Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4) Page 10

  Real optimists had even suggested that they might be sent off to search for the Lost World of Defrica, which Shion had confirmed was known to her people, too, as a real world believed to have been sealed away somewhere within the Carotis nebula. The Exploration Corps were said to be planning another expedition there, on the strength of Shion confirming that her people had historical record of a world they called Point Zero, origin of the plague which had wiped out so many ancient civilisations.

  Wherever they were going, though, and whatever they were tasked to do, it would certainly not be routine. The Heron was far too valuable a resource to be deployed in operations which could be undertaken by a regular Fleet ship. So there was a building sense of excitement, as the days went on. That kicked up into another gear as the launch countdown was activated, and continued to mount as each step took them closer to finding out what they were going to do.

  The launch was a process which took hours, even for a crack ship like the Heron. Pre-launch was a major undertaking, not just technically but with its own traditions, too, which could not be rushed. Once tech-checks reached a certain point, the order was given for a deep clean of the entire ship. Everything that could be shined was shined, even the interior of lockers and the underside of deck plates. That was more of a safety precaution than ceremonial – the vibration of the launch would shake loose any dust particles that might be on surfaces, and dust contamination was the biggest cause of systems failure on any starship. Once the ship was cleaned to Buzz’s satisfaction, they set about sealing every locker door and console access, not just by locking them but putting a physical seal-tape across them to indicate that they’d cleared inspection and must not be opened again till after the launch.

  Alongside the physical preparations, though, there were the equally important rituals. Spacers were notoriously superstitious, and would certainly have been uneasy going into the launch if the proper traditions had not been observed. The ceremony of reading in was a big part of that, marking the point at which they committed themselves not just to the launch but to whatever mission might lay beyond it.

  Alex did that well. He might not be any kind of hand at giving speeches, and was no believer in tradition for the sake of it, either, but he too felt a deep sense of history as he read out the fine, archaic words.

  ‘Pursuant to the Devices of the Constitution...’ When he got to the part about ‘venturing upon the perils and hazards of space’ they were all mindful that they were, indeed, about to venture into the most hostile environment known to man, quite apart from whatever hazards they might face operationally. When he reached ‘all those willing to undertake this endeavour signify assent by saying ‘aye’,’ the ship rang with a good and hearty ‘Aye’ from everyone aboard, a moment of commitment and purpose that was in itself part of them becoming a united crew. Later, there were the unofficial but equally important rites – Alex’s customary ‘last chance to get off’ before sealing the airlocks, and the ‘Last calls, ladies and gentlemen’ indicating that they had just five minutes now before comms would be shut down to all but the essential link between them and traffic control.

  Nearly all of them made that ‘one last call’, saying goodbye to families. That was often an emotional moment – Martine Fishe was not the only one to choke up a bit, as she said goodbye to her parents and her six year old son. They would be staying at the base – like quite a few families, they’d found living there so pleasant that they’d decided to stay, regardless of security concerns.

  There was nobody aboard, however, who got really distraught at the prospect of parting from their families. The brutal truth of it was that if people were torn up at the prospect of parting from partners and kids, they just didn’t make it as spacers. For all of them on the Heron, the pangs of parting were countered by the thrill of departure, sheer adrenalin carrying them through the goodbyes. It would be the families who wept a bit after the calls had ended, not the people on the ship.

  For them, the moment had arrived, as the frigate curved into approach to the launch tunnel. It stretched out ahead of them – fifty two circles of field-booster satellites set a couple of million klicks apart. Final clearance was coming in from traffic control, along with an exchange of highly technical data. There was nothing much to see, visually – no great shimmering forcefields or plasma bolts – but all the spacers at least understood that that tunnel was generating a good four times more power even than their own engines. Given that any one of the frigate’s mix cores in itself produced enough power to supply a city, they were dealing with tremendous forces, there. In the last few moments, many of the crew carried out their private launch rituals, rubbing lucky items, patting the ship, turning around three times or saying their pre-launch ‘lucky saying’. Quite a few of them, indeed, said a prayer.

  The launch went well. The ship, as usual, appeared to be shaking itself to pieces, deck plates grinding together and hull struts groaning apart. Wave space turbulence flung them around inside the ship like peas in a maraca, all of them strapped in and hanging on to freefall bars. All of them were yelling, the same kind of wordless howl that people tended to break into on rollercoasters.

  Alex sat with one hand flat on the command table, grinning delightedly. He loved these moments, feeling his ship leaping out into the wilds of space. He was laughing as the ship went into the final phase, the second or two of complete disorientation, like being caught up in a tornado. There was the usual feeling of imminent death, the flicker of terror that no amount of experience could entirely overcome. And then in the next moment, it was all over – the ship surged through into the tranquillity of cruising in their own bubble of superlight forcefield, all the noise and shaking settling into a quiet hum. Before them lay the stars, brilliant and still, with the great ribbon of Galactic Centre like a radiant mist.

  Music burst out – by Fleet tradition, it was the privilege of the rating at the helm to choose a piece of music to be played, post-launch, one of the few times music was sanctioned to be played across the ship even on the strictest Old School vessels.

  Lt Commander Sartin looked surprised. He had maintained stoic calm during the launch, but looked astonished by the singing. The music being played was a popular classic, hundreds of years old, a patriotic anthem in ancient lareen, very often sung at major sporting events.

  The Heron’s crew sang it remarkably well, though. Typically, a stadium full of people would roar out Gloriatzi terrae harmonis, only for the rest of the chorus to descend into the confused bellowing of a crowd who mostly knew the tune but not really all of the words. The Heron’s crew knew all of the words, and they sang it like a choir, too, the few tone-deaf groaners drowned by the full-throated part-singing harmonies. The only ones who didn’t seem to know it were the newcomers.

  Alex, too, added his voice to the song, joining in unselfconsciously. Like everyone else, though, he was already getting busy with post-launch, eyes on screens, hands flickering over controls. By the time they’d finished singing, giving themselves a cheer and applause for their performance, Buzz was able to report, ‘Launch secured, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Commander,’ Alex replied, just as formally, since such exchanges were more than mere protocol, the words to be said laid down in regulations. The grins they exchanged, though, were as happy as a couple of kids.

  That buzz of excitement continued over the next hour. They left Therik behind very quickly, even the most determined pursuit ship giving up as the frigate accelerated beyond the reach of any but the fastest racing yachts to keep up. The only ship which did keep up with them was the Stepeasy, Davie’s ship, which launched in their wake and assumed an escort-station off their port side.

  No footage of that launch would be on the media. Any shots taken of the frigate heading out into space would either be so angled that the super-yacht was not in the frame, or it would be edited out. The Families had lockdown protection on their privacy, as had been the case for centuries. It was illegal even for the media to report th
at the Stepeasy was in port, let alone identify its owner.

  As they headed out on the course given in their preliminary orders, Davie was in the galley. Alex could see him on the open comms screens, and had time to watch, too, since there was nothing else to do at that point. Normally they went into busy operations within minutes of launch. It would be rare for them to get even an hour out of the system without encountering some small craft in trouble, usually because of panicking or incompetent owners, and they would often have a sweepstake on which of the usual idiocies they’d be likely to encounter first.

  Not today, though. Their orders were to follow a given course which took them right away from space lanes, out to a set of coordinates an hour away where Alex would finally be able to access their operational orders. So, once he’d finished post launch procedures, he had nothing to do but chat to Buzz and the others on the command deck, keeping an eye on the comm screens and an ear to the buzz, picking up the vibe of excitement and anticipation.

  The sight of what was going on in the galley did make Alex chuckle. There were four people in there, only one of them a full member of the crew. Two of them were actually passengers, Davie and Mako Ireson. The fourth was their recruit, Banno Triesse, officially a probationer for his first month aboard.

  They were having a great time there, all four of them. The able star responsible for supervising dinner prep was laughing so much he couldn’t even speak. Mako and Banno were scrambling frantically in an evident competition over which of them could hand stuff to Davie the fastest. He was not allowed to work in the galley, not at least in any role which involved operating even the simplest machinery, but he was helping as much as he was allowed to by setting out the food ready on the galley hatch. He was taking trays and packets from them both as they whipped them in and out of rehydrators and ovens, whisking dishes onto the serving hatch with the speed and precision of an industrial robot. While he was doing so, though, he was giving an all-too accurate impression of Marto, shrieking hysterically at his staff.

  ‘How can I create wonders and marvels with such fools, fools, shattering my vision?’ he declaimed, while creating a beautiful salad display with one hand and putting rolls into the bread basket with the other. You would have to be very alert to notice that as he was working, he was also eating, and even more alert to spot just how much he was eating. His physiology required at least twenty five thousand calories a day to sustain it, and since he loathed the taste of high concentrate nutrient, he ate a lot, and often.

  It was great, Alex felt, to see just how well both Mako and Probationary Star Triesse were getting on with Davie. They were clearly entirely at their ease with his super-human abilities, and Davie, too, was just happily being himself. This was quite something, for a young man who had described himself as a freak and abomination when he and Alex had first met. It had been apparent to Alex that Davie expected people to recoil from him once they found out that he was gehs. Shion, too, had spoken feelingly about wanting to be amongst people who would just accept her for who she was, people who didn’t use special voices when she was around.

  Both had found that here. As, come to that, had Banno Triesse.

  Alex was perfectly willing to admit, by then, that his concerns about taking Banno Triesse aboard had been unfounded. He still felt, on principle, that there were serious ethical issues with accepting civilian recruits through the prisoner rehab scheme, but Triesse was certainly going all-out to make it work. He had undertaken just the same groundside training as any other Fleet recruit, and passed just the same assessments. He had not come aboard as a civilian, but already one of them, a serving member of the Fleet. He’d already made friends amongst the crew while they were at the base, and was so at ease and at home with them that the only distinction, really, was the probationer’s half-star on his insignia. And he was, after all, a spacer – had been working on freighters for more than a decade, qualified as tech and pilot, before an ill-judged berth as first mate on a trademaster had landed him in prison. His defence, that he had not known that the ship was gun running until after they picked up the cargo, and that he had intended to leave the ship at the first opportunity, had cut no ice at all with a groundside jury.

  Alex was inclined to believe him, though, that his only crime really was to have got on the wrong ship at the wrong time. In any case, he had satisfied every authority involved, including Alex, that he was genuine in his desire to start afresh, to join the Fleet and make a new life for himself with them. He certainly could not have made a more enthusiastic start. And Alex, seeing the parolee, the prisons inspector and the superhuman billionaire having such great fun there getting dinner ready, couldn’t help but laugh too.

  They had dinner while on the way to the assigned coordinates. Alex, as was customary in the Fleet, held the conn himself for half an hour with senior petty officers covering other watch duties so that all the officers could have that meal together. Then there was a watch changeover, and as the relieved watch took their turn to eat, Alex went to have his own dinner. This was normally a solitary meal eaten in his cabin, but he had accepted an invitation from the Second’s team to eat with them this evening, his first opportunity to meet with them as a group, or socially. They had delayed their own meal so that he could join them, and had evidently made some effort in honour of the occasion, too, dressing up and putting some holo-candles on the table. They had not, however, been able to do anything about the state of the lab. Their living quarters and the lab were all part of the same space, with a lounge alcove and dining table to one side and lab benches and a datatable to the other, surrounded by doors to their sleeping cabins. Angas Paytel had not been able to persuade them to send many crates back groundside. They had stacked them in every space the passenger liaison officer would allow, even filled the lounge space with them, and every wall and ceiling net was packed to bursting point. They also had several experiments ongoing, with a centrifuge that kept whirring and pinging, any number of screens displaying data and a crate with a yellow flashing warning sign on it, declaring its contents a potential biohazard. It wasn’t the most elegant place for a formal dinner, but they made Alex welcome, urged a glass of non-alcoholic wine upon him, and said hospitably that they hoped he would like the food they had chosen.

  It wasn’t long, though, before they were talking about the forthcoming mission. The research teams the Second had sent aboard were not felt to be any clue as to where they might be going. All of them were of the kind the Fourth considered routine, on research projects which could be conducted regardless of where they were sent. Even the Ignite test would require only a few days diverting to a suitable uninhabited system for the missile to be fired. If they were to be going to Quarus, the Second’s teams would undoubtedly be taken off the ship before they crossed League borders, as had been the case with the Novamas operations. Even so, the lab teams were just as keen to know where the Fourth was going. Their biggest fear, in that, was that Alex would keep it from them, that he would seal the lab off from the rest of the ship when he told the crew where they were going.

  ‘I won’t do that,’ he assured them, ‘unless it specifically states in my orders that I have to. You all have the same clearance as any member of the crew, after all.’

  ‘And you won’t just chuck us off the ship?’ That was Sam Maylard, really anxious. ‘Angas says these coordinates we’re going to are a rendezvous with another ship – they wouldn’t just take us off an hour out of port, would they?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Alex said. ‘Though Mr Paytel is probably right about it being a rendezvous. The usual procedure with sealed orders is to give the skipper an hour to clear port along a given shipping lane, after which they can open and read them. When it is as specific as this, coordinates specified to eight decimal places, that usually means rendezvous with another ship, yes. It’s highly unlikely that the Admiralty would have put the Second to all the trouble and expense of sending your teams and all your equipment on board, though, just to take you straight
off again. It’s far more likely that we’re to take more people aboard, discreetly, or perhaps some additional supplies needed for the mission.’

  ‘You seem very calm about it, skipper,’ Misha Tregennis observed. She was an expert in ergonomics, here to conduct research into how the Fourth achieved their exceptional efficiency ratings. She had dressed for dinner in a deep red off the shoulder cocktail dress, and leaned forward as she spoke, cradling a wine glass in one hand. Her smile was friendly, ready to become flirtatious if the skipper showed the slightest sign of being willing to respond. Not for the first time, Alex had to remind himself that she was actually a Fleet officer.

  The truth was that Alex was just as excited about this as any other member of his crew. Not all his lack of sleep over the past few days had been due to pressure of work.

  He would not, however, say so to Misha Tregennis, certainly not with her giving him that look of warm invitation.

  ‘Well, if being given mission orders was going to send me into a panic, I wouldn’t have got the job,’ he responded, courteous but impersonal.

  Sam Maylard came to his rescue, clearly recognising that their guest was not comfortable with Misha’s giving him the eye.

  ‘I would just love to see that job advertised,’ he remarked, with a grin. ‘Wanted: Mission Commander. Must be able to undertake search and rescue, law enforcement, scientific research, first contact missions and the laying to rest of ancient spirits as required. An ability to work under pressure would be an advantage.’