He was a smallish, too-lean man, his lavender skin much paler than it should have been, his ordinary white hair cropped short about the sides and back, a bit longer up front. His face was stretched over sharp, high cheekbones, not quite sunken, but not quite healthy, either. His eyes were a deep yellow, almost orange. They were cold and reflecting, very alert, very intelligent. Very shrewd. The mind behind the eyes did not particularly care about the body which had barely gotten it through the Space Navy physical. That did not matter. What mattered was that it functioned. What mattered was that the man had graduated first in his class at Tansar, the top Space Naval academy, with a multitude of honors, and was now a very successful and respected Lieutenant Commander at the scant age of twenty-five.
His name was Keezor Gemcutter. He did not care for the handle. His registered go-by was Keezor, and that helped a bit, since he never went out of his way to announce his too-quaint family name, or the fact that it meant he had come from a thousand year-old line of jewelers. It was not that he was embarrassed of his heritage; it was simply that "Gemcutter" was really not at all a proper name for an officer. It had no power, no strength. "Keezor," on the other hand, had a certain edge to it, which is why he had insisted on being called by it since he was a child. He knew very well how important image was, and realized that if he could not be a physical presence, he could at least be a psychological one.
His father had long been irked over his refusal to go by the family name, and even more irked over his decision to throw away the years his son had spent apprenticed to him in favor of joining the Space Navy. His mother had simply whined, in a typical motherly fashion, that he was not strong enough. In the end, he had come to terms with his father, and had proved his mother wrong: his somewhat frail body had somehow weathered the physical hardships, and his mind had passed every test with flying colors.
Keezor was an intelligent man, highly so. He knew it.
The average Space Navy recruit, even if they had come from an academy, was just that: average.
That was why he joined.
His opinion was this: They needed him, and they knew it. He did not deny his ego. He knew he was good, and he was damn proud of it. He did not, however, lower himself to bragging. Boasting was bad etiquette, a sign of insecurity, and a way to make others believe you were lying. Keezor revered proper behavior and stood on solid ground. As far as he was concerned, bragging in any form was unnecessary. He preferred to prove himself through his actions, which he had in fact done on numerous occasions.
Keezor was largely a solitary man, or more accurately, a recluse. He was not altogether antisocial, but preferred to be alone, exercising his mind. His bedroom at home was his palace; he spent the majority of his time during leaves there. It was his private sanctuary. He usually did not let anyone in, not even his mother. She had rarely needed to go into his room even when he was a boy, mostly because he kept it so meticulously clean and neat.
People thought he was strange. Likeable, respectable, but strange. He did not care. He lived his life the way he liked it best: orderly, properly, and, when possible, alone.
2. Two
It was dark in his sanctuary tonight. The whole room was wrapped in shadows, save for a bright light over a table. Sitting at the table was Keezor, a large book open before him. Situated on the table was a perfect, scaled down terrain dotted with the troops of two armies prepared to do battle.
Tonight was the last night of a one-week leave. He had spent all day setting up for the battle, deciding that it would be a pleasant way to end his short vacation.
Keezor loved history, especially historical battles. The workings of armies and navies had fascinated him for as long as he could remember. His shelves were filled with books containing detailed accounts of battles from the decade he lived in to millennia past. He believed in learning from history, from others' mistakes as well as successes. Strategy games were fine to play--he had a cabinet in his room dedicated to holding a score or more of them--but they were, after all, only games. He had already mastered a number of them, and was considered the best Stratigon player, two and three dimensional, in the hemisphere. The re-enactment of real battles, however, gave him a certain satisfaction the games could not. Through his models, he had come to learn and memorize literally hundreds of offensive and defensive strategies, and had also learned why many more had failed. Years of persistence at this hobby had made him the top-notch strategist he was.
Tonight he was field marshaling the Battle of Issai, from some three thousand years in the past, fought from chariots and riding beasts, with spears and crossbows and swords. Its primitive appearance and complex, ingenious workings made for an appealing exercise of the mind.
Keezor was already familiar with the scenario; now he was working his way through the book in front of him, consulting maps and other information. As he read, he would move the model armies' troops through each stage of the battle, pausing to study, make notes, and take mental pictures.
He became so absorbed he did not notice when, sometime after midnight, the young woman sitting across from him put down the book she was reading, got up, stretched, and circled the room, her fingertips brushing the rows of wall-to-wall books on his shelves.
Her name was Marilla. She was naturally attractive, but not beautiful, plump but not large enough to be deemed fat. Her face was perpetually friendly, shining with health and happiness.
She came up behind Keezor and rubbed his shoulders. He sat immobile, his eyes locked on the model. He said nothing. "Mm, Gem...," she hummed. Keezor blinked at the sound of the pet name. He did not particularly like it, but he did tolerate it. "Gem," Marilla repeated.
A long pause. "Hm," Keezor replied, and continued to contemplate the model.
The girl kissed the top of his head and continued to rub his arms, neck and shoulders. "Are you going to do that all night, Gem?"
Another pause. "Mm."
"You should be spending your last night having fun."
Keezor sat up a bit and paged through his book. "I'm enjoying myself," he said. Marilla continued to pet him. He responded to it with indifference.
He had met her many years ago. She had singled him out at cafe for some unknown reason and had sat down at his table, upsetting privacy as well as his indulgence in a particularly good book. She had more or less forced a conversation on him; however, after the initial annoyance died down, he had found her pleasant enough. She had given him her phone number after several hours of chatting, and he had politely given her his own in return. He would have forgotten about her, except for the fact that she would not go away. She was not annoying, simply a bit overly friendly at first. Eventually they had grown to be friends, although exactly why Keezor did not quite understand. They had little in common. Marilla, however, was quite fond of and intrigued by him, and through a bit of devotion and persistence had managed to win a place in his small circle. She was, in fact, the only person he would allow in his room without question or hesitation.
"You're so thin," she said as she ran her hands over him. "Don't they feed you in the Navy?" Keezor did not reply; he had heard variations on this lecture from her as well as others a million times before. "That reminds me...," Marilla went on. She left his room and came back with a wrapped plate. She took the crinkly foil off (earning a "Sh!" from Keezor) and set the plate down beside him. On it were a multitude of tiny pastries. "I almost forgot about this," she said. "I made them for you."
If there was one thing no one would deny about Marilla, it was that she was an excellent cook. She was also a dietician, which meant that Keezor had to endure her constant, motherly attempts to feed him properly.
Keezor stole a glance at the desserts, then chose one at random. He nibbled at it as he made alterations to the model. It was good. Very good. He popped it in his mouth and reached for another. He downed the second pastry in several bites, then took a third. Behind him, Marilla was ecstatic. Keezor rarely did more than nibble, and he never took seconds. She embraced him from behind, snuggling as close as she could. He frowned and shrugged away. Marilla did not care.
"So, you like them?" she asked, smiling broadly.
"Yes," Keezor replied, still concentrating on the model, "They're very good."
"I'm glad," she told him.
Time passed. The pair fell silent again as Keezor worked at his model. Marilla resumed her seat across the table from him, and sat watching him closely. He seemed thoroughly absorbed in his work. Then, all at once, the girl's pleasant expression dissolved into one of worry.
"Gem," she said.
"Hm," he replied without looking up from his work.
"Do you have to go away tomorrow?"
"Of course."
"I mean, do you really have to go away?"
"I've told you before," Keezor murmured patiently, "being selected for the special program aboard the Surefire is a rare and excellent opportunity for me to advance my career."
"I know, I know," Marilla protested, "but you'll be way out in space, far away, for so long! I won't be able to talk to you or anything."
"It's only for six months."
"That's forever! What am I going to do without you for six whole months?"
"What do you do with me now?"
"Keezor..."
"You'll be alright," Keezor soothed, still absorbed in his battle.
"But I need you," Marilla replied quietly.
"You have other friends... other men..."
"Other friends, but no other men, Gem, only you." Keezor looked up briefly. She was staring at him, sad and longing. He returned to his task.
"Marilla," he said at length, "Are you bored?"
"No," she replied, "Why?"
"Don't you ever get bored, sitting around here with me? You have almost no interest in what I do."
"No, never," Marilla sighed. "I just like to be with you. That's enough."
There was another, longer pause. Marilla got up, came around behind him, and began to caress him again. "When do you have to leave tomorrow?" she asked.
"I have to be at the aerospaceport at 0900."
"Hm?"
"Nine o' clock."
"Oh." An awkward pause. "Gem...Do you love me?"
Again Keezor looked up from his work, but gazed ahead at the wall and not at the girl. She had never asked him that before. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "Yes," he replied quite frankly, "In some bizarre way, I suppose I do."
Marilla bent close and wrapped her arms around him. "Then how about making love to me?" she murmured, and kissed his neck. Keezor turned and looked up at her. A tender expression, usually alien to him, crossed his face.
As it happened Marilla was as good a lover as she was a cook, if not better.
3. One
The next morning, after Marilla had embarrassed him by smothering him with good-bye hugs and kisses, Keezor made his way to his departure gate. According to his watch he had another fifteen minutes to kill before the offworld shuttle to Orbital Station One would be called for boarding.
His stomach was rumbling. This was rare for him, especially since he had eaten a very large breakfast. Marilla had discovered one of his little quirks: sex made him hungry. Very hungry. Ravenous. She had been rendered speechless when he had gotten up suddenly and had literally ransacked the kitchen. To her pleasure, he had gorged himself. However, he was still feeling hunger pangs.
He paid an outrageous sum of money for several candy bars and a drink, scarfed the food down, then went back to the gate to wait. There was a video game there; it happened to be two dimensional Space Stratigon.
Keezor regarded the machine in distaste. He hated computers. The human mind, he felt, was so much more superior, capable of true thought, emotion, and integrity. It was the human who truly invented, thought up strategies, and made advancements. A computer was just another tool made by the human. One could claim that a box full of silicon microchips was capable of producing battle tactics, but what would the mass of wiring know about strategies at all without a human to program it? As far as Keezor was concerned, people should spend more time developing their own minds rather than allowing techno-toys to do the thinking for them.
Since he had nothing better to do, he popped a coin into the game and selected the highest level it would allow him to start at: "Expert"--level ten. The screen burst into a beautiful albeit unnecessary display of astounding graphics as Keezor's and the computer's fleets materialized onto the screen.
Keezor won in five moves.
The game started again, now at level eleven. Seven moves, and it was over.
In less than five minutes he had worked his way up to level fifteen, "Mastery" level. He beat the game again, this time in ten moves.
Another five minutes, and he was in the middle of a twentieth level game. His shuttle was called for boarding.
`Screw this,' he thought. `Why am I wasting my time?' With a flash of bravado, he entered a move, one of his personal favorites. The game paused for a moment. The words "SURRENDER DECLARED" flashed on the screen.
Keezor offered the machine a "Hmph," accompanied by a patronizing smile, and left to board the shuttle.
4. Fifty-one
Upon arriving at Orbital Station One, Keezor consulted a station map and made his way to the docking bay where the Surefire was being kept.
The Surefire was a new, experimental ship featuring an extra-long cruising range and advanced anti-detection capabilities. It was well armed, but its main function was to serve as a military scout and survey ship, and, under certain circumstances, as a lesser flag ship. At least that, among other technical information, was what Keezor was told in the report he received after accepting an assignment on its first long-term space trial. There was a bit of ambiguous information as well; the Surefire had been part of something called "Project Friend," and all information concerning this project was classified.
After presenting his orders and identification to the security staff, Keezor was admitted to the Surefire's dock. He was mildly surprised when he saw the vessel; it was much smaller than he had imagined. Still, at least on the exterior, it was sleek and impressive. Then again, he reflected, looks sometimes were deceiving.
As he boarded the ship he wrinkled his nose at the "new" smell of the interior. He made his way to the bridge and entered. It appeared empty.
The Surefire's bridge was a circle, however the aft quarter of it had been walled off and made into a captain's office. Aside from the captain's chair, there were only five other stations. Port and starboard exits led into hallways.
He took the sight in, impressed despite its emptiness and small size, then glanced at his watch. He was precisely on time; he always was. But where was the captain and the rest of the bridge crew?
As if in reply to his thoughts, the sound of laughter came from behind the door of the captain's office, and a moment later four men, one in a captain's uniform emerged.
Keezor snapped to attention. "Lieutenant Commander Keezor reporting for duty, sir," he said, addressing the captain.
The other man smiled and returned the salute. "Ah...," he said, "At ease. So you're Keezor, eh? I've heard a lot of good things about you. I'm Captain Germayne." He motioned to two of the three other men. "This is Commander Tyros, my second in command, and Commander Slaff, who's here as a consultant. The third officer here is Lieutenant Commander Anton, our detection and analysis technician." The four men exchanged nods of greeting. "There's one other crewmember you have to meet before we get started," Germayne went on. He cocked his head slightly, and addressed the air. "Friend?"
"Yes, Captain Germayne?" a too-pleasant, female voice replied.
Keezor looked about. "Who's that, sir?"
"That, Keezor, is Friend, the product of Project Friend. She's the first interactive computer to be installed on one of our military vessels."
"Oh," Keezor replied, inwardly grimacing.
"Friend," the captain went on, "Do you sense a new life- form reading on the bridge which has not been identified?"
"Affirmative."
"Good. Commit to memory." Germayne turned to Keezor. State your full name, rank, and number."
Keezor cleared he throat and spoke up. "I am Lieutenant Commander Keezor Gemcutter, common name Keezor, number S-496-001-2297."
There was a slight pause. "Identification confirmed," Friend informed them. "Identification matches the on-line information for Lieutenant Commander Keezor."
"Excellent," Germayne smiled. "I declare Keezor as one of my crew. Commit to memory."
"Confirmed." "Now that that's settled...," the captain said, his attention once again on Keezor, "Welcome aboard."
"Thank you, sir," Keezor replied.
"Don't get too ruffled about Friend. She takes a little getting used to, but is actually quite interesting to use. When you want or need to speak to her, just call out the name, and be sure to speak clearly. Don't use foreign words or slang."
"Yes, sir."
"Any questions?"
Keezor briefly let his gaze wander about the bridge. "Are the five of us the entire bridge crew, sir?"
"Yes and no. We rotate shifts and we do have replacements, but we're the whole official bridge crew, with the exception of the navigator. He should be coming back soon."
"Only six people on the bridge, sir?"
"That's right. Between the technical advancements and Friend, the Surefire practically takes care of herself, leaving us open to focus our attention on more important things. There are only fifty-one people on board."
"I see."
A man came through the port entry. "Ah," said Germayne, "Here's the navigator."
Keezor turned to look at the new arrival. His face lit up. "Sine!" he exclaimed.
"Keezor!" the other replied, "How long has it been already?"
"I take it you've met," Germayne observed.
"We went to Tansar Academy together," Sine explained. "I was two years ahead of him, though." He smiled broadly. "Still got that girl following you around--Gem?" Keezor laughed and nodded.
"Please, gentlemen," the captain broke in, although not unkindly, "Now's not the time for reunions. We're scheduled for take-off in an hour. We have plenty to do, so let's get busy."
- * *
Two months passed. Keezor grew to like the Surefire and her crew, with the exception of Friend, whom/which he ignored whenever possible. He even insisted on doing things himself when Friend could have easily completed the task for him in a matter of seconds or minutes. While Captain Germayne did not object to Keezor's dislike and disuse of the computer, he did consider the lieutenant commander's attitude toward it somewhat severe. He was an easygoing man, however, and was content to let Keezor go about quietly exercising his mind while the rest of the crew made as much use of Friend as possible.
For the first time in over five years, Keezor was given the opportunity to work with Sine on special maneuvers and simulated offensive and defensive runs. The ship performed wonderfully; Sine even better. The pair spent a good portion of their free time together, doing research or playing strategy games. Sine never won, and Keezor would not let him, but the navigator was a good opponent and an even better loser.
One afternoon the bridge was particularly quiet. Anton and Sine manned their stations in boredom while Commanders Tyros and Slaff chatted with Captain Germayne. Keezor sat in his own place, still and proper, waiting patiently for something to happen. "Keezor," Germayne spoke up, "There's nothing for you to do now. You can leave if you'd like." "No, thank you, sir," Keezor replied. "I don't like leaving my post before my shift is over." "If that's how you want it. How about a game of Stratigon with Friend? I hear you're an excellent player. You think you can handle her?"
`Not "her",' Keezor thought, suddenly angry, ` "It". And of course I can, you stupid ass. Don't insult my intelligence.'
"I don't know, sir," he replied evenly.
"Have a go at it," Slaff suggested.
"Yeah, why not?" Sine offered. "You can beat Friend. You can beat anything at Stratigon."
"Nah," Anton scoffed, "She's too good."
"Ten says Keezor buries her," Sine challenged.
"Deal."
"Well?" Captain Germayne prompted. "Are you up to it, Keezor?"
Keezor's eyes flashed, more fiery orange now than amber. He cleared the computer screen in front of him. "Friend," he said, loathing the name as he spoke it.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander Keezor?"
"Load a game of Stratigon. Three-dimensional."
"What level?"
"The highest you can go."
"Level thirty," Friend said. The screen in front of him lit up with bright, detailed graphics. "You may begin when ready."
Keezor gave a tight-lipped half smile and cracked his knuckles. He began.
Twenty moves later, he won.
As the others gaped in amazement, Anton handed his money over to a smiling Sine.
"Incredible," Germayne laughed, shaking his head. "Do me a favor, Keezor--go get the portable set in my office and show me how the hell you did that."
Keezor smiled. "Yes, sir," he replied. He went into the small room and reached for the set on the captain's desk.
For an instant, an alarm sounded. His ears popped. There was the overwhelming sound of rushing, high speed wind, immediately followed by the crash of emergency bulkheads slamming into place.
"What the--?" Keezor began. He never finished. The ship's alarms began to shriek. The ship dipped and shook. Keezor was thrown to the floor.
"Warning," Friend's quiet tones somehow managed to communicate over the din, "Multiple hull breaches. Severe portside and lightspeed drive damage. Engines are shutting down. Repeat: Warning--Multiple hull breaches..."
5. Nine
The first thing Keezor noticed when he left Germayne's office and ran back onto the bridge was Anton's screaming, audible over the alarms. He ran to the man, who was rolling on the floor, clutching at his stomach.
"What happened?" Keezor yelled at him.
"Port...!" the other gagged.
Keezor looked up. The bridge's port exit had been twisted out of shape. A bulkhead and rapidly hardening sealant closed it off. Keezor shut off the bridge's main speakers and the alarm cut off; he could now only make out the muffled sounds of it coming from outside the starboard exit, which had also been shut but not sealed. Aside from the wailing and Anton's cries, the ship seemed eerily quiet.
Confused and shaken, Keezor looked about him. Germayne, Slaff, Tyros, and Sine were lying crumpled on floor, up against the port side of the bridge, as if they had been thrown. None of them moved. The wall was spattered with blood.
Keezor sprang to the intercom. "I need medics up here on the double!" he shouted. There was no reply. He tried again, with the same results. "Damage report!" he called. His only answer was a static hiss. "Engineering! Somebody!" He turned away. "Friend! Give me the damage."
"There are multiple breaches on the port side of the hull. Several projectiles have penetrated the ship. Navigation is functioning at seventy-two percent efficiency. The lightspeed engine is currently unoperational. Long range radio is unoperational and short range radio has been damaged. A priority distress beacon has been activated."
"Is the intercom functioning?"
"Affirmative."
`Oh God,' Keezor thought frantically, `then if none of the decks are answering...' He ran past Anton and over to the others. He didn't need medic's training to tell him Germayne, Slaff, and Tyros were dead. Sine was breathing-- just. Keezor pulled out the bridge's medical kit. He stood stupidly for a moment, unsure who he should go to first, Sine or Anton. Anton was still screaming, and now, as he looked more closely, he could see that the man was bleeding badly.
He ran to Anton and pried the man's hands away from his stomach. His clothing was soaked with blood.
"Get it out! Get it out!" Anton shrieked at him.
"What? Get what out?"
"Shrapnel...oh, shit...forceps...dig...find it!"
"But I--"
"DO IT!"
Keezor hesitated, then tried to call for a medic again. Once again, he received no reply.
"They're dead, you stupid fucker!" Anton screamed. "HELP ME!"
His hands shaking, Keezor returned to Anton and fumbled through the large box until he found forceps. He tore away Anton's clothes, then abruptly turned away and vomited. Gagging, he gulped in several breaths of air, turned back to his comrade, and tentatively began to search through the man's flesh. Eventually he found what he was looking for. Deep down he could just make out the tip of a piece of metal. Swallowing hard, he reached in and pulled it out, then emptied an entire can of sterile, staunching spray foam into the gory hole. He dressed the wound as quickly and as tightly as he could.
"Muh...," Anton gasped, "Morphine..."
"Uh...," Keezor almost whimpered, "Y-yeah." He found a small packet of syringes pre-loaded with the drug, and pulled one out. "Where--where do I--?"
"ANYWHERE!"
Keezor forced himself to stop shaking long enough to locate a vein and slide the needle home. After a short time Anton's wailing began to subside. Keezor left him and ran over to Sine. The navigator lay twisted on the floor, but he was afraid to touch him for fear of worsening any internal injuries he might already have.
"Friend," he called as he sat wondering what to do, "What happened?"
"Early warning systems detected a sizeable incoming mass traveling at too high a rate of closure for any reaction other than a spectrograph analysis and one automatic defensive action. The spectrograph indicated that the mass in question was ice, however as the port lasers fired to break the mass into non-threatening units, the spectrograph also indicated the presence of iron beneath the ice. There was insufficient time left for further reaction. Five iron masses have struck and penetrated the port hull of the ship."
"A piece pierced the port corridor," Anton grimaced. "I took a hit and fell, but... the air... was sucked from... starboard to port... for an instant before the bulkheads closed. The others... picked up... thrown..."
Keezor nodded. "Friend, give me the status of the medical wing."
"The medical wing took a critical hit."
"Oh, God... Status of--no. Friend, how many life-form readings do you currently have aboard this ship?"
"One moment." A pause, then: "Nine."
Keezor sank to his knees. "Oh God, oh God...," he muttered over and over.
The starboard bulkhead suddenly opened and six men ran in. One Keezor recognized instantly. He was Lieutenant Ryde, one of the shift leaders from engineering.
"The captain--?" he began.
"Dead," Keezor told him. "And Slaff and Tyros, too. Sine and Anton are in bad shape."
"Uh..." one of the other men broke in, "Anton's dead."
"Wha--?" Keezor gasped. He had not noticed the man had stopped wailing. "Oh, fuck," he muttered under his breath. He realized he was on his knees on the floor, shaking and dazed, certainly not the way he should be behaving. He pulled himself together and stood up. "Our distress beacon's on--the long range radio's out," he informed the others, forcing himself to stand straight and his voice to stop wavering. "Navigation's intact, but not fully operational."
"And what about you?" Ryde asked him.
For a moment Keezor froze, then realized it was an innocent question. "I was in Germayne's office when it happened. I'm okay. And you?"
"We were all sleeping. I guess we just got lucky." Ryde glanced at Sine's still form. He approached the navigator, very gently felt his neck, and peeled back one of his eyelids. "Is there cervical collar in that kit there?"
Keezor looked. "No."
"Okay." Ryde looked up at the others. "Javis, Daq--go see if you can scrounge one up, or something that'll keep this guy's head still. Try to get something hard and flat to put him on, too." The two men nodded and left the bridge.
"Is it very bad?" Keezor asked, surprised at how calm his voice had suddenly become.
"Well, I'm not an authority, but I did have some training once. He's comatose. Looks like he's got some bad head injuries, probably neck injuries, too. But like I said, I'm not a doctor. Could be better, could be worse."
After Sine had been attended to and the bodies had been cleared away, Ryde and his companions decided to go to engineering to assess the damage. Keezor remained on the bridge, returned to the captain's office, and made a log entry:
Date: fifteenth day of Third Month. Lieutenant Commander Keezor reporting.
Not long ago the ship's hull was breached in five places by chunks of iron from a fragmented mass the spectrograph initially interpreted to be ice. There was no time for reaction; the whole matter was taken care of by the computer's emergency defense system. I don't think any of us realized what had happened until after the impact, when the alarms started going off.
The bridge crew, with the exception of myself and Lieutenant Commander Sine, has died as a result of injuries received when one of the iron masses punctured the ship near the bridge. Sine is down with head and neck injuries.
The Surefire has been badly damaged. Life support systems appear to be functioning normally and all damaged areas have been sealed off. Navigational systems are not fully operational; long range radio is out and short range radio has been damaged. Our priority distress beacon is on. The medical wing has been more or less destroyed and the lightspeed drive is currently unoperational.
There are only eight of us left--nine if you count Friend, which I don't. Friend does not appear to be malfunctioning.
The other survivors are from engineering: Lieutenants Ryde, Javis, and Daq, Sergeant Yoriq, and Second Lieutenants Eral and Wellow. They have gone to see if the lightspeed drive is repairable. More later.
End of entry.
Just as he completed the recording, the intercom on Germayne's desk came to life.
"Keezor, this is Ryde," came the Lieutenant's voice.
"I hear you. How bad is it?"
"Well, it'll take some time, but it's repairable. I'm a little worried, though; it looks like the cooling system's been damaged. If it gets too hot, a lot of circuitry'll go bad, and that'll mean a longer down time."
"I see. Are you going to start repairs now?"
"We already have. I'm calling from engine access area seven. Wouldn't you know, the heaviest damage is here, where some of the most important parts are?"
"Is there anything I can do?"
Ryde sighed. "No, not really. The six of us can handle it, and we've pretty much got all we need. You might as well sit tight up there and man the radar or the radio. You never know--something might come our way."
"I'll do that," Keezor replied. "Keep me updated."
"Will do. Ryde out."
Keezor returned to the main section of the bridge and sat down on the floor next to Sine. "Sine?" he tried, "Can you hear me? Sine?" His friend did not reply. `At least he's not in pain, like Anton was,' Keezor reflected. `At least he's still alive.' He looked around him. For some reason, the small bridge suddenly seemed very large and very empty. A chill caressed his body with icy fingers, causing him to shudder. He thought of Marilla, warm and soft against his body the night before he left, but it only made him shiver more. He gazed down at Sine helplessly, angry that he could not do more for him. He hated idleness. He hated having nothing to do, no way to engage his mind--
A bell clanged into life. Startled, Keezor sprang to his feet. "Danger," Friend said before he could ask, "Fire in lightspeed drive port access area seven. Engaging extinguishers."
"Ryde!" Keezor exclaimed. He ran to the intercom. "Ryde!" he shouted, "What's happening?"
"We've had a cooling system failure," the lieutenant returned tensely but not frantically. "We've got a chemical/electrical fire here."
"Well get out of there!"
"It's okay," Ryde assured him. "It's not that bad. The automatic extinguishers should--"
"Danger," Friend broke in, "Extinguishing system failure in lightspeed drive port access area seven. Closing bulkheads."
"What?!" Keezor shouted at the computer. "No, wait--!"
"Shit!" Ryde exclaimed. A thudding noise came over the intercom as the area was sealed off. "Oh, Lord--Friend, open the bulkhead!"
"Under safety code 115, an area containing an uncontrolled fire must be sealed off until the danger is over," Friend replied.
"But," Keezor sputtered, "Ryde--the others--they're still in there! Open the bulkheads!"
"Under safety code 115, an area containing an uncontrolled fire must be sealed off until the danger is over."
"They'll die!"
No reply.
"OPEN THE BULKHEADS!"
"Under safety code 115, an area containing an uncontrolled fire must be sealed off until the danger is over," Friend droned.
"Keezor, do something!" Ryde shouted. "The fumes--the pressure in the pipes--if this gets any worse we'll have an explosion here!"
Keezor sprinted from the bridge and ran to the lower decks, through the engine room and toward the access areas. He came to a halt in front of area seven. He could hear Ryde and the others inside.
"I'm here!" he yelled. "I'll get you out!"
"No good!" Ryde shouted back. "We can't open it from in here; you won't be able to open it from out there!"
Keezor ignored the remark and began to pound on the door controls. Nothing happened. "Friend, open the bulkhead!" he screamed.
"Under safety code 115, an area containing an uncontrolled fire must be sealed off until the danger is over," the computer replied.
"Fuck the safety code! There are personnel trapped in there! Open the bulkhead!"
"Under safety code 115, an area containing an uncontrolled fire must be sealed off until the danger is over."
"Please!"
"Keezor," came Ryde's muffled voice through the door, "I left some tools out there. Get into the door controls and disconnect them. Maybe we can open this sucker manually."
Keezor spotted the tools. Using them, he opened up the bulkhead's control panel and began to rip the wires and circuitry out with his bare hands.
"Hurry, Keezor!" Ryde yelled. Keezor could hear him and the others coughing and gagging.
"I'm trying!" There was a muffled pop as an explosion tore through the area behind the bulkhead. Keezor heard screaming and frantic cries for help. "FRIEND, YOU BITCH, OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!"
"Under safety code 115, an area containing an uncontrolled fire must be sealed off until the danger is over," she/it replied calmly.
Keezor began to pound on the impassable door in desperation. He could hear the others screaming, calling his name, begging him for help. He shrieked obscenities at the computer as he shouldered and hit the door over and over again.
He did not remember running back to the bridge. Suddenly he was there, and so were the screams, coming through loud and clear over the intercom. He covered his ears. It was not enough. He broke down, wailing, shouting at Friend as she/it repeated the safety code for him again. He curled into a ball, shut his eyes, and screamed along with Ryde and the others. Eventually, he was the only one yelling. Soon after that, his throat became so raw he could not even do that. Sobbing convulsively, he crawled to the first aid kit, took out one of the syringes loaded with morphine, and plunged it into his arm. He collapsed, sprawled out on the floor, as darkness closed in.
6. Two
The morphine kept him sluggish and oddly calm even after he stopped screaming, he fell into a heavy sleep, and woke up some hours later. He checked on Sine, then dragged himself to the Captain's office to make his report.
Captain's Log, supplemental entry. Lieutenant Commander Keezor reporting for the deceased Captain Germayne.
(pause)
For the record, I will admit that I had knowingly and willingly drugged myself with morphine while on duty, several hours prior to this recording. I don't think I'd be able to give the report I'm about to if I hadn't.
Today, during Lieutenant Ryde and his crew's attempts to repair the lightspeed drive, a fire started in access area seven, where they were working. When the fire control systems did not engage, Friend automatically sealed off the area, and for safety reasons would not respond to my commands to open the access area doors. All other attempts at overriding the door controls failed.
Ryde, Javis, Daq, Yoriq, Eral, and Wellow are dead. Lieutenant Commander Sine and I are the only members of the crew remaining. Sine's condition has remained unchanged.
(pause)
I...I had to listen to them...scream...
Oh God.
End of entry.
Keezor returned to the bridge. "Bitch!" he snapped. There was no reply. "Friend!"
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander Keezor?" the computer's feminine tones replied soothingly.
"Damage report on the lightspeed drive."
A pause, then: "A recent fire has rendered 90% of all computer components necessary for operation inoperable."
`Damn,' Keezor thought, `the safety panels must have been off during the fire, and I'm sure Ryde and the others had a hell of a lot more on their minds than putting them back on.' "Do we carry sufficient replacement parts on board?"
"Yes," Friend told him.
"Where?"
"Deck two, storage room one."
"Good. I want instructions for the repair of the lightspeed drive."
"Access to the information and components you have requested are restricted to command officers, and electrical and drive mechanics engineers of specialist level three and higher. You are a command cadet of specialist level four and a strategist of specialist level six."
Keezor thought for a moment. A moment was all he needed. He was, after all, only dealing with a mass of silicon and circuitry. "Alright," he said patiently, "call up the information I have requested so the proper personnel can execute the necessary repairs."
"The said personnel, or the command officers, must request the information personally," Friend replied. She/it paused, then added, "You and Lieutenant Commander Sine are the only life-forms aboard, Lieutenant Commander Keezor."
Keezor drove his fist into the wall. A lance of pain streaked up his arm. He looked down at his hands. They were bruised grey from pounding on the access area door, and one of his fingers appeared to be broken. Gently holding his arms to his body, he sank into the captain's chair. "How do you expect me to return to base if you won't let me repair the drive?"
"I expect nothing, Lieutenant Commander Keezor. Access to the information and components you have requested are restricted to command officers, and electrical and drive mechanics engineers of specialist level three and higher. You are a command cadet of specialist level four and a strategist of specialist level six."
"Yes, yes," Keezor growled, rubbing his temples. He got up and left the bridge. `I'll do it myself,' he thought. `I'll fix the fucking drive without that bitch-thing's help. It'll take time, but I can do it.' He took a lift to the second deck. After wading through a considerable amount of debris, he eventually arrived at the door of storage room one. He pressed the "open" button. Nothing happened. He tried again, and again, and still nothing happened.
"Access to the information and components you have requested are restricted to command officers, and electrical and drive mechanics engineers of specialist level three and higher," Friend's voice cut in suddenly. "You are a command cadet of specialist level four and a strategist of specialist level six."
"Shut up!" Keezor shouted. "Let me in, damn you!"
"Access to the information and components you have requested are restricted to electrical and drive mechanics engineers of specialist level three and higher. You are a command cadet of specialist level four and a strategist of specialist level six."
Keezor kicked at the door to the storage room. Desperation and fury overrode the morphine in his veins. "STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!" he bellowed. "GODDAMNED ASSHOLE SHIT-EATING--"
"Request not understood. Please clarify."
"BI-I-I-I-I-I-I-ITCH!" Keezor shrieked. He threw himself against the door and sagged to the ground. "What do you want from me?!" he demanded angrily. "Do you want Sine and me to die?"
"I do not want anything, Lieutenant Commander Keezor."
"Fuck you," Keezor muttered under his breath. He got up and returned to the bridge. "Friend," he said, grimacing as he spoke the name, "Does the ship have enough power to reach the nearest Space Naval base?"
A pause. "Taking current energy expenditures into consideration, negative."
"How far could the ship go?"
"The Surefire can currently cover seventy-five percent of the distance to Station Twenty-One, at coordinates seven-one-seven by nine by two-five point three, on sublight power only."
Keezor performed a series of quick calculations in his head. That would take the ship to the fringe of short distance radio range and long distance radar detection. "And how long will that take?"
"Calculating." A pause. "Three days, eighteen hours, and forty-two minutes."
Keezor stole a glance at Sine's still form. `It'll have to do,' he thought. "Are you capable of setting and maintaining a course?" he asked the computer.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander Keezor."
"Good. Set course for Station Twenty-One."
"You are not authorized to order a course change."
Keezor's expression darkened. "I gave you an order. execute it."
"Only Captain Germayne, Commander Slaff, and Commander Tyros are authorized to order course changes which deviate from the mission."
Keezor pulled at his hair. "The mission is over!" he shouted. "The ship is damaged and the crew is gone! Abort the mission!"
"Only Captain Germayne, Commander Slaff, Commander Tyros, or a member of Space Navy Command have the authority to abort the mission," Friend replied.
"Captain Germayne, Commander Slaff, and Commander Tyros are dead! Do you understand me?! Dead! They're not ever going to say anything again, much less order you to abort the mission!"
"Only Captain Germayne--"
"Shut up!" Keezor snapped. "Are Captain Germayne, Commander Slaff, and Commander Tyros here?"
The computer paused. "I show life-form readings only for you and for Lieutenant Commander Sine. Previously said persons are not on board."
"Not on board? They're in body bags in storage bay two, that's where they are!"
"Previously said persons are not on board."
Keezor stopped to think. To Friend, "dead" meant "No life-form readings," and "No life form readings" meant "Not on board." "Friend," he went on, "When the captain is unable to perform his duties, who takes command?"
"The commander, or the designated first officer if there is more than one commander aboard the ship."
"Correct. And who takes control when the designated deputy captain cannot perform his duties?"
"The next highest-ranking officer of commander level, or, if another commander is not present, the designated deputy commander."
"What is my rank?"
"You are a lieutenant commander, Lieutenant Commander Keezor."
"Then, considering that Captain Germayne is not here to perform his duties, and Commanders Slaff and Tyros are not here to perform deputy captain duties, then does that not designate me, the next highest-ranking officer aboard this ship, the deputy commander in Slaff and Tyros' absences, and, since either would have been the deputy captain, but neither are here, the deputy captain?"
There was a very long pause. "You are not a designated deputy captain."
"That may be, but in Slaff and Tyros' absences, am I not the designated deputy commander?"
"One moment, please," Friend told him, and after a short time replied, "No such designations were made."
Keezor screamed.
"Do you not have a default which states that in the event of a crisis situation the highest ranking officer remaining assumes command of this vessel?!" he roared.
"Affirmative."
"Is this not a crisis situation?!"
"Taking the damage to the ship into consideration, affirmative."
"Then as the highest ranking officer aboard this vessel, I command you to obey my instructions!"
"Negative."
"NEGATIVE?! Why?!"
"You are not the highest ranking officer currently aboard this vessel."
"THEN WHO THE BLOODY HELL IS?!"
"Lieutenant Commander Sine outranks you by two years of service."
Keezor shot a glance at his friend, lying prone on the floor. "Sine?" he squawked. "Sine is in command of this ship?"
"Affirmative."
"But he can't--He's in a coma, for God's sake! He's comatose! Do you understand?"
"Coma:," Friend droned, "a profound state of unconsciousness resulting from illness or injury."
"Correct," Keezor snapped. "How can Sine command the Surefire if he's comatose?"
"I have no verification of that."
"What?--No--!" Keezor sputtered, tearing at his hair. "I'm looking right at him, and I'm telling you, he's comatose!"
"You are not authorized to make such a verification," the computer told him.
"Then who is?"
"Only medical personnel are authorized to verify a crewmember's physical condition. You are a command cadet of specialist level four and a strategist of specialist level six."
"God damn you," Keezor growled, and went over to the navigator's station.
"Request not understood," Friend told him, "Please clarify."
"Never mind. Is the navigational equipment still functioning?"
"The navigational systems are currently operating at seventy-two percent efficiency."
Keezor scanned the helm. He knew the standard operating procedures, and had watched Sine use the equipment many times before, both in school and on board the Surefire. After a moment of thought, he entered a course change.
Nothing happened. "Only licensed navigators of specialist level five and above are permitted to use the helm of this vessel," Friend in him in her/its perpetually patient voice. "You are a command cadet of specialist level--"
"STOP!" Keezor roared. Friend cut off. He stomped across the bridge and sat down next to Sine, his eyes wild with fury. "Sine, Sine..." he groaned, and gazed down at his friend. "I'm afraid... I'm afraid I'm going to have to resort to some--some desperate measures..."
Captain's log, supplemental entry:
Friend--I hate calling it that--has become bureaucratic. Since I am not a commander and since no one was ever designated "deputy commander," it refuses to let me take control of the ship. Since I'm not a navigator or engineer, I am denied access to the helm and to information and equipment necessary to repair the lightspeed drive.
The computer told me that under the crisis default, Sine is commander of the Surefire, since he outranks me by two years of service. Since I am not a medic, it refuses to let me verify that he is comatose and unable to perform his duties. I seemed to be damned no matter what I do.
There is, of course, one thing left to me other than suicide or a slow death.
I'm sure the decision I'm about to make will get me court-martialled-- just for starters.
Captain's log, supplemental entry:
The situation at hand had forced me to take somewhat drastic measures in order to preserve this ship.
I...Without authorization I--I attempted to disconnect Friend, the Surefire's experimental computer system.
Keezor stopped, grimaced, and squeezed his right hand tighter in an attempt to close the wide, clean gash in his upper left arm. Blood gushed out from between his fingers.
Friend, however, was hardly keen on the idea. After being wounded by its automatic defense system, I... the situation... everything...
The man paused and bowed his head in shame. His gaze fell upon a large wrench sitting on the captain's desk, the steel wet with blood.
...I destroyed Friend.
I now have control of the Surefire. After dealing with the computer, I went to deck two, storage room one for the parts needed to repair the lightspeed drive, however few of the multitude of parts in the room were labeled, and I was unable to retrieve the necessary components for repair. So, now I have gathered all necessary supplies and equipment, and, in an attempt to conserve energy, have sealed Sine and myself in the bridge. Life support has been shut off in all other areas of the ship, and the gravity has been shut off as well. My plan is to manually navigate the ship to Station Twenty-One, almost four days away. By my calculations, the power should hold up long enough for the Surefire to get within short distance radio and long range radar range.
End of Entry.
Keezor hauled himself up and half floated, half walked back onto the main bridge. He was dizzy from blood loss; he cursed himself for not having taken care of his injury right away.
Sine was still on the floor, held down and still by strips of duct tape. The medical kit hovered over him. Keezor took the kit, settled down in the captain's chair, and strapped himself in. After his attempts to staunch the bleeding in his arm failed, he reached into the large box and withdrew a hypodermic needle pre-loaded with a local anesthetic, a small, curved needle and a length of thread. He cleaned the gash as best he could, turned his head, and pushed the syringe into his arm. After a short time the throbbing, burning pain lessened to near numbness.
Keezor threaded the needle with some difficulty and tied a large knot at the end of the thread. He swallowed and moistened his dry lips, beginning to feel somewhat nauseous. After several false starts he managed to pierce his skin, and after what seemed like forever he had sewn up the wound, however awkwardly. The blood loss was taking its toll; his eyes were beginning to cross. The anesthetic was wearing off. Needles of pain stabbed through his arm. His whole body ached with exhaustion. Still, he forced himself to set the Surefire's course for Station Twenty-One before returning to the captain's chair and drifting off to sleep.
When he woke up several hours later, Sine was dead.
7. One
He felt very strange--or was it that he did not feel at all? Somehow there was no longer fear, no anger, no reaction to his situation, not like there had been in the first frantic moments after the hull breech, when Anton was screaming and the alarms were shrieking and confusion and terror had him shaking in his boots. Not like when Ryde and the others had burned to death and he had had to listen to it. Not like the agony of waking up to find his friend lifeless, and realizing in afterthought that if he had not lost his temper Friend--the object of years of research, now ruined--would now recognize him and not Sine as the commander of the Surefire.
`Oh, yes,' he would think, `you don't need anybody and you can do everything yourself and you can beat anything at anything and you just love to be alone don't you alone and quiet and thinking oh yeah you just love it don't you hell yes I do I love being alone with myself but not on a half-dead ship full of fucking corpses!'
He drifted into a sort of dazed stupor, not asleep, but not awake. He would occasionally spasm as a terrible vision of things past would burst into his mind, clear and crisp as the moment he had originally experienced them. He stirred only to get up, moving like a zombie, and correct the ship's course heading when a small light on the helm flashed a warning. He did not eat, speak, or tend to his arm.
Three and a half days passed. He was staring at nothing when out of the corner of his eye he saw the hailing light on the communication panel flash. He stood up on shaky legs and answered the call.
"This," he began. His voice was hoarse and cracked. He cleared his throat. "This is Lieutenant Commander Keezor of the Surefire."
"Surefire, this is Captain Oran, administrator of Station Twenty-One. We've received your priority distress signal. What is your condition?"
"We've had five hull breaches," Keezor replied dully. "I'm the only one left out of a crew of fifty-one."
"Good God." There was a pause. "The High Command contacted us, you know. They got worried--they lost contact with their new ship and didn't know what the hell was going on. It's a good thing we found you. How bad is the ship? Can you navigate her in?"
"No, sir," Keezor told him quietly.
"Alright, don't worry. I've already sent out a couple of cruisers; they'll tow you in."
"Thank you, sir."
Several hours later the Surefire docked at Station Twenty-One. Keezor went to the main airlock, straightening his posture as it opened. A man he presumed to be Captain Oran ran up the boarding ramp to him, several medics in tow.
"Incredible," Oran exclaimed as he approached. He stopped in front of Keezor. "Shit, you're just a kid! You're a lieutenant commander?"
"Yes, sir," Keezor affirmed without much emotion.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-five, sir."
"Incredible," Oran repeated. "And you got the ship all the way back here by yourself. How did you do it? What the hell happened, anyway?"
Keezor stared at the older man for some moments. He closed his eyes, then opened them slowly. "With all due respect, sir," he said in a low voice, "it's all in the log."
Oran seemed mildly disappointed. "I understand." He looked Keezor over. "Are you alright?"
"Fine, sir," Keezor replied.
Oran nodded. "Come on, then; I'll escort you to your quarters. I'm sure you could use a rest."
"Thank you, sir."
The captain turned and started down the boarding ramp.
Behind him, Keezor collapsed in a heap.
He spent the next week at Station One, being treated for exhaustion and damage to his arm. When the doctors deemed him well enough to go, he was put on a shuttle and sent home.
By this time the Surefire's logs had reached the High Command, so it came as no surprise to him when he was summoned for a meeting with the top brass.
An Admiral named Slane questioned him thoroughly but respectfully. He was then brought before a committee including Slane and many other high-ranking officers and officials.
"Under the circumstances, we have chosen to ignore your actions against Friend," Slane told him. "You will not be charged or held accountable in that matter. We have also decided to overlook your admission of performing your duties under the influence of a narcotic.
"It is our opinion that you behaved in the most appropriate and noble manner possible under the circumstances. You have displayed exceptional bravery as well as a number of outstanding traits, for which you will be presented with the Medal of Honor at a ceremony scheduled for next week.
"As for your effort to command, to aid your fellow crewmembers, and to save your ship, we wish to reward you with a choice."
"A choice, sir?" Keezor inquired.
"You may, if you wish, take a promotion to the rank of Commander, and captain the scout ship Nebula," Slane informed him. "However, it seems the Division of Tactical Research has taken a keen interest in you, and has offered you the opportunity to train as a junior tactician. The program requires several years of studies before certification, and will also require you to remain earthbound for up to two years after that. The program is quite rigorous, and, under certain circumstances, may result in a desk job, so I'm sure you'll want to think about it care--"
"I'll take it."
Faye Levine is an Art/Design Freshman at Carnegie Mellon Unversity. Recent interesting events in her life include being mistaken for an anime character featured in ``Lum''. She wanted to think of something witty and clever for her bio-blurb, but was seized by a fit of non-creativity. Her persistence at Elvis-hunting has finally rewarded her with success; the King's head is now mounted on her dorm room wall.
fl0m+@andrew.cmu.edu
Quanta is Copyright(c)1994 Daniel K. Appelquist.
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