The Orion Plague (23 page)

The bridge itself rotated on gimbals, a giant
hamster-ball that kept “down” feeling the same, no matter what
happened. Its gravity would always be a fraction of that near the
ship’s skin, where most of the crew would work during combat. Set
deep within the ship and off its axis, it was surrounded by extra
armor, had its own auxiliary power supplies, and could be sealed
off from the rest of the ship if necessary. An auxiliary CCC
mirrored the real one, ready to take over in the event the main was
somehow destroyed or rendered inoperable.

Captain Absen was still busy to the eyeballs
when his watch chimed 1730, surprising him even as it reminded him
of his appointment. He turned the bridge over to his executive
officer, Commander Huen Xiaobo, Singaporean Navy. “Half shift, XO,
then start the watch rotation. No need to risk fatigue yet.”

The Chinese nod-bowed, then took the Command
seat and logged himself in.
An extremely competent officer
,
thought Absen as he made his way to his quarters,
but his skills
are not what worries me. Loyalties…they didn’t choose me for my
military talents alone, either, I know. There were others whose
records were more distinguished. It’s my reputation for building
crew cohesion, not to mention I speak four other languages. I
suppose I need to start learning ‘Australian’ now. Nations divided
by a common language indeed.

Inside the capacious Captain’s cabin he found
Steward Repeth had his dress whites laid out.
Superb Marine
,
he thought to himself.
A bit grim, but so are they all. Probably
hated to trade uniforms.

It was the first operational command he’d
ever had that allowed, even demanded, that he bring along a full
complement of uniforms. The irony of this ship was its profligacy
in room and weight. Need to carry more? Build it bigger, make the
bombs stronger, as long as you are willing to poison the planet
with low-level radiation. But they could worry about those problems
when the threat of alien genocide was dealt with.

He dressed carefully, and made sure to
prominently display his South Pacific Action ribbon with V device
and his Navy Cross. He had earned them for putting three Australian
surface ships and two submarines on the bottom during the Three
Weeks War between the UGNA and Australia. His single submarine’s
record amounted to more than half of the North American ship kills
and had saved the country from total embarrassment.

He looked at his sidearm nestled in its case,
a custom .45, then ignored it. He wouldn’t win any friends or
influence these people by being a cowboy, and the Royal Marines
were sure to be nano-augmented. They would laugh at any attempt at
physical intimidation, subtle or otherwise. No, he would have to
win their respect and loyalty by the old-fashioned method of
earning it.

If that failed, he had a few tricks up his
sleeve. He wondered offhand how many Australian Marines would be
enough to take on one of his Stewards. Perhaps a few rounds in the
ring would defuse some tension…if they had the time.

“Sensors have detected critical fission
reactions on the target planet,” Executive reported, turning its
eyeball to examine the neutron radiation scanner.

“Again? Perhaps we shall be fortunate and the
humans will do our work for us,” Biologist speculated.

“Do your work for
you
,” Executive
retorted. “It is
your
failure that has brought us to
this.”

“It is also his failure that has provided
your opportunity to succeed,” reminded Commander. “Perhaps you
should express your appreciation by focusing on your work.”

“Yes, Commander.” Executive cheerfully
returned to his tasks. If Meme had throats it would have been
humming; after hundreds of years of boredom it was busy, and it was
favored. Perhaps it would be given its own Command after this.

Dinner passed and fingers loosed collar
buttons. Colonel MacAdam had imbibed quite a lot of Captain Absen’s
best port and still seemed dead sober, except for the heightened
flush of his ruddy skin. His five company commanders and his
executive officer were not so stable, except for the hatchet-faced
one on his left, Major Stallers. That man sipped from his glass and
kept his counsel, and Absen thought he, among the Colonel’s
subordinates, would be the one to watch. The fact that he had been
chosen Alpha Company commander reinforced that impression;
MacAdam’s dossier had made note of his proclivity for ranking his
favorites within his commands, so everyone knew where they stood on
his list. And Absen knew Alpha Company was designated “Guard
Marines,” some kind of elite status he supposed.

His Stewards kept their glasses filled with
impeccable attention. Despite the alcohol and the company, the
Aussie Marines had been exceptionally well-behaved. On one hand
Absen felt relieved; on the other, he hadn’t identified any weak
spots, problems or levers among them. That could be very good or
very bad, he thought.
All or nothing, all with me or all against
me, if it came down to it.

He decided to take it as a good sign, and act
as if there was no question in anyone’s mind that the Australians
would support the skipper appointed over them, despite the history
between them. Absen was sure MacAdam had noticed the medals he
wore, but had not remarked on them. He knew the Colonel had never
fought directly against any North American forces.

Absen hoped the fact that he dined alone –
except for his Stewards, of course – with them would communicate
confidence and trust. After all, if the Australians wanted to
commandeer the most powerful piece of military hardware the world
had ever produced, armed with thousands of nuclear weapons, nothing
would be easier than that the Captain have an unfortunate accident.
Even though by international agreement Commander Huen would take
over, if MacAdam was willing to get rid of a North American he was
unlikely to then take orders from a Chinese.

No, he had to get the Marines on his side –
or at least on the side of strict adherence to military law and
discipline – as soon as he could.

“So, Colonel, now that the pleasantries and
the excellent food,” – not an exaggeration, he thought, for he had
bought and paid for a healthy private stock – “is out of the way, I
have a few questions for you gentlemen about your understanding and
interpretation of the Standing Orders our nations agreed to…”

***

Absen shrugged off his dress jacket into
Tobias’ capable hands, and then rolled his neck. It had been a long
evening, and for a man less patient it would have been torture.
Longsuffering and dogged determination were among his best
qualities, though, and he had used them to slowly grind out an
approximation of the truth. He’d check his impressions with the
watching US psych/intel team in the morning. He knew they’d be up
all night reviewing the video and interviewing the Stewards for any
observations.

Along with the relative bounty of allowable
physical possessions, the crew complement was enormous, larger than
any naval ship before it. Granted, aircraft carriers floated with
more people aboard, but more than half of those were the air wing,
not ship’s crew. This had allowed Absen to hand-pick his staff and
slip in people with all sorts of functions – like a separate intel
cell.

With five hundred Marines added to the mix,
Absen commanded a battleship, with one and only one purpose: to
destroy other spaceships. Alien spaceships.

Meme spaceships.

For the thousandth time Absen cursed that
damned nanocommando Denham who had kidnapped the alien and flew off
in her spaceship. It must have been a case of the madness of the
early combat nano versions. It made him sick to think of it. Better
to get the Eden injection than trust his body to a bunch of quirky
microscopic machines, but the thought of either one made his skin
crawl.

At the same time he wished he could contact
the man, if he still lived, but they were running silent, except
for tightbeam laser communications with the ground. He couldn’t go
broadcasting out into space without giving
Orion
away.

As he got into his shower and let the hot
water run over his neck he thought about his crew. Most were Edens,
those that psych testing had assured were not averse to blowing
some aliens to hell. A few were nano-augmented, especially his
eleven Stewards. These had the very latest, along with the training
to employ it…and some other, very special modifications. He hoped
he would not have to use them in the political powder keg of the
Orion
.

Barely dry after the shower, Absen threw
himself into his bunk.
I’ve been thinking about this for months;
one more day won’t bring any revelations.
That was his last
thought before consciousness faded.

His Steward gently closed the Captain’s cabin
door and took up his position outside. By force of habit he checked
his seven weapons and three major embedded systems before settling
into his vigil.

Skull awoke and rolled over, clutching at
the blanket and pillow. Then he sat up suddenly.
Free! I’m
free.
He sprang out of bed naked, reveling in the sense of
liberty and unconfinement, turning handsprings from the ceiling and
floor in the low gravity.
It feels like more than before.
Perhaps she found a way to spin up the comet a bit, give us more
weight.

He walk-floated to the waste closet door and
was stunned to find a human-style bathroom-spa the size of a
handball court. It was beautiful. A steaming tub of water bubbled
within a clear floor-to-ceiling tubelike enclosure, like a huge
cylindrical aquarium. A shower, a toilet, a bidet, a set of sinks,
vanity cabinets, mirrors, and thick rugs of what he could swear
were animal skins. The towels looked like plush terry.

He felt in need of a good cleaning. No matter
how perfect the biotech, there was nothing like soap and hot water
to make a man feel human again. He really did feel like he had nine
months of grime on him.

Walking carefully over to the bathing
facility, he searched for a way in. Finally he thumped the thing up
near the top and an iris big enough to ease through opened. He
boosted himself up and through without difficulty in the low
gravity. It closed after him and he settled carefully into the
water, trying not to send it sloshing too much.

It felt wonderful.

Afterward, he found a set of pajama-like
garments back in the sleeping chamber and put them on, prepared to
face his…what? He had no idea what to label Raphaela. But now that
he felt clean and human again, one thought filled his mind.

His son.

He strode out into the spacious main base
area, then stopped and turned slowly, looking. A lot had changed in
nine months. Or rather, she had changed things a lot in nine
months, he assumed. Raphaela was nowhere in sight. He would have
thought she would be waiting for him, or would meet him there. He
would have thought the base would have told her he was up and
around.

Suddenly alert for trouble, he padded quietly
from chamber to chamber, ignoring humming and burbling biomachines.
Soon he entered a well-equipped human-normal kitchen, and searched
the storage shelves for some quick food. He found what looked like
cheese and bread and ate, and drank from a water bottle as he
searched. She – they – were nowhere to be found.

Of course they could be in some chamber
sealed with an indistinguishable iris. Once he had searched the
whole place he could see, he decided sneaking around was
pointless.

First he yelled, and then began banging on
walls. He found more rooms as his thumping caused irises to form.
Most were darkened and filled with incomprehensible facilities like
the insides of living things, until finally he found one unlike the
rest.

At first he thought the doorway somehow
opened to naked space, but after looking carefully he realized that
it was enclosed by a crystal-clear half dome, set into the edge of
the base. Gingerly he stepped forward under a canopy of pinpoint
stars, hard-edged in the vacuum. It occurred to his suspicious
nature that it wouldn’t take much to have the door close behind him
and the room vent its air into space, but he dismissed the idea. If
Raphaela had wanted him dead, she’d have done it when he was
immobilized. But never again would he let himself be caught that
way. Not if he could help it.
She says she loves me – okay, she
implies it, and says she could – but that’s not real. It’s just an
ancient being’s desire for control filtered through a desperate
young woman’s immaturity.

Yes his inner voice sounded unconvincing even
to himself. He desired to believe it, wished to cease depending on
her or anyone, wanted to return to relying on no one but himself.
But he couldn’t go back, as long as he was out here in space
surrounded by biomachines she controlled.
It’s your own damn
fault, Skull. You got yourself into this mess. Man up and deal with
it.

Isn’t that what she said to you before?

The door opened behind him and he turned in
the darkness. He could see her outline against the machines’ glow.
Slowly she glided forward, holding a bundle in her arms. She held
it out to him, a soft wiggling creature.

It spoke. “Da-da.”

Impossible. It – he – is less than a month
old
. Skull moved toward Raphaela and she backed up, not to
refuse him but to step into the dim warm light of the interior
base. She touched a control and the glow increased, and he saw the
baby – his child – for the first time.

All of his resolve and self-control crumbled
as those shining grey-blue eyes met his. So clear, so innocent, so
knowing. “Da-da,” the boy said again, reaching his tiny hands out.
Skull held out his own, touching a finger to each. The little fists
closed, locking on tight, son to father. “Da-da-da-da.”