The Kruton Interface (5 page)

“I guess it is a strange name,” Rhodes admitted.

“Seamus O’Gandhi? What’s strange about that? You meet Irish Hindus every day.”

“Exactly, sir. As you know, during the Great Human Diaspora after the invention of the quantum drive, many planets were populated by vastly dissimilar cultures and ethnic groups.”

Wanker looked at Rhodes. “If I know that, why are you telling me?”

“Just by way of explanation, sir.”

“Thanks,” Wanker said dryly. “Let’s see here. Oh, he’s not alcoholic at all, is he?”

“Doc O’Gandhi’s not an especially heavy drinker.”

“No, he’s a pill-popper!”

“Yes, sir.”

“A drug fiend.”

“Sir, we don’t like to use that kind of judgmental terminology.”

“Heaven forbid. Says here he has an ‘occupational disability.’ Well, makes sense, he’s constantly handing out pills. You know, they used to discharge people from the service for this sort of behavior.”

“You can’t be discharged for a disability, sir.”

“Of course not! Hush my mouth. Never, no, never. Okay, what else have we got here? ‘Malpractice’...” He snorted. “And … what the hell’s this?”

“Er, self-explanatory, sir.”

This lime Wanker did a double take, his eyes wide in disbelief. “‘Clinically dead on duty.’ Clinically dead?”

Rhodes said, “He overdoses a lot, sir “

“There’s practically nothing left of the man. He has a mechanical heart, a surrogate liver, and one cyborg lung.”

“I’m afraid he’s due for an overhaul.”

“I can’t believe this man is on active service!”

“Sir, the Space Forces don’t attract a lot of qualified physicians. The pay is relatively low, and, well… you know.”

“But this is ridiculous. The man is a walking medical catastrophe.”

“He has many problems, Captain, that I’ll grant you.”

“Occupational disability? From the looks of his own medical profile, his blood is a chemical laboratory.”

“He takes pills to steady his nerves.”

“So steady he can’t move. Where is he, by the way?”

Rhodes said, “I ordered him to report to the bridge a while ago, sir. He should be along any minute.”

Wanker looked skeptical. “God help us if a medical emergency were to arise.”

Rhodes was about to say something further when he was interrupted by the hiss of the drop tube. Everyone looked toward it.

The load that the tube delivered crumpled to the deck. It was the body of an old man wearing a turban and breechcloth, both dyed kelly-green, along with a standard-issue tunic. His skin looked like cracked parchment. The man’s overall hue was medium dark, though light enough to be suffused with a sickly grayish-yellow pallor.

“What
is
this man, an Irish Gunga Din?” Wanker asked in utter dismay.

Wanker, Rhodes, and crew stared while the body lay there, motionless.

“Well, I mean really,” Wanker said, unsure of what to do. “Shouldn’t somebody help the poor guy?”

“Oh, he’ll come around,” Rhodes said. “Backup systems will kick in any moment.”

“Backup systems?”

“The bionic medical systems, sir. In his body.”

“Oh. Yes, yes, good. But—” Wanker didn’t know what to make of it.

With a sudden ferocity, Dr. Seamus O’Gandhi sat bolt upright. One bloodshot eye swiveled in its socket, taking in the bridge.

Then he said, “Jesus, Mary, and Krishna, I am not feeling well.”

Wanker eyed him as if he were a curious species of alien insect. “A wreck of a man.” He shook his head. “The ravages of drug abuse.”

Rhodes said sadly, “Drugs are slow poison.”

“Yeah, but
he’s
in a hurry.”

The new captain of the
Repulse
walked over to where his chief medical officer sat on the deck.

“Well, Doc. Why don’t you regale us all with one of your witty, crusty bon mots?”

O’Gandhi struggled to reply but succeeded only in mumbling.

Wanker leaned over. “Nothing to say for yourself? No terse witticisms? No spare epigrams, quick retorts … eh? What say, Sawbones?”

After an immense effort O’Gandhi blurted, “I am going to be upchucking all over the deck.”

Straightening up, Wanker smiled appreciatively. “Worthy of Dr. Johnson.”

O’Gandhi’s vision finally came into focus. “And who may I be asking are you, my fine fellow?”

“Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Captain David L. Wanker.”

“Wonker?”

The captain pronounced it for him.
 

“It is a fine name, pukka sahib!”
 

“I’m glad you think so.”

O’Gandhi mumbled something as he struggled to his feet. Wanker assisted him.

Wobbling, O’Gandhi approximated a salute. “Chief Medical Officer Seamus O’Gandhi reporting, sir.” A liquid smile spread over his face. “Please to be calling me ‘Jimmy.’”

Wanker smiled toothily. “Why, sure,
Jimmy!
Jimmy, old friend, old pal, let me ask you a question.”

“Anything, my captain of mine! I am yours to command!”

“Have anything down in sick bay that’ll put me out of my misery, quick?”

“Well, I am having some great pills down there that will knock you on your—” O’Gandhi suddenly looked sheepish. “Oops. I am nearly putting my foot in it.”

Wanker said, “Oh, I’ll bet you have some great pills down there. That is, what you haven’t stuffed into your gullet yet. No, I was talking about the harder stuff. The darker drink, as it were. Poison, toxins, dread microorganisms. Something that’ll carry me away in a jiffy.”

O’Gandhi looked confused. “Well, let me to be thinking about this, now—”

“Never mind.”

Wanker strode to the forward section of the bridge and began to pace in a circle.

“Listen up, everyone, I have something to say. Through bureaucratic bungling and the cruelty of a basically malevolent universe I’ve been handed the rottenest assignment in the Space Forces. This ship is an interstellar disaster. But I will be bending every effort to make the best of a bad situation. This shape is either going to ship up … er, this ship is going to be shape-ship… ”
 

The captain whanged his head against one of the dangling panel covers.

“
Arrrrgggghhh
!”

Sven Svensen helped him to his feet.

“Watch the low overhead when you walk around here, sir.”

“Those things are dangerous!”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Not your fault. What the hell was I saying?”

Wanker began to pace again, but halted in front of the large view screen on the bridge’s forward bulkhead. It was blank.

“Why isn’t this thing on?” he asked.

“Out of order, sir,” Rhodes said. “Sadowski is working on it.”

“Oh. Useless thing, anyway. As if you can see anything in space. How many centuries has it been since a military vessel relied on visual contact with the enemy?”

“It’s been a long time,” Rhodes agreed. “You were saying, sir, about shipping or shaping?”

“Hm? Never mind.” Wanker resumed pacing, his voice stentorian. “Just let me say this. There are many ways to do things in this man’s Space Forces … and woman’s!… let’s not forget the women!… Just let me say this … There are many ways to do things in this man’s and woman’s Space Forces. There’s the right way, the wrong way, the Regulation way, and MY way. Now on this ship we are going to do things MY way. Is that understood?”

O’Gandhi croaked, “I am forgetting the cultured plague bacterium from Centauri III! It will be killing you real quick, my captain!”

“Shut up! Now, very soon—in a few hours, perhaps, we will be receiving new orders, and we will set out on our assigned mission. And we will complete our assigned mission! Successfully! Is that understood?”

Rhodes shouted, “Aye-aye, sir!”

Imperiously, Wanker surveyed the rest of his staff officers. “What about the rest of you?”

Came the chorus:
“Aye-aye, sir!”

Wanker said with sudden despair, “I’m finished. It’s over, my career’s over.”

He moped to the lift tube.

“Would you like to see your cabin now, sir?” Rhodes asked.
 

“I’ll find it.”

“But, sir, I’d be happy to—”
 

“I want to be alone. Besides, I’ll be slashing my wrists. It’s a personal thing.”

Rhodes stopped, nonplused. “Slashing your wrists, sir?”

“Yes. Send to the machine shop. Have them make me an old-fashioned straight razor. You know the kind? Long thing, about like that?”

Rhodes said, “Er, yes, sir. Straight razor.”

Tell them to make it of a good-tempered steel. None of that composite stuff. And it has to be sharp enough to cut right to the bone in one slice. Got it, mister?”

“I hope the captain is joking.”

“Hah hah,” Captain Wanker said sarcastically as he positioned himself under the lift tube. He raised his head and stared up into its shadowy interior.

Up
, of course, was an arbitrary term in space, but in this case it approximated reality, for the bridge was deep within the ship, almost at the center of its protective mass. Thus, every direction away from the bridge was “up” and out and through the ship. The ship did not depend on rotation for its artificial gravity; otherwise the bridge would have been “up” and the outer decks “down.”
 

Rhodes said, “Sir, please let me show you to your cabin.”
 

“Just tell me where it is.”
 

“A-Deck.”

“Officers’ cabins are usually on A-Deck, Mr. Rhodes. Where on A-Deck?”

“Aft Fourteen, Number Twenty-eight, sir.”

“I’ll find it.” He looked up the blow tube. “God, I hate these things,” Wanker said, then in a louder tone added, “Transport tube, A-Deck, please!” He then touched the oversize red button labeled SUCK. “Positively loathe them.”

“Well, sir, lifts are constantly shifting the center of mass, and back when this ship was designed, they didn’t know how to handle that.”

“Thanks for the guided tour, Mr. Rhodes.
Uhhhhhh!”

Rhodes watched as the tube bore the captain upward. When Wanker cleared the overhead, he exhaled and turned toward his fellow officers.

He forced a smile. “Don’t worry, y’all. He’ll come around.’’

Everyone groaned.

CHAPTER 5

Captain David Wanker was blown upward, suspended by a strong parastatic field. He felt like acid reflux rushing up the esophagus.

The tube vomited him onto A-Deck. He got to his feet.

“One of these days I’ll learn to do it right.”

He wandered around the almost deserted ship, meeting only one security guard, who directed him to Aft Fourteen, Number Twenty-eight.

He approached the hatch to the captain’s cabin.

“Who are you?” the hatch asked.
 

The captain of this ship,” Wanker said. “Get to know me.”

“Prove it.”

“Look at my authorization badge, you silly thing.”

“I want to see your orders,” the hatch said.

“Oh, all right.” Wanker searched his jacket pockets, found a microdisk, pulled the thing out, and shoved it into the slot in the hatch.

There came a beep. Then: “Wanker, David Ludwig, Captain, United Systems Space Forces, assigned as commander of the U.S.S.
Repulse.
You may enter.”

With a soft whine, the hatch rose into its slot.

“Thank you so much,” Wanker said dryly. “I don’t believe something actually works on this ship.”

“Wanker?” the hatch asked as he went in.

“Vahn-ker. You have a problem with that?”

The hatch apparently had no problem.

The rooms inside were small by ordinary standards but spacious for quarters aboard a starship: two rooms, one with a bunk in it, the other with a settee, a chair, and a desk. The head, complete with shower stall, was off the bedroom. There were shelves, clean towels, and other amenities, but Wanker was too depressed to notice. He sank into the lumpy settee and heaved a great gray sigh of despair.

The communications panel on the desk buzzed.

“Oh, crap.”

He cranked himself upward. At the desk he flipped a switch. “Wanker here.”

“Captain? This is Darvona. All comfy in there?”
 

“Huh? Oh, yes, yes. What is it, Ms. Roundheels?”
 

“A call for you, sir, coming in by cosmophone transmission.”
 

“Who is it?”
 

“Your parents, sir.”