“We’ll still
arrive before the impact event,” Captain Jackson told the live, 3D display of Dr. Thompson, the head of the science team. “But regardless, we plan
to do whatever we can to deflect it to the atmosphere, or, to a different
impact point, or into smaller pieces. We’ll do everything we can to minimize
the damage. If it weren’t so damn big I’d tow it away but even Maria can’t do that.”
“What’s your
ETA?”
“We should arrive in about 30 hours. You gave us
coordinates that don’t match the drop off site. I take it you moved the base
camp?”
“That’s a
long story, but yes, we moved about eight months ago.”
“The whole camp?”
“The pods,
not the structures. We needed a new site to continue our work, the resources
were depleted, the natives unfriendly.”
“Uh oh, what do you mean?”
“It’ll be
easier to explain when you get here. We’re really looking forward to going
home, Captain.”
“I understand,” Jackson said truthfully. The
science team had been on the upside down and backward planet almost four years.
Four years on rations, without real food, would put the pressure on his galley
to break out more steak and potatoes. The agonizing desire for something you
missed and wasn’t forthcoming, wasn’t a feeling he would ever forget. Especially
when that something was coffee. Or, to be precise, Colombian coffee, dark
brewed, with 20 grams of pure Cuban cane sugar.
“Is your crew ready to go?”
“They’ve
been ready for weeks.”
“As soon as we’re in orbit they can begin to
shuttle up. I’ll send Osprey down to speed it up.”
“We have a
mountain of samples and equipment.”
“Room for everything, doctor.”
“Call me
Jack, Captain.” Jackson blinked slowly and a smirk appeared on his
face.
“Jack Thompson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Thomas Jackson. I guess that’s par for the
course on a planet that revolves backwards.” He smiled for perhaps the first
time in two days; his face felt downright awkward.
“That could
be problematic. Maybe we should stick to doctor and captain?” the scientist
suggested.
“Good idea, Doctor. We’ll contact you in ten hours
for an update. Ja – uh, Captain out.”
He’d known the man’s name, but until that moment
he’d not caught the irony. Given names, surnames, the planet was, in itself, a
palindrome. Oh, what’s in a name, anyway?
“Mr. Lee, what’s our ship’s status?”
“We are 28 hours from orbit with Beta Hydri Four,
but we will reach minimum position to gather comprehensive information on the
asteroid in 11.7 hours.”
“Anything else?”
“Quixote
reports the engineering team has completed repairs to the damaged EBMs so we
can start replicating emergency supplies again. No new communications from
Space Admin since yesterday. Engines at 94% efficiency.”
“Have you had your dinner?”
“Sir?”
“I’m taking the night off. If you want anything,
you better get it now.”
“Thank you, Captain, no, I stopped in the mess
before coming on shift. Rougeau will be back shortly, and Mr. Watson.”
“The ship is yours, Lieutenant.”
“Aye. Have a nice evening, sir.”
Jackson loosened his tie and took the elevator to
the dining room in search of some conversation that didn’t revolve around a
disaster. He nodded at the day shift crew members as they partook of the dinner
meal.
“You’re just who I wanted to see,” Tom said to the
alien woman at his private table. “Where are my girls?”
“Anne took them after an early dinner. They like
to play games with her. She lets them win. You look like you’re needing a good
night of sleep.” She took a soft roll from the basket and split it in half. Tom
dropped into a chair and also took one, but simply bit into it whole.
“You’re right about that. What are you wearing?”
He noticed a different color glinting around her neck, not the usual deep-red
garnets that dangled from a gold chain. “Is that the musgravite?” He reached across
the table to lift the single large stone and take a second look at it. The stone,
its color and shape like an eggplant, threw geometric shapes of pale lavender
light around the room. She nodded.
“Quixote set it, so I can wear it.” She indicated
the gold lattice bezel that cradled the top like a hat, so it would hang, like
a spray of wisteria draped over a porch trellis.
“Good evening, sir, I’ll have dinner right out.”
“Jules? Where’s Bailey?”
“We traded, so she could take the evening off to
spend time with Keith. She’ll be back at breakfast. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Jules Graham, the cook, not the
chef, disappeared into the galley. He turned back to Rianya. “You took off your
wedding garnets.”
“They’re your wedding garnets.”
“I know, and I’d like to ask you something, while
we’re on the subject.” It was a simple request, but he hesitated to insult her
traditions. On the other hand, no sense in being zipped up. “Maybe we could
consider an Earth custom: wearing rings, instead of, or in addition to,
neckwear.” He touched the gold chain around his neck. “This pinches,
sometimes. I already wear one noose.”
“I’m
supposed to have the chain. I don’t have a bunch of hair to get caught in the
links.”
“You do have a bunch of hair.”
“Not on my body.”
“And I thank the stars for that every day. But that's beside the point. If we settle on Earth, I
want people to know we belong to each other.”
“Why does it matter? We know.” Her clever
circularity, as usual, sent Tom swimming in her eyes. Her long tresses covered
most of her shoulders. He saw peeks of dusky, rose smudges that tiptoed around
her collar bones, the stone settled against the tiny hollow of her throat. The colorful
glass beads woven into her hair glinted like the musgravite, throwing shadows
of a rainbow on the walls.
“Tradition.”
Jules interrupted his thoughts with two plates of
pot roast in dark gravy, miniature russet potatoes, and chopped, buttered
zucchini. He left just as quickly.
“Ambrosia,” Tom uttered, breathing in the fragrant
steam.
“Isn’t it beef?” He smiled, nodded, and stuffed a
bite in his mouth. It almost melted on its own, the distinct taste of a tender
steak, with crunchy bits of salt and seasoning, swimming in dark, viscid gravy.
Melted, real butter bathed the sweet zucchini, and fluffy, firm potatoes prevented globs of real sour cream and tiny chopped scallions from tumbling off the fork.
Dining routinely slid to the bottom of the priority list when the bridge was
hectic.
This might have been the best roast beef they’d
had since leaving space dock. It was perfection on a fork.
“Tom?” He looked up but didn’t stop feasting.
“Sorry. I’m hungry, and this is fantastic.” He
wolfed another bite, then mopped some gravy with a chunk of potato and scarfed
it down. He barely wanted to swallow it, keeping the flavors alive as long as
possible. “Are you excited? We’ll be on Kinnae tomorrow.”
“As long as they aren’t hit by the ass-roid I’ll
be happy to see them.” Her word fell humorless this time.
“It’s highly unlikely. The target is five hundred
million square kilometers. Waiso is about… a hundred.”
“Zalara won’t even know them,” was her wistful comment.
“She’s old enough now to understand who they are.
She’ll remember them until the next time we come back.”
“When will that be?” Rianya picked at the morsels
on her plate, pushing the potatoes around in the gravy.
“I’m not sure. Probably three, four years,
realistically.” Tom pushed a square button embedded at the head of the table
and Jules arrived promptly. “Coffee?”
“Right away, Captain.”
Rianya was quiet while Tom kept eating. Jules came
in with a carafe and two china cups with the Maria Mitchell insignia on the side. The only sound was that of the
coffee gurgling into the cups, the pitch rising as they filled. Tom kept eating
as if there was no tomorrow. Damn, Jules was a good cook!
“Are you alright?” she asked. He looked up and set
his fork and knife on the table. Her face pleaded for his attention.
“I’m sorry. I have a lot of things on my mind.”
“Want to tell me?”
Tom knew the odds of the asteroid causing damage
to Rianya’s family, or the science team, was a million to one, but the nagging
possibility still hovered. A faint ruckus of dishes and voices echoed from the
galley.
How had he lived for 50 some years without her
in his life? He propped his chin in his hands and leaned on the table to look
at her. She was a marvelous distraction, his good luck charm.
“I don’t want to talk, that’s for sure.”
“I think you want to talk, about the mission, and
then go to sleep like every night for a long time.”
“Maybe in between the mission talk and the sleep
we can find something else to do.” He looked at her askew hoping she’d join his
game.
“Captain
Jackson, report to the bridge immediately!”
“What now?” Tom jumped up and headed for the
elevator. When the door opened on the bridge he found Mr. Watson pulling Mr.
Rougeau away from Mr. Lee in a testosterone fueled brawl in the nadir, partly under
the navigation and helm console.
“Attention on deck!” Jackson shouted. None of the
three responded to his order. Watson bumped his head on the console and lost
his grip on Rougeau. Lee struggled on the floor against the younger man
throwing right and left punches.
“Come to order! Now!” He stepped into the nadir to
break up the fight. He pushed Rougeau off the lieutenant; Lee scrambled to his
feet. Each officer grappled to get at the other while Jackson reached for their
collars, getting between them. That was a mistake.
Rougeau and Lee both swung a right hook at each
other, at the same time, boxing Captain Jackson from the left and the right.
The fight immediately ended as Jackson lowered himself to the deck, holding his
jaw in his hands.
“Oh, fuck, Lee, now you’re in trouble.”
“You attacked me! You’re going to court martial,
you gawdamn ass’s ass!”
“Captain, are you okay?” Watson said, crawling
from his place under the helm to attend to his commanding officer. Watson
rubbed at his own head, stood, and, extending a hand, pulled Jackson to his
feet. He propped himself up against the helm, half sitting on the dashboard,
both hands on his face. He didn’t feel any moist on his palms, but his entire
head began to throb as the initial numbing faded.
He looked at the two men, slightly out of focus.
Each had several pink and brown swellings that would no doubt grow to purple bruises
in a few hours. Lee had a jagged, red gore over one eye to complement the tear the
Zlōger had given him; Rougeau’s lower lip was split and oozing blood down his
chin and neck. Each stood disjointedly, leaning on the nearest support
structure, their heaving chests gasping for air.
“TEN-HUT!” All three young men snapped to
attention, standing like steel statues, if not with ruler-straight spines. “You’re
a disgrace to those uniforms! Watson, stand at ease.” Jackson winced and
cradled his jaw in one hand. His mouth didn’t seem to want to work as designed.
“Just what in the hell is wrong with the two of you? I’ve never seen such behavior on
my bridge before, ever.” He verily shook with anger but, as always, the worse
the circumstance, the more self-control he seemed to have to deal with it.
Jackson fumed, almost slamming his fist on the
intercom button, but decided instead that taking his anger at his officers out
on the innocent button was setting a bad example and was bad for the button.
’Do
wheeeeeeee oh’.
“Sergeant Wagner, report to the bridge. Lieutenant
May, report to the bridge.” He pushed the button again, closing the mic,
gently, with his thumb. “Watson, report to sick bay.” The youngest man gathered up a vague salute
before he scurried out. Jackson straightened his back and paced a couple of
steps.
“There’s no excuse for this.” He stopped briefly
to spit a bit of blood onto his sleeve. “None whatsoever. I don’t know what the
problem was, is, or will be. I don’t care who started it, or why.” Jackson moved behind the men, speaking to the
backs of their heads. “You’ve just turned this into a really lousy night for
me, both of you.”
Rougeau stumbled slightly and opened his mouth but
the captain cut him off quick.
“We are facing a serious crisis. I need both of
you at your posts conducting yourself as the officers you supposedly are. This
isn’t a barroom.” He stopped in front of Rougeau and could smell a strong
alcohol of some kind wafting out of his gaping mouth. Jackson moved to within a
tongue’s length, face to face, with Rougeau. The inebriated ensign stared
through Jackson’s eyes, his own blank, bloodshot, smudgy windows blocking the
view of his soul.
Mr. Wagner arrived on the bridge and promptly
stood at attention as the other two men.
“Sergeant Wagner, take these two men to the brig
and notify sick bay they need medical attention.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Dismissed!”
He watched the three men board the elevator after Lieutenant
May stepped out, glancing at the party with wide eyes but remaining silent.
“I’m sorry you’ll have to man your station early
tonight, Lieutenant. Have you taken mess?”
“Yes, Captain, not a problem.”
“Maintain course and speed, notify me if telemetry
from the asteroid probe comes in before morning shift starts. I’ll be in sick
bay. You have the bridge, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.” Jackson could feel May’s desire to ask
what had just happened like it was a filament of plasma reaching out to hold
him, but it was not May’s business and Jackson intended to keep it that way.
The gossip windmill could be started with the slightest breeze and he didn’t condone
or encourage that.
“Good evening, Captain, oh my gosh, sir, let me
help you.” Rosalind Henderson, the RN on aboard, rushed to collect him by the
arm. She led him to a med bed, encouraging him to sit. He didn’t resist. “Stu
told me there was--”
“An altercation on the bridge. I’ve been sucker
punched.” She dashed across the room and back.
“Sir, that looks painful!” He put his hands on his
jaw and felt the swelling but didn’t look in a mirror. “That’s going to be a
nasty hematoma.” She handed him a pair of cold, flat, hand-sized gel bundles. “Cold
packs, here,” she said, moving his hands away and placing them on both sides of
his head.
The cold sent a shiver down his back but he held
them lightly to the injury despite the shock. He’d been through worse things
than a fist fight. She came at him with a hypodermal and injected something
near his clavicle; he assumed a painkiller. The docs were always trying to take
away the pain.
“How’s Stuart?”
“I gave him some analgesics and sent him to his
quarters. Mr. Mills went to the brig. Connection?”
“You don’t miss much, do you, Roz?”
“That’s not hard to put together, Captain.”
“Is it broken?” She put her hands under his chin,
under the ice packs, pressed a few times with her thumbs. He winced.
“I don’t think so but let me shoot it,” she said,
bringing a small image device to him, taking a snap of each side, then sending
the images to the holograph projector. Clear color images of each side of his
face appeared side by side. Bone appeared yellow to green to blue, teeth were
blue, red and orange surrounded those at the base. She rotated the image
several times.
“You have beautiful teeth, sir. And no fracture;
all’s good. It’s going to hurt a day or two, but the swelling should go down
before then.” Jackson slid off the work bed. “Take these with you,” she said,
handing him the ice packs. His brain felt a little loose inside his skull as if
someone had removed its scaffold. “Let me take you to your quarters,” she
offered.
“Thank you, but no. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Roz.”
“Goodnight, sir.”