwich and coffee.

“I mean it, look at this place.”

There had obviously been a food fight; several, most likely. The bulkheads blazed with a full spectrum of food colorings.

“Don’t think it doesn’t break my little cybernetic heart, Captain.”

“Did you witness?—of course you did. Well, I’ll need your input to make a report.” Wanker crinkled his freckled nose. “Hell, why should I file a report? That’s Rhodes’s job.”

“Under the circumstances, Captain, what’s the use?”

Wanker turned to regard the cold electronic eyes of the Cookie.

“Oh, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, sir, all due respect and all that sort of bilge—if this were a
real
ship… ”

Wanker exhaled a black cloud of discontent.
 

“Rats.”

He sat at one of the tables and tried to eat. He bit into the sandwich; he chewed.

He spat his mouthful across the room and turned to glare at the machine designated the “Cookie.”

“Don’t look at me, Captain, sir. Mr. Sadowski—”

“Shut up, you piece of space jetsam.”

“Oh, well, excuse me, sir.”

Wanker drummed the table. “This is most annoying.”

“No one ever said the universe was a bed of posies. Sir.”

Wanker turned his head sharply. “You know what else is annoying?”
 

“What, sir?”

“The habit of giving a hulk of a machine like a food processor a ‘personality’ so that spacemen get a warm, homey feeling inside when they’re served the swill they’re supposed to eat.”

“Oops, I guess I went and pushed a few wrong buttons on you, Captain.”

“Oh, stuff it.”

Wanker left the mess.

CHAPTER 13

Wanker arrived on the bridge to find it in no more disarray than usual. Everyone was there except Strangefinger’s elusive technicians.

“Dr. Strangefinger, can’t we get this over with now?”

“My sentiments exactly, Captain,” Strangefinger said, chewing on his cigar. “The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things. Hey-nonny-nonny and a ha-cha-cha.” He executed this last with a little dance.

“Can we proceed with the testing?”

“Sure. Disengage all your control circuits. The Proust device will handle everything.”

Wanker began to pace fretfully. Something that had built up inside him over the last week finally burst out. “This is wrong, wrong! A machine can’t control a starship! A cold, unfeeling machine can’t make the warm, human decisions … it can’t know right from wrong, fair from unfair … it has no sense of justice … no sensitivity, no compassion!”

Strangefinger bristled. “Sir, you’re making my machine out to be a conservative! I know for a fact that it votes the straight Whig ticket.”

Sadowski dropped to the deck and went to his station.

“Very well,” Captain Wanker said. “Engineer, turn all control circuits over to Dr. Strangefinger’s wonderful invention. I can see this is going to be more of the same monkey business. I’m going back to my cabin and rest.”

Strangefinger said with feigned sincerity, “Rest easy, Captain … and take my hand in congratulations for a job well done.” The scientist extended his hand.

Wanker took it and was nonplused when the hand detached from Strangefinger’s arm. It was a cheap prosthesis.

“You idiot.” Wanker handed him his hand back.

“You’ve got to hand it to me, Captain.”

“Oh, stuff it. Maybe I won’t go to my cabin. I think I’ll stay here and see what this business is all about.”

“Just stay out of the way,” Strangefinger said, screwing his hand back on. “You’re redundant now. Superfluous. You’re about to be laid off. Besides, you’re behind in your union dues.”

“I don’t belong to a union.”

“Oh, a company stooge, eh? Well, take Moe and Larry and get out there on that picket line.”

“I’m waiting, Strangefinger.”

“Well, you’re waiting at the wrong stop. The Crosstown-B comes down Lexington and turns east on Forty-ninth. On second thought, you’d better take the subway.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m waiting for my assistant.”

“Your assistant, eh?”

“Yes, my assistant,
eh.
He has an efficiency rating of A-l, which is more than I can say for some incompetents.”

The drop tube dropped something, a pile of old clothes worthy of a charity drive. It rolled across the deck, then got up and began to run around the bridge, honking and whistling. It was ostensibly a human being in a battered, crumpled top hat, ratty raincoat, checked shirt, and baggy pants. A blond fright wig topped off the entire surreal Gestalt. The apparition honked a few more greetings, then reached into the oversize trench coat and drew out a box that was not large but looked a little too big to successfully hide inside a trench coat. It was a simple metal box painted with variously colored polka dots and set about with multicolored lights.