Rogue Galaxy, Episode 1: The Captain and the Werewolf (4 page)

She reached out and hit the “Hold” button, bringing the lift to a halt. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Farraday looked annoyed, but not surprised. “We're in a hurry, Blaine....”

“Yes, sir, I know. But you know what might happen if the werewolf—”

“If Lieutenant Summers.”

“With all due respect, sir,
if the werewolf
does damage in the Thompson Tubes.”

“All the more reason to get this lift moving, Commander.”

“Sir. Given the risk, you know what Lieutenant Summers would want us to do.”

Farraday's expression showed no anger, but only because every muscle of his face was held rigidly still. “Unfortunately, she's not able to tell us, right now.”

“She'd want us to blow the Tubes, sir. Expose them to vacuum.”

For an instant she thought he was going to strike her, but his arm shot past her to hit the “Release” button. “Enough of that, Commander,” he growled, unable to even look at her.

“Sir, permission to speak freely?”

“Denied.”

“Sir, if that thing sharpens its claws on the wrong circuitry, we could lose all ftl capacity, or just blow up, or blow up and leave a sorcerous afterglow that'll make this system a Bermuda Triangle for unsuspecting ships for the next million years!”

“You and Miller better get her out of there, then. Without forgetting she's your comrade.” The lift came to a halt and its doors slid open to reveal Deck Three. Blaine stepped out reluctantly.

She turned to make one last point. But the doors slid shut in her face, and the captain was gone.

She turned around. Her people were there, waiting for her and her instructions.

“All right,” she said, “let me tell you guys what you need to do....”

They walked to the Tubes' entrance as she talked; her top assistant, Chief Marquita Blackmon, looked at her in surprise as Blaine started to cross the threshold into the Tubes along with them. “Ma'am?” said Blackmon. “If there's more you need to tell us, we could hang back a minute....”

“No, I'm done. But I'm going in with you—I need to speak to Commander Miller.” To hell with protocol.

“Ma'am, if you've got a message, we'll be happy to deliver it. It's too dangerous in there for you to....”

“Thank you, Chief, but it's something I need to tell him in person. Won't take long.”

The Security escort Miller had left for the Engineering people was even more opposed to letting her in the danger zone, but a harsh glare from Blaine quashed their objections. They followed a thin plastic wire that led to Miller, who was unspooling more of it as he progressed through the Tubes; its other end was held by the sentry at the Tubes entrance. That was how Miller would be keeping track of all his people as they fanned out through the Tubes; all the teams could communicate with each other via Morse code by tapping the wires, and of course if the werewolf ran through one the people at its two ends would have at least some idea where it was. It wasn't possible to use communicators or sensors in the Tubes, because of all the thaumaturgic energy and pockets of hyperwaves floating around (the crazily-twisting Tubes were where the
Galaxy
harnessed the hyperfield). If a human stayed in there too long he or she might get cancer, or some kind of magical ailment, but the danger was pretty low-level and it would probably take a few days for anything bad to happen. Unless one of the spirits took a special interest in the human; but care had been taken to select non-malicious, relatively uncurious entities.

Blaine ground her teeth. The werewolf's very presence in the Tubes would probably create trouble—it was one of the supernatural meta-species, and was likely to disrupt the mystical balance. She'd have to refresh herself on the creature's bio-thaumaturgical levels and have the AI construct some models of how those would interact with the Tubes' spirits.

Plus there were the manito-wave generators, behind the Manito Buffering Panels. That circuitry wasn't even protected by strong paneling, because the spirits that shepherded the waves got claustrophobic—it was the manito spirits' discomfort around matter in general that made them so eager to help push the ship into hyperspace, where, strictly speaking, matter didn't exist. They'd probably get antsy just having guards posted nearby. There were Manito Buffering Panels scattered throughout the Tubes, and a werewolf screwing around with one would be a disaster. Without the ability to create manito waves, the
Galaxy
would be nothing but a hunk of metal with relativistic thruster power, and it would take it seventy thousand years to get back to Earth. Fortunately, the manito waves also created a high-pitched buzzing, too high for humans to hear but probably unpleasant enough to drive off a werewolf.

Miller stared at her in shock when they reached him. “Commander Blaine, what are you doing here?” he demanded, and glared at her escort.

“Relax, Lieutenant-Commander, I ordered them to bring me along. Besides, I might ask you the same question.” A case could be made that Miller's operational importance meant he should have been running things from outside, communicating by couriers. But Blaine knew he wouldn't have trusted anyone else to do the job, and, frankly, she agreed with him.

She drew Miller away from his team, down the narrow corridor of the Tube with its rounded walls. She was keenly aware that there was a werewolf prowling somewhere nearby. The sinister knowledge seemed incongruous with the clean, fluorescently bright environment of the Tubes. There was no gloom in here, and hardly a shadow.

“What is it, Commander?” asked Miller, his voice low and serious as he picked up on something obscurely disturbing in his C.O.'s manner.

“Listen, Miller.” She hesitated before uttering the next words: “I want you to be ready to get your people out of here pronto, in case we have to flush the werewolf out by exposing these Tubes to vacuum.”

Miller looked her over hard, studying her. “Is that what the captain wants?”

Blaine realized she had her eyes down. She defiantly raised them now to meet her friend's. Speaking in an even lower tone, she said, “Let's say I'm going to try to help him see what it is he wants.”

E
nsign Tracy Fiquet stood in the corner of the room with her hands clasped before her, quietly waiting in case Dr. Carlson or Witch Walsh decided to give her an order. They were sitting at their customary silver plastic table, leaning back in their chairs, gazing into space, speculating aloud about whatever came into their heads. Most of Tracy's days were spent thus, watching the two officers to whom she'd been assigned as liaison chat and brainstorm; the main difference was that today Tracy was more anxious and the witch and doctor less cheerful, because of Lieutenant Summers having transformed into a werewolf and gotten loose in the Thompson Tubes.

The two old-timers didn't seem to need a liaison; they seemed to get along quite well on their own. They almost could have been siblings, she sometimes reflected, but then would realize that was probably only because she thought all old people looked the same. They did share the same pure white hair; but whereas Betty Carlson was perhaps five feet tall and plump, John Walsh looked like one of his ancestors might have been an oak tree. His eyes were a beautiful clear blue, Carlson's a warm brown.... One thing Tracy supposed they did have in common was that ruddy, friendly, open quality of their faces. Besides, they'd been married for almost forty years, and Tracy had read that married people wound up looking alike, though marriage had been so rare for the last fifty years that Tracy really wouldn't know.

One would have thought that their being married would make a liaison even less necessary. But it was customary for one to be assigned, just as it was customary for the Ship's Doctor and Ship's Witch to be a married couple. Anyway, Tracy couldn't complain. The assignment wouldn't have been ideal for someone who wanted to get on the fast track to promotion, but Tracy loved hanging out all day with the pair and listening to them gab.

“What we need,” mused Carlson, absently pinching her double chin, “is a tranquilizer that werewolves aren't deadly allergic to.”

“Agreed,” said Walsh. “But, you know, Betty, tranquilizers are really your field of expertise.”

“I don't see why. Stick it in a pill and bottle it and it's a drug—leave the leaves on and it's still an herb, and those are your bailiwick.... It's too bad we don't have more samples of the Weed of Wonder,” she added, a little wistfully.

“You think it might be effective on a werewolf?” asked Walsh.

“Well, it definitely has both soporific and mystical properties. It would be great if we could figure out some way to test it on the werewolf, without having to risk killing her.” Tracy noted the way Dr. Carlson spoke as if the werewolf were calmly waiting in the next room to undergo their battery of tests. She went on: “I think that the Weed might have interesting effects on all sorts of supernatural meta-species. Like a vampire. I'd love to see how it interacts with a vampire.”

“I'm actually very comfortable with not having a vampire on board,” said Witch Walsh, as he consulted his monitor. “Hang on, let me access the computer models Tracy set up of how the Weed might interact with hypnothoradone and newt-eye....” As he searched the computer for the data, he lapsed into a puzzled silence. Meanwhile dread began darkly tickling its way up Fiquet's spine from low in her belly.

Walsh frowned at her. “Tracy, didn't you run those simulations that I asked you to set up?”

“Um, I think I, maybe I forgot, sir....”

“You
forgot
?” repeated Walsh. Carlson eyed her sharply, curiously. Fiquet squirmed and thought about coming clean: admitting that when Dobbler brought the Weed aboard and showed it to her, she hadn't been able to resist her curiosity and had indulged in just a teensy-weensy dose; then, when everything hit the fan and everyone
else
who'd taken it got caught and Walsh and Carlson had given her a list of all the simulations they'd like her to run on it, she'd still been a little spacey and might have maybe not done as thorough a job as she normally would.

On second thought, no, she wasn't going to confess any of that.

Dr. Carlson's knowing scrutiny was hard to bear, but Witch Walsh's flabbergasted disappointment was worse. Finally, he shook his head and, turning back to his screen, said, “Well, get it done, please. That would be a handy simulation to have right now.”

“Yes, Witch Walsh. I'm sorry, sir.”

The door chimed and slid open, and Captain Farraday entered. Tracy saluted. Because of their special status, Carlson and Walsh could have remained seated; but they stood and saluted as well, eyeing the captain with friendly concern: like everyone else, they knew of his affair with Summers. “Hello, Captain,” they said in unison.

“Hello, Dr. Carlson, Witch Walsh,” said Farraday with a nod. “Everybody, please, at ease.” Carlson and Walsh sat back down. The captain turned to Tracy: “Would you mind leaving us for a moment, Ensign Fiquet?”

“Of course, sir,” she said. As she walked to the door to the conference room, trying to keep her face blank, she thought of how weird it was that the captain should come calling in Sickbay now, of all times. The
Galaxy
was in a state of red alert; there was a werewolf loose in the most vital and delicate part of the ship; and the helm was frozen, meaning they couldn't reposition themselves relative to the moons, make the moon no longer full according to their point of view, and thereby deactivate the werewolf spell. Surely the captain had more pressing business than anything that might be in Sickbay?

Now, if that werewolf wasn't caught soon, and went on a rampage—
then
the captain might have to pay Sickbay a visit.

After the door slid closed behind her, Tracy was disoriented to find she could still hear the voices of her three superiors, albeit transformed: tinny, soft. It took only an instant to realize that was because there was a monitor still on and transmitting video feed from the other room. There were monitors throughout Sickbay so that Dr. Carlson and the other medical personnel—or Witch Walsh, if it was another sort of situation—could do a quick visual check on a patient, regardless of where they were. There was no reason for it to be on now, while there were no patients. But Dr. Carlson or Witch Walsh could have been fiddling with it, just to have something to do with their hands while they thought—and then it would not be very out of character for them to absent-mindedly forget to turn it off.

Naturally, the captain hadn't sent her in here so she could watch his conversation on video. She would go turn it off.

Absolutely she would turn it off. After all, she could hear every word being said in the other room, which was clearly improper.

She would turn it off, right away.

She was walking to the monitor to turn it off—walking very sloooowly....

***

C
arlson and Walsh also wondered why the captain had come to see them. True, he did ask if they had any drugs or spells that might contain the werewolf. But he already knew perfectly well that all known tranquilizers were lethal to werewolves, and that Walsh had nothing effective in his wizard's toolbox. That had all been established weeks ago, within half an hour of Lieutenant Summers being brought aboard with were-rabies.

Carlson did tentatively mention the hopes she held out for the Weed of Wonder. She hesitated to do so, since they had none. When the Weed of Wonder had been confiscated from Dobbler, its properties had been uploaded into Sickbay's databanks, a process which had unfortunately necessitated destroying their only sample. (Carlson's pharmaco-medical tests had degraded it some, what with the chemicals and radiation she'd had to use; and Walsh's examination of its magical essence had required the sample to “burst itself open,” for lack of a better metaphor, and reveal its secrets. All they had left were some ashes and bits of twig, which was too bad because their tests couldn't be considered exhaustive and there were still lots of properties of the Weed they couldn't predict. It would have been nice to have had a bigger sample, but Dobbler had gone slightly hog-wild in terms of sharing and ingesting the little bit he'd smuggled aboard.)