Rogue Galaxy, Episode 1: The Captain and the Werewolf (2 page)

Miller scowled. “Who?”

“To some, it might seem like a humane solution. Plenty of food growing from the trees, friendly-ish natives, and no moon to get full and bring the wolf out. As long as she doesn't walk south of the equator, anyway.”

“Well, yeah,” said Miller, and Blaine realized that he himself had considered the possibility of leaving Summers there. “What I mean is, did he get wind of someone actually planning that?”

“Not as far as I know.” Blaine held her body still, but most people feeling the way she did would have squirmed. “I think he was just worried people would think of it. I guess it was a little....” She trailed off, not wanting to use the word “paranoid.”

Miller took another slow draw off his synthetic beer, holding her gaze all the while. Then he wiped his mouth and said, in a still lower tone than before, “Val, the captain's relationship with Lieutenant Summers is not good for the ship.”

“Who the captain fraternizes with is his business,” said Blaine. Traditionally, an officer pursuing a romantic relationship with one of his or her immediate subordinates might have been grounds for getting busted back down in the ranks. But forty years ago the law had changed to allow it, in the Fleet. Most military folks looked down on the law, since it had been a diktat from the political class. But the Fleet had always been something of a hybrid, with a strong non-military strain—magic and military discipline didn't always mix. And besides, the law was the law.

The law was the law, even if it only still existed on the
Galaxy...
. At least until the rest of the Fleet emerged from the Bubble of Fakkalohn. Of all the service branches, only the Fleet had refused allegiance to the Provisional, on the basis that their seizure of power was illegal and that they had raised support by casting emotionally manipulative spells over much of the Earth. On the verge of being destroyed by the formerly Imperial, now Provisional Space Marines and Infantry Dreadnaughts, the other fourteen Fleet ships had taken refuge in a Bubble of Fakkalohn, hastily conjured by the combined might of their astro-mages. The
Galaxy
had been too far away to join her fellows, the only Fleet ship this side of human-explored territory. Before the rest of the Fleet disappeared into the mysteriously folded space of the Bubble, Fleet Commander Admiral Bayonne had sent Farraday a subspace message ordering him to keep
Galaxy
out of harm's way until the rest of the Fleet emerged from the Bubble and they could join forces against the usurping government. Not that Farraday was likely to go over to the Provisional's side, anyway, especially not with that kill order hanging over Lieutenant Summers.

Blaine knew that Miller was worried about what might happen if the Fleet didn't come out of the Bubble soon ... or ever. The spatio-temporal exit point of a Bubble of Fakkalohn was extremely difficult to predict or control, even for expert mages, and the fact that it had been more than a month without the Fleet reappearing was nothing to be surprised or alarmed by. Then again, if the mystical calibrations had been a bit off and the Fleet didn't pop back into existence for another ten thousand years, despite having subjectively experienced no passage of subjective time whatsoever, that wouldn't be particularly shocking either. But it wasn't the kind of possibility they wanted the crew brooding over.

“I know who he fraternizes with is his business,” replied Miller, “but you know it's also ours. It damages the captain's credibility. There are people aboard who don't believe we're in rebellion entirely as a principled stand against the illegitimate government on Earth. And who aren't convinced the rest of the Fleet will ever emerge from that Bubble. They believe we're withholding allegiance from the Provisional because they ordered Captain Farraday to blast that werewolf out the airlock.”

Blaine didn't want to ask if Miller was one of those people. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Isn't it?”

“If it had been the legitimate government who ordered him to kill her, he would have rebelled just the same. Against the Democratic Empire and against the rest of the Fleet as well. And that makes our rebellion seem like a personal thing. Makes it seem that way, not to me, but to certain elements of the crew. Hypothetically. And that makes them less likely to be willing to spend who knows how many years drifting through uncharted interstellar space.”

He finished and sat looking at her with an oh-so-innocent face, as if naturally he himself would never be part of those hypothetical, dissatisfied elements. Blaine returned his gaze. From the way his face suddenly blanched, she knew he realized he'd gone too far.

“Lieutenant-Commander Miller,” she said. Her words were crisp, low, and clear. “If you should hear any seditious talk among the crew—among
any
of them—you will inform myself and the captain. And then, I trust, we all three will do our duty.”

“Aye-aye, ma'am,” he said, rigid and stone-faced.

Blaine looked down at their warming mugs, regretting that their simple outing had gotten complicated. “Roy—I'm your friend,” she said. “But I'm an officer of the Imperial Space Fleet, first.”

“Commander, I wouldn't have it any other way. Nobody comes before the Fleet, as far as I'm concerned. And, speaking frankly, this ship may be its only remnant, and I'm scared the captain may not be aware of how his actions might endanger it.”

Blaine gave him an even harder stare. Miller held his ground.

Blaine said, “You don't believe the rest of the Fleet will emerge from the Bubble soon?”

“I love the Fleet so much that even if none of the ships ever do emerge, I will do anything to keep it alive here, on the
Galaxy
.”

She sighed and broke eye contact. This time it was she who wished the beer had real alcohol, as she picked up her mug and took a swig. “I'll talk with him, I suppose. I'll try to find a diplomatic way to bring your concerns up.” With a sudden spurt of anger she reflected that she shouldn't have to be concerned with how diplomatically she phrased such a serious concern to her captain—she should be able to just say it, and not worry about his feelings.

Miller was leaning forward again, having taken her words as encouragement. “He wouldn't have to break up with her or anything. Just make sure the crew doesn't feel like Summers comes first. Not do things like leave Kimball prematurely because someone maybe might suggest leaving Summers there. And not give her such a run of the ship—I mean, it's crazy not to have her locked up when we come out of hyperspace. Our charts aren't always accurate enough to guarantee that we're not coming back into real-space in the presence of a moon. No one's sure whether the Provisional managed to introduce a scrambler-bug into our database before we broke contact, and the astro-mages aren't even sure what constitutes a full moon, in an outer-space context....”

“I'm not going to get that specific with him, Miller,” Blaine snapped. “You don't talk this way with anyone else, do you?”

“Never.”

“Good. Keep it that way. The man is our captain, and we will respect him.”

Miller couldn't control a sudden spasm of disgust that rippled across his face. “We both know which of you two should be the captain, Val....”

“Hey!” Her bark was so loud that not only Miller, but the vacuum-hockey ensigns and everybody else in the cantina froze. “Belay that crap!”

Miller's face was red. “Sorry,” he stammered. “I didn't mean....”

Blaine stood up. “I think I better think of some work I need to get done, before this conversation goes any further.” She picked up her mug and drained the rest of her beer before leaving. Miller kept his eyes down, not meeting hers.

As Blaine turned and left, her scowl sending personnel scurrying out of her way, she couldn't hide from herself the fact that Miller might be right. Would Farraday have made captain of a starship, if he hadn't been his mother's son? Maybe not ... but, God, what a mother! For the first time in months, Blaine felt again some of that excitement she'd once known at the prospect of serving under the son of
that
legendary Captain Farraday. Even if it hadn't been for her oath, even if the
Galaxy
had had a different captain, Blaine would have done a lot for Terry Farraday based on the family connection alone.

O
n the bridge, Captain Farraday sat in his captain's chair, mounted a few feet higher than the rest of the room on its dais, and watched his crew prepare to drop out of hyperspace. They were going to re-enter real space in orbit around Meyer's III, a planet that had been charted but never visited. Spectroscopic analysis had shown it was devoid of life and plentiful in miridium, a mineral the
Galaxy
could always use more of.

He'd ordered Lieutenant Summers—Jennifer—to supervise helmsman Lieutenant Beach in the drop. This drop from hyperspace would be fairly simple, because according to the charts Meyer's III had no moons; because of Jennifer's condition, any time they dropped out of hyperspace near a world with moons they had to be sure to do so at such an angle as not to have the ship exposed to a moon with its surface fully illuminated by the sun, with no visible shadow; if there were only one moon, they preferred to keep the planet between it and them.

Jennifer had left his bed and come to the bridge a few minutes before him, because arriving together would raise more eyebrows. Right now Terry realized he was staring at her as she took readings from her habitual post at the science station, so he began looking around the bridge at the other personnel. Those he made eye contact with, he smiled at. When he'd received the
Galaxy
command, most of the crew had been happy to serve under such a relaxed, firm but not harsh commander. He was good at coordinating a team and handling the sorts of crises they'd run into, back in those days. But he knew there were those who worried his manner might not be ideal for this new state of constant existential crisis they'd been in since their rebellion. Before it had been great, having a trusted big brother at their head—but now, what they needed was a father.

Terry Farraday knew that many in his crew felt this way, and he even knew that they might be right. But he was what he was, and he was also the captain. Once or twice, during a harsh bout of insomnia, he had actually considered stepping down, handing command over to the probably better-suited Val Blaine. But that would only be shirking his responsibilities—besides, switching the C.O.'s around would not exactly reinforce stability or morale.

And besides, the real truth was that he wanted to remain in a position where he could protect Jennifer. He sometimes suspected that resolve didn't line up with his duty. But there it was. He prayed he would never have to make the hard choice between the two.

A curt gesture aimed at Lieutenant Summers by Lieutenant Beach caught his eye, and he snapped his attention towards the helm. “Lieutenant Beach, Lieutenant Summers,” he said. “Is there something I should know about?” Jennifer had moved a few paces away from the helm, where she'd gone to supervise Beach as per Farraday's orders. In his peripheral vision he saw her pleading with her eyes for him to drop it—but he couldn't.

Short, skinny Beach had swiveled his chair so that he was facing the captain. He kept his gaze down and docile, but Farraday could sense the resentment emanating from him. “No, sir. Everything's fine.”

Farraday knew he should let it go, that he would be perceived as showing favoritism to Jennifer, that that would be bad for her, for him, and for the ship as a whole. But his rage was like a big wave tossing him up and propelling him forward. That rage was not really due to whatever minor snub Beach was guilty of. It had been born the awful day that the Provisional Government had sent a subspace communiqué ordering him to eject from an airlock the dangerous Lieutenant Summers, newly infected during an away mission by a werewolf bite; the day he'd realized that he might be surrounded by people who feared his Jennifer and wanted to kill her.

His friendly, boyish, outgoing exterior had not changed much. But that rage was always there now, determining his actions.

“Really?” he said. “Are you sure?” Lieutenant Beach fidgeted almost imperceptibly in his chair, his jaw flexed. “Speak up, Lieutenant Beach.”

Finally Beach said, with as much defiance in his tone as he dared, “It's not protocol, sir.”

“What isn't protocol?”

“For the science officer to supervise the exit from hyperspace, sir.”

“Ah.” True, the helmsman usually did that on his own—but who cared? Farraday knew this kind of petty squabbling was due to general resentment of Jennifer, and that the way he was acting now would only fan the flames—but, again, he couldn't help it. “Lieutenant Beach, I always thought protocol was to obey the captain's orders on his own bridge. Am I mistaken about that?”

“No, sir,” said Beach, eyes down, cowed.

“Good. Just wanted to get that straight. Now, carry on.” He looked at Jennifer and nodded her towards the helm. Reluctantly, she returned there.

Seeing that reluctance, the anger evaporated out of Farraday (for the moment, at least), to be replaced by regret. He surveyed the rest of the bridge, caught the resentful looks being surreptitiously passed back and forth.

I'm the one who's going to wind up getting her killed.

The thought left him drained almost of the will necessary even to sit up straight, and he slumped in the captain's chair like a melted man.

He remembered that awful day: he'd sent Jennifer down onto the surface of Cygnus VI along with the envoy, sent to interview the legendary Cygnian mages and sorcerers to see what secrets they might be coaxed into divulging to
Galaxy
's science department and astro-mage corps. That was the mission he'd been given by Admiral Bayonne—seek allies and useful knowledge till the return of the Fleet. At that very moment, a hundred light-years away, Bayonne and the rest of the Fleet had been entering the Bubble of Fakkalohn to escape the Provisional-controlled forces. Secretly Farraday's heart skipped a beat every time Jennifer went with an away mission, but they'd expected no special danger from this one. But then Jennifer had been bitten by an escaped werewolf that had been rampaging through the Sorcerers' City.