Fatal Boarding Read online



  Fatal Boarding

  by

  E.R. Mason

  Copyright 2011

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Editor

  Frank MacDonald

  Contact: [email protected]

  Web Site: https://sites.google.com/site/scifiproofreading

  ISBN 978-0-615-47721-3

  Chapter 1

  I should never have signed on the Electra. Every now and then you get that little twinge inside that tells you you're not making the best possible choice, but with persistent rationalization you coerce yourself into ignoring it. Later, you promise yourself you'll never ignore it again. The human mind is probably more dishonest with itself than anyone else, and the older we get, the more devious it becomes.

  If I had waited on Earth longer I probably could have pulled Bridge officer on something small. That's what I should have done. It still would have been interstellar, mind you; no monotonous yo-yos going intersystem. The worn out crates they use for that are so over-programmed a chimp could sit in the center seat. Two big buttons: Send/Return. Human fax.

  It had been a very comfortable year, but it was getting near time for me to find the right two or three-month cruise that would supplement my dwindling life support credits. A poker game had accelerated the requirement. So, under less than optimum circumstances, I had convinced myself a position with Security/Rescue on this particular chart-maker cruise would be the best way to replace value lost in an indiscreet twenty-hour poker game.

  If only I had waited until I sobered up. There should be a sobriety test on home terminals so you can't sign yourself up with the foreign legions of space when you don't really know what you're doing at the time. You can back out, of course, but it looks pretty bad in the employment history. Don't get me wrong, I like working Rescue. When Security/Rescue positions open up they don't last long. You get most of the EVAs. Your routine duties on board are easy and minimal, and when you do get called in on an emergency, it's usually to save someone who did something really stupid. I have found there to be nothing more exhilarating in life than rescuing a friend. The feeling of euphoria that comes with such an act is proportional to the amount of risk required to get the job done. It takes quite a bit of pull to land that kind of security position. For me, this one was a step down. But like I said, the openings don't last long.

  So basically, someone with an inside straight had brought me to the Electra. Sitting in the high-back seat by my terminal with one foot propped up on a corner of the console, I was trying to comfort myself it would only be a six-month consequence of poor judgment. Aces over eights. The dark gray, thin-shelled stateroom walls were not reassuring. They are tangled with conduit and cable track, the ceilings are low, and there is a perpetual drone that lingers within unibody construction. Although there is a private adjoining bath, with shower, it is equally mood conservative. The only mirror is polished aluminum.

  There is, at least, gravity. Only the big drafts have it. Nobody takes the grav for granted, either. Every time gravity field generators fail on a ship, you get a lot of sick people who would sell their soul for half a positive G.

  The bad thing about charting tours is you never go anywhere. You set course for an empty sector of space, stop at an assigned point, scan everything for light years around, and then continue on to the next sector. You never see anything but distant stars, mostly. You spend your entire trip in a vacuum, literally. And there's a funny thing about extra-system travel. When you get so far out that there are no longer any colorful balls hanging reassuredly in the nothingness, you suddenly become much more aware of just how alone you really are. The depth of it becomes much more apparent, and it will cause a tingle of fear to run up and down your spine if you dwell on it too long. No emergency rescue vehicles will come for you if there is an accident. The stars are densely packed in every direction, but they are hopelessly out of reach. In fact, you always have the feeling you will never even reach your destination. The clusters never seem to get any closer, right up until you drop to sub-light. Then, if you are fortunate enough to be close to a system, you find yourself invariably surprised by the massive, erupting fireball at its center and the assortment of planets that usually pay it homage. There is no sound to choreograph a solar system, but inside you can feel-hear the rumble of power.

  So I, Adrian Tarn, breaker of rules, romanticist-unreliable, found myself in a sterile stateroom alone, thinking about the unopened pint of bourbon I smuggled aboard, located only inches away in the second drawer on the left in the psychologist-recommended beige metal desk, imitation wood grained top, that houses the integrated PC that was staring back at me like a disinterested observer. A drink was out of the question. When you're on call, plummeting along well beyond the speed of light aboard the QE2 of space, you do not assume all will go as expected. So I leaned back and continued to wait for R.J. to show up for his usually absurd chess game.

  R.J.'s game is beyond the understanding of mortal men. He opens in such a way that his deployed pieces remind you of farm animals that have escaped their pen and are running amok with no particular purpose in mind. Once you have achieved a small point advantage against him you should be able to trade him down to oblivion, but somehow in the middle game he always comes up with a hurtful collage of brilliant little gambits and suddenly you're the one in trouble. Then, in his end game, he lingers himself to death. When his king has finally fallen he always takes great pride in explaining his unnecessarily complex closing strategy. You remind him it didn't work and his trademark reply is, "Yes, another great idea destroyed by a simple set of facts." I have this secret fear one day his unfathomable end game will come together and I will never beat him again.

  R.J. is an inspector on this cruise, part of the Procedure Adherence team, one of the people responsible for making sure things are done by the book. R.J. Smith will stand over you, scratch at his short, reddish-brown beard with one hand, and droll, "Ah yesss, yesss, yesss," in a W.C. Fields' kind of pantomime. You’re dead serious, but you can't tell if he agrees with what you're doing or considers it a total joke. Sometimes he will say nothing, pull off his wire-rimmed glasses and clean them, completely forgetting you're waiting for an opinion; a pregnant pause that goes on forever. When he finally returns to reality, he will invariably offer up some obscure Confucius-like proverb intended to make up for having left your consciousness hanging in limbo. When it comes to the one hundred and fifty people on board this ship, I feel most at ease with R.J.

  I had begun to give up on him when his call icon suddenly began flashing on the screen in front of me. I tapped the open key and his smiling face appeared.

  "Hey, I'm not there!"

  "I've noticed."

  "Something's up."

  "There is no up. We're in space, remember? God, I shouldn't have to keep reminding you of these things, R.J."

  "Ah yesss.., so true, but I know something you do not, oh Great Seer of the very obvious."

  I waited. R.J savored the moment in silence. Finally I had to beg.

  "Yes...?"

  "We're coming out of light."

  I sat up in my seat. "Why?"

  "Sensors have picked up something unusual up ahead. You haven't heard anything about this, have you?"

  "No, nothing."

  "You will."

  "Damn it, why does PA always get the first word?"

  "And the last, usually."

  "So what the hell is it that would make them risk doing this? We're not even halfway to the dropout."

  "Nobody knows. Only that they think it's artificial."

  "No shit? Space junk?"

  "If
it is, it's awfully big space junk."

  Before I could reply, a priority call icon began flashing in the upper right-hand corner of R.J.'s image.

  "R.J., I gotta go. They're calling me."

  "Not surprised; bye."

  The stern face of Commander Tolson abruptly replaced J.R's. Jim Tolson has the enduring demeanor of a bulldog. He rarely bites, but you always have the feeling he could at any moment. I have always thought he should have been an attorney.

  "Adrian, report to the Bridge conference room, immediately."

  "On my way."