The Kruton Interface Page 3

  The armor-shielding design was an old one. Space warships with up-to-date configurations had no bridge per se, so that one well-placed hit could not “decapitate” a ship’s command and control structure. The various command stations were mobile and widely dispersed within the ship.

  Lt. Commander Rhodes was embarrassed. “Sir, we’re undergoing extensive repairs.”

  “Commander, you have a penchant for stating the ridiculously obvious. Please continue.”

  “Uh, yes, sir, Captain Wanker. As I said—”

  “That’s VAHN-ker.”

  “Vahnker?

  “Yes, it’s German.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, Captain Vah—”

  “Vahn-ker,” Wanker coached his first officer. “VAHN-ker. Accent on the penultimate.”

  “Vahn-ker. Yes, sir. As I said, sir, this is...well, this is the nerve center...you know. The brain.”

  “The bridge of the U.S.S. Repulsel” Wanker’s awe was akin to that of a man viewing a vast and messy traffic accident. “The diseased brain of the worst-rated ship in Space Fleet. The nucleus of the pathology, as it were.”

  Rhodes, visibly affronted, was nevertheless at pains to be tactful. “Well, sir, all due respect, but I think your characterization is a bit unfair.”

  “Unfair?” Wanker took the electronic clipboard that Rhodes carried. “On a ten-point graded scale, this ship scored the following on its last shakedown run: Mechanical Functioning: 4. Overall Efficiency: 2. Combined Personnel Performance Rating: 1.3. Battle Stations Response Time: 1.9. Tactical Maneuvering … Shall I go on, Commander?”

  “Well, actually, sir...”

  Wanker read on. “Oh, what’s this? Double digits in one category? Wait. Intrafleet Three-Dimensional Checkers Competition.”

  “Good for morale, Captain.”

  “Then why does the Overall Morale Profile stand at a heartwarming 0.07? There’s more. Battle Readiness Quotient: 0.0006....”

  Rhodes said loudly, “No need to go on, sir. Point well taken.”

  Wanker shoved the clipboard at him. “Then stop dissembling and start assembling the ship’s officers. I wish to speak with them.”

  “Aye-aye, sir. All right, gentlemen and ladies, all hands on deck, step lively. Line up, there.”

  The ship’s department chiefs lined up along a narrow gap running through the clutter. They came raggedly to attention.

  Wanker looked his crew over and did not like what he saw.

  “Motley bunch,” he muttered. Even the attractive blonde had a frowzy, fly-blown look about her.

  Wanker stepped forward and promptly tripped over a trailing length of plastic ductwork.

  Rhodes helped him up. “Watch your step, sir.”

  “Thank you. Damn, it’s messy in here.”

  Gingerly he stepped up to the first officer, a short barrel-chested man dressed in tartan kilt and sporan. He had an oversize shaggy red head and a scruffy red beard. Noticing the engineering patch on the man’s shoulder, Wanker said, “The engineer’s a Scotsman. What startling originality.”

  Commander Rhodes answered, “He’s Polish, sir.”

  “Polish?”

  “Yes, Captain. May I present Lieutenant Commander Angus Sadowski, Chief Technical Officer. Here’s his personnel file, on the reader, sir.” Rhodes handed Wanker the clipboard.

  “Angus Sadowski? A Polish Scotsman?”

  “Mr. Sadowski comes from a planet settled by Poles and Scots, though the Poles are greatly outnumbered. The prevailing language and culture is Scots.”

  “Very interesting,” the captain said. “Tell me, Mr, Sadowski, why does it sometimes seem that every last engineer in the Space Forces is a Scot? In your case a Polish Scot, but a Scot nonetheless.”

  “Aye, sir, th’ thistle’s gang ta seed, an’ clink her bairns maun need, sir.”

  Wanker stared blankly at Sadowski, then looked to Rhodes for help. “What did he say?” He swiveled back to Sadowski. “What did you say?”

  Sadowski didn’t blink. “I said, sir, tha’ th’ thistle’s gang ta seed, an’ clink her bairns maun need, sir.”

  Wanker shook his head. “I have no idea what this man is talking about.”

  Rhodes said, “He speaks only Scots. The Scots dialect, sir.”

  Wanker’s jaw dropped. He scratched his head. “But why does he speak only Scots? Why not Standard, too?”

  “Ethno-linguistic self-determination,’ sir. It’s his right, under Space Forces regulations, to speak and communicate in the language of his culture.”

  “It all comes back to me. Those new regulations just went into effect, didn’t they? I should pay more attention to my spam.”

  “I guess everyone has a right to speak his own language and all that, sir.”

  “Oh, absolutely! Who am I to speak against ethnic self-determination? But this presents a tiny… no, a wee problem. I do know some Scots.”

  “Problem, sir?”

  “How the hell are we going to understand him?”

  “There are phrase books available, Captain.”

  “And instructional software in the Language Lab? Never mind. Three cheers for regulations. Wonderful! Well, let’s look at his record. Ah, yes. The last ship he served on was the U.S.S. Intrepid, which underwent total systems breakdown and spent a year in the graving dock. Well, Mr. Sadowski, can you tell us anything about that?”

  Sadowski shook his russet head. “Aye, there’s mony a weary airt in th’ solar wund, sir, for a’ that an’ a’ that.”

  Wanker looked to Rhodes for help. “Number One, do you have any idea what this man is jabbering about?”

  Rhodes shook his head. “None, sir. I don’t speak Scots, I’m afraid.”

  Wanker said, “Neither do I. In fact, I think I pulled a D in Scots when I was in school.” His tone became ironically bright. “Well, we’ll just have to muddle through. Oh, what’s this? Three disciplinary actions in the last year… ’Intoxicated on duty’ … ’Intoxicated on Duty’ and”—Wanker squinted—”‘Unconscious on Duty’! Quite an accomplishment, that last. Anything to say for yourself, Mr. Sadowski?”

  “Fegs, sir, antimatter’s a brawer thing ta mak ye fou than whuskie.”

  “Isn’t that amazing, I just read that in a fortune cookie at lunch. Moving on… ”

  Wanker sidestepped to the next officer, a petite woman with overlong brown hair, green eyes, and a pixie face. “Who’s this, now?”

  Rhodes said, “Our navigator, sir. Diane Warner-Hillary, lieutenant, junior grade.”

  Wanker smiled. “Diane Warner-Hillary. Nice name. Certainly an improvement over Angus Sadowski. Let’s see. Lieutenant, it says here that you missed your last assigned tour of duty as navigator because you weren’t there when the shuttle lifted off. Any explanation?”

  Warner-Hillary grinned sheepishly. “I couldn’t find the spaceport, sir.”

  Wanker frowned. “You couldn’t find the spaceport?”

  “I got lost, sir,” Warner-Hillary said with a shrug. “When I drive I have this, like, totally bogus sense of direction. I get lost all the time, sir. It’s terrible.” She giggled nervously.

  Wanker’s voice boomed, as if announcing to the world at large. “A navigator with a terrible sense of direction.” An aside to Rhodes: “Don’t you find a wistful poetic irony in that?”

  Rhodes gave an inward grimace, but nodded dutifully. “Yes, sir.”

  Wanker turned to Warner-Hillary. “Don’t you think a navigator having a bad sense of direction is a trifle ironic? Not to say impractical.”

  “Oh, our last captain, Captain Chang, thought it was funny.”

  “Oh, he did?”

  Warner-Hillary said between giggles, “It was a she, sir. Oh, yes, sir. We had a little running joke about it. We’d get completely lost and she’d go, ‘Lieutenant Warner-Hillary?’ And I’m like, ‘How the hell should I know?’” She burst into elfin laughter.

  This was apparently quite funny to the rest of the bridge crew. They could not conta
in their mirth, much to Wanker’s chagrin, which he concealed behind a broad, good-natured smile.

  “So, that was your little joke’?”

  Still tittering but fighting to control it, Warner-Hillary nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Wanker smiled through gritted teeth. “A laugh riot every light year. Who’s next?”

  Rhodes said, “Darvona Roundheels. Rank: lieutenant, junior grade. Assignment: communications officer.”

  Darvona saluted. Wanker automatically began to return it, but before he could follow through, Lieutenant Darvona wrapped him in her arms, gave him one colossal smooch right on the chops, and released him.

  Wanker was flustered almost beyond recovery. “Well, that was decidedly unmilitary, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He straightened his uniform and tried to focus his crossed eyes on the personnel roster.

  “You have lipstick on you, sir,” Rhodes told him.

  “Huh? Oh.” Wanker rubbed his face. “Is it all off?”

  “Right there, sir. No, other side.”

  “Here? Okay, thank you.” Wanker exhaled, having regained his composure. “Darvona Roundheels, lovely name. Ah, I see her record is spotless. Not one merit or citation to sully the purity of her total incompetence. How did you land a job on the bridge, Lieutenant? For that matter, how did you make lieutenant?”

  “I made an admiral,” Darvona said simply.

  “I… Oh.” Wanker offered up an almost inaudible groan. “Well, at least you’re honest about it. Let’s see… Oops. Disciplinary actions aplenty.. ‘Fraternizing with enlisted personnel’… ’Fraternizing with enlisted personnel’.. .” Wanker did a take. His eyebrows arched. “Fraternizing with Space Base 27? Well, Ms. Roundheels, you certainly do have democratic principles, that I’ll say for you.”

  Rhodes interjected, “Captain, Ms. Roundheels comes from a culture with very liberal sexual mores.”

  “And where is that?” Wanker was eager to know.

  Darvona broke in, “Altair Six, sir!”

  Rhodes added, “A utopian religious colony.”

  Wanker nodded. “I see.” He risked a guess. “Mennonites?”

  “No, sir. The Madonnaites.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of them. Something about worshiping an obscure popular entertainer of the late twentieth century?”

  “Well, there are a number of those kinds of sects, sir,” Rhodes said. “You have your Lennonites and your Morrison Dancers. Then you have, I believe, the Elvisterians. There are a few more.”

  Wanker made a disapproving face. “Strange, don’t you think? Worshiping ancient song-and-dance acts. Something odd about that.”

  “I don’t like to put down other people’s religious beliefs, sir,” Rhodes said with inflated solemnity.

  Wanker shrugged. “Oh, well, of course, don’t want to do that. I didn’t mean anything by it, Ms. Roundheels.”

  “No offense taken, sir!”

  “Still, I don’t think it quite proper to kiss one’s commanding officer.”

  Rhodes said, “Lieutenant Roundheels’s people have a fervent religious belief in the universal sharing of free love. The lieutenant is … uh, especially pious in this regard.”

  Wanker glanced over her record. “I can see she’s been busy proselytizing.”

  “Spreading the faith, sir,” Darvona offered.

  Wanker smiled thinly. “Or, to put it another way, busting bedsprings from Betelgeuse to Beta Crucis Four.”

  Darvona winced. “All due respect, sir, but I beg to differ with your phrasing.”

  Wanker went on, “At any rate, none of that explains an efficiency rating of… oh, this is priceless. 0.00001. Lieutenant, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  Roundheels piped, “Medical problems, sir!”

  Rhodes said, “Yes, Captain. The lieutenant suffers from chronic Epstein-Barr disease.”

  Wanker narrowed one eye, puzzled and suspicious. “Another twentieth-century phenomenon?”

  Roundheels said, “But I have the latest mutant strain, sir. It’s ten times worse.”

  “Mutant strain?” Wanker asked, strictly out of morbid curiosity.

  “Yes, sir. Not only do you feel tired all the time, you also get fat, lazy, and stupid.”

  “And you are presenting all the symptoms. Well, I must say we’re forging into uncharted realms of personnel file, here. Who’s up next?”

  Rhodes announced: “Name: Svensen B. Svensen. Rank: ensign. Assignment: orbital mechanic.”

  “Svensen. I suppose the problem will correct itself when you move up in rank, but for now, forgive me for saying this, Mr. Svensen, but that’s a most unfortunate name for an ensign to have.”

  Svensen said dourly, “It gets worse, sir.”

  Wanker looked at the roster. “Worse? … Ohmigod. Middle name, Benson. I don’t believe it.”

  “My mother’s family name, sir. Properly speaking, the two names should be hyphenated.”

  “Hyphenated? You mean, you’re really… ” Wanker’s mouth crinkled dyspeptically. “Ensign Svensen Benson-Svensen?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  Wanker dumped the clipboard on Rhodes and threw up his hands in despair. “This is going to be a disaster! This has to be the worst crew of foul balls this side of the Lesser Magellanic Cloud!”

  Rhodes was quick to say, “Captain, it’s not as bad as you think.”

  “Just how bad do you think I think it is?”

  “Sir, please give us a chance.”

  “I’m lost,” Wanker said blackly. “I’m doomed. The chief of staff has it in for me. I have enemies in high places. I—” Wanker stopped wringing his hands and tried to pull himself together. “Never mind, never mind.”

  Rhodes began, “Sir, when we get under way, I think you’ll—”

  “Who’s missing here?” Wanker looked about wildly. “Somebody’s missing.”

  Rhodes said, “Yes, sir. The chief medical officer.”

  Wanker sneered. “Of course! What ship’s complement would be complete without the standard-issue ship’s doctor, middle-aged and alcoholic, crusty but benign. Well, what’s the guy’s name?” He glanced at the clipboard. He shut his eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

  “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.”