Sandman

by Walt Staples -

A ping sounded as the red dot appeared at the edge of the plotting board. Meg Nakamura, captain of the tanker Tau Ceti Maru, waited for the A.I. to report the results of the interrogative signal beamed at the target. When “George,” the A.I., continued mute, she tapped the override.

She noticed Uncle Onslow, the ship’s chief engineer, had stopped whistling “Bound for the Reo Granite” under his breath. On the whole, she would have preferred the irritation at the moment. It was not a good thing when Onslow, a normally noisy sort, suddenly became quiet. She turned to see him watching the plot from the supercargo’s seat, his puzzle forgotten. “What do you make of it, Unc?”

He continued to watch the slow progress of the red dot thoughtfully. “He be burnin’ reaction mass like it t’weren’t his. At the rate his delta-vee be changin’ positive, he be either military or someone in a big hurry. Up to nay good if he be not answerin’ the interrogative. An honest ship’ll squawk who she be.”

Meg thought. “Comm malfunction?”

Uncle Onslow looked hurt. “Not this end. I tuned the main laser and the auxiliary during the dog watch.”

She looked at him. “What were you doing up then?”

“Dwellin’ on me wicked past.” He waved a hand dismissively and changed the subject, “Methinks maybe ye should pipe that first officer ye like to call “husband” out of his rack.”

As she reached for the general alarm, he leaned over and stopped her hand with a massive paw. “If ye be forgivin’ the impertinence, ma’am, I think there might be time to allow the man to gain his feet like a Christian.”

She grinned at him and reached for the call button.

Chris Nakamura, Meg’s husband and first officer, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sipped his Wide-Awake tea. “Why is it, just as the dream is getting good, someone always hits the call button?”

“Because you’re indispensible to the Cosmos and spacefarers everywhere.” She asked with a leer, “I trust the dream was about me.”

He yawned. “Oh, yes, everything according to ship’s regs.” He glanced around. “Where’s Onslow?”

“He said something about needing to attend to something or other to do with his cargo.”

“More likely he’s in the hanger bay securing his doll-house furniture tools. It amazes me the things he can make with those sausages he calls fingers.” He thought a moment, then asked, “Honestly, hon, why’d you let him load a cargo we’re hauling for free?”

“Two reasons. Number six bunker was empty this trip and we needed ballast, and it’s Uncle Onslow. Besides, there’s a good market for it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sand?”

“Silicon—pulverized quartz for making fine glass or, as you say, ‘sand.’ Anyway, I want the old man to be able to put something aside for his retirement.”

“He’s not our uncle,” Chris pointed out.

“Well, he’s somebody’s—” She cut herself short as the bridge hatch dilated.

The bulky engineer strolled to the supercargo’s seat and flopped down with a grunt. “Mick and Sugo have the watch below, so I figures I be seeing how things be up heres in the high-rent district. What be our friend doing?”

Chris answered, “Still gaining and still the strong, silent type. Think we should change orbit, Unc?”

The tall man fingered his beard thoughtfully. “Nay, t’would do nay good. Methinks he gots enough reaction mass to waste, he be catchin’ us nay matter the course change.” The red dot began to pulsate. “Ah, methinks he wants to be neighborly.”

Meg glanced at Chris. “See what he wants.”

Chris tapped the plate on his seat arm. “Unidentified vessel, unidentified vessel, this is Tau Ceti Maru out of Eclectia, identify, please.”

“This is Dog Star Revenge, Calico Jack Bonney commanding.” The voice was booming and scratchy. “Heave to and match orbits. Prepare to be boarded.”

Meg reached over and broke contact. “Calico Jack Bonney? What the heck?”

A moment later, a smaller red dot originated from the Dog Star Revenge and passed close aboard to the tanker. It disappeared as an incandescence flared against the starfield on the forward screen.

“Ah, the requisite shot across our bow. Good to see they be sticking to the script,” Onslow observed in an offhand manner.

Chris asked of no one in particular, “What are we dealing with?”

“Pirates, lad, pirates.” Onslow’s face was grim. “Methinks this might be what happened to the Commerce Antares and the Universe Sheba.”

Meg looked at him in disbelief. “Pirates? In this time and place?”

“Oh, aye, lass.” He nodded. “It be yer cargo they be after, distilled water. It be very hard to check the serial numbers on it. The Commerce be carrying it in carboys and the Universe be a tanker like ourselves.

“Chris, lad, what be the velocity of that shot?”

The blond man jerked, then tapped on his plate. “It’s on your screen.”

The fat man tapped on his own plate. “Well, lad, if ye be subtractin’ the velocity of the ship from the velocity of the shot, ye can make a guess at what sort of a weapon ye face.” He considered the numbers. “Aye, as I thought—railgun.”

Meg spoke from the command seat, “A what?”

“A railgun. A projectile is accelerated down a barrel by a series of magnets. Lets ye get high velocities without the worries of propellants. Alls ye be needin’ is electricity.”

Chris nodded. “Elegant. What kind of projectile do you think?”

Onslow pinched his lower lip in thought. “Methinks they’d not be takin’ the chance of scatterin’ the cargo with an explosion. Nay, solid shot, then.”

Meg looked from one to the other. “Any bright ideas, gentlemen?”

Silence filled the bridge. After a long moment, Onslow broke the loud emptiness. “Methinks I has an idea.”

The other two looked at the chief engineer. “What?” the tanker’s skipper asked.

Uncle Onslow, his face serious, asked a question in reply, “Do ye trust me?”

Meg looked at him for a moment and answered, “Yes. Yes, I do.” Chris nodded.

The old man nodded once. “All right then. The first thing, everybody into environment suits. Second we evacuates the atmosphere. It’ll be less distractin’ without things flappin’ about if we be holed.”

Chris protested, “But there’s nothing loose.”

Onslow grinned at him. “Ye’d be surprised what can come adrift in an explosive decompression.”

Meg asked, “What else?”

He hooked a thumb toward her husband. “This be for Chris to be doin’. Lad, whens I says, ‘now,’ ye revolve the ship 90 degrees around her short axis to starboard.”

“That will put us broadside to them and make us a bigger target,” the younger man pointed out.

“Oh, aye, that it t’will. I’d rather they be hittin’ one of the bunkers than the drive unit. Most people aims at the center of mass. This way, the bridge and engineerin’ spaces be out on the far ends of the target.”

He grinned mischievously. “If ye be excusin’ me, I has some engineerin’ to be doin’.” He took a small tool kit from a pocket and popped open an access panel on the arm of supercargo’s seat.

#

Meg wrinkled her nose. She looked over at her husband’s environment-suited form. “Husband, dear? Do you know what’s the very first thing you’re going to do after this is settled?

Chris answered in a hopeful voice, “Lay below to our cabin together?”

“Maybe that’s second.” A quiet chuckle reminded them that Uncle Onslow was also on the net. “No, dear, the very first thing you’re doing is changing out the filter on this suit. The stench in here is worse than a Mongolian slit trench.”

Chris’ voice was innocent, “Uh, dear, how would you know to make that comparison?”

“Just do it, Mister,” she said in her command voice.

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Onslow’s voice cut across, “Chris, stand by.”

“Standing by.”

Meg began to count to herself. She reached 23 when Onslow said, “Now!”

The Tau Ceti Maru spun on her short axis, putting herself broadside to her pursuer. The chief engineer tapped the plate on his seat arm once.

Chris, startled, cried, “We’re beginning to revolve to starboard more.”

Uncle Onslow’s voice was reassuring. “It be okay, lad. Just put us back into position.”

Meg spoke up, “What now?”

“Wait for it, and watch the plot.”

As they watched, a blue glob appeared next to the blue dot at the center of the plotting board representing the tanker. It seemed to slowly move back towards the pirate’s red dot. The red dot moved into the glob and out the other side.

“What’s that?” Meg’s voice was strained.

“Five thousand tons of glass-grade silicon. I purged bunker six. That be why we started to revolve again. Reaction to the sand squirtin’ out the purge valve.” He gave a gusty sigh. “Okay, try to raise the Revenge , if ye please.”

Chris called, “Dog Star Revenge, Dog Star Revenge, do you copy?” His only answer was the whispers of interstellar space. He began again, “Dog Star Revenge, Dog Star—“

“Leave it, lad,” Uncle Onslow interrupted him. “They’ll nay answer.”

Meg asked, “Why?”

“Turn the optical telescope aft.” Onslow’s voice was tired.

Husband and wife gasped. A wreck pursued them. The forward section, probably the bridge, was slagged. There was no sign of either sensor or communication arrays. Fiberglass shreds showed where reaction mass tanks once encircled the hull. No blue-white plume of reaction showed from the drives.

After a moment of stunned silence, Chris asked, “What happened to them?”

Onslow rubbed his face and slumped in the supercargo’s seat. “Are ye familiar with a sandblaster, Lad?”

“Yeah, sure.” Chris looked at the old man curiously.

The chief engineer’s voice was musing as he continued. “Well, if ye was to increase the velocity of the sand hittin’ a piece of something it would stands to reason it’d take off more material, right?”

Chris nodded.

The other looked down at his unconsciously clenched hands. “Think about the effect of a cloud of sand hittin’ at the speed the Revenge was doin’—what, about one-tenth light?” He shook his head and whispered almost to himself, “Nay a pretty picture.”

“Should we attempt rescue?” someone asked in a hushed voice.

There was a long pause, then Onslow answered, “Nay. We’ve not enough reaction mass to catch her and match orbits—beggin’ yer pardon, captain.”

Meg broke the silence. “Where are they headed?”

Chris referred to his navigation array. “Alnitak. In Orion’s belt. They’ll reach there in—“

Uncle Onslow cut him off. “There be nay need, lad.”

Red Light (FLASHBACK)

by Walt Staples -

Beach Ranks sneered at the old priest. “Why don’t you go rattle yer beads over my dinners? Maybe you kin resurrect their sorry butts. After all, there were only six of ‘em. It oughta be easy for you, sky pilot.”

Father Emil paid no attention and continued to whisper the Office for the Dead. He didn’t worry about its efficacy with a creature such as Beach. His job was to do the best he could. Final judgment was Someone Else’s prerogative.

Onslow, the young power engineer, grunted as he pulled tight the straps that held the reaction unit, transponder, and red and blue strobe that marked Beach as a Peacekeeper matter. He was still disgruntled that he’d been the engineer with the short straw.

Gunther, the investigating peacekeeper, stood to one side holding a piece of plastisheet. Following the procedure for execution, the charges and death sentence were burned into the sheet rather than read from a reader. Clearing his throat, he began to read the second part, “Beach Ranks, it is the order of the Tribunal that having found you guilty of six murders having aggravating circumstance, that you be taken this day at zero-hundred hours and removed permanently from contact with your fellow man. And may your god have mercy on you.”

Beach cackled, “They was good! You oughta try the other white meat sometime, Peacekeeper. Better than the cafeteria.”

Gunther remarked mildly, “I’ll accept that those are your last words,” and put the gag in place.

The peacekeeper asked Onslow, “Is the strobe and transponder armed?” When the other nodded, he turned to the assembled people—priest, engineer, and witnesses—and gestured toward the inner airlock hatch. “If you will…?”

They filed out, Onslow glancing back and Father Emil, still whispering, preceding the peacekeeper. Gunther pushed the button to close the inner hatch. He removed a lanyard with an ancient metal key from around his neck. He pushed the key into a slot on the airlock’s failsafe and looked away from the hatch window as he turned it. There was an explosive “whoof” and the safety light over the hatch turned from green directly to red without going through yellow.

As he turned the key back, the peacekeeper said in a barely audible voice, “Dear God, forgive us,” and crossed himself.

Hazard to Navigation

by Walt Staples -

“Captain to the bridge! Captain to the bridge!” Chris Nakamura tried to ignore the canned announcement as he watched the target slowly cross the plotting board. He heard the hatch dilate and sensed Meg, his wife and captain, dropping into her command seat.

“What have we got, Chris?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not sure, hon. It’s on a closing course and masses about 80 kilos.”

She cupped her chin in a Meg pose of furious thought as she read the target’s changing coordinates. “What’s it squawk?”

He shook his head. “No reaction to interrogation. It must be natural.”

“Do we need to shift orbit?” There were few things merchant captains hated more than expending reaction mass to change from their optimum economy orbit. One would think the credits came out of their personal accounts. In the case of the family-owned tanker Tau Ceti Maru, this was literally true.

Chris tapped on the data plate set into his seat’s arm and answered, “George says no, dear.”

The redhead smiled sweetly at him. “Be a pussy cat and run the numbers anyway; you know how much I trust that computer.”

He mock-scowled at her. “You, woman, are either a Luddite or Captain Bligh.”

A chuckle behind them was followed by a gravel voice, “I’d say a mixture of the two; though, considering the captain’s open boat voyage, there are worse things a spacer could be called.” Uncle Onslow strolled forward, scratching his hairy belly. It was agreed among spacers in Avenir’s system that Onslow was someone’s uncle—it was just that no one admitted kinship. It was also agreed that he was a very fine, if unorthodox, ship’s engineer. The fact that he passed up a number of sweeter offers to sign on the tanker was put down to his natural contrariness.

Meg eyed his wet hair and beard. “I take it we disturbed you at a bad time?”

The fat man grinned down at her. “Three days sweating over that devil-spawned auxiliary burner and just as I gets into the mister, I hears, ‘Captain to the bridge”—oh, aye, lass, ye might, maybe, say that.” He hitched the towel a bit more securely around his waist. “But more yer’s problem; I’m used to the stink.”

Chris asked, “Any ideas, Unc?”

“I don’t suppose ye’ve looked at it?”

Chris frowned, “Look?”

Again the chuckle. “Aye. Look, see, open a window and stick yer head out and feel the vacuum blowing through yer hair, lad. Otherwise that over-expensive optical telescope is so much ballast.”

Chris colored. He hated it when he got a case of the “dumbs.” He powered up the instrument. Twenty seconds later a red and blue strobe appeared against the star field.

Meg asked, “How close will it pass?”

“Actually, considering our velocity, it’s more like how close we’ll pass.”

Meg reached over and gently bapped Chris on the back of the head. “Whichever, husband.”

“George and I both say about point-two-eight klicks. It’s in our shadow.”

Onslow snorted. “Close enough to wave to him as he goes by; though…I doubts he’ll be in a mood to wave back.”

Chris looked around at him. “Who?”

The old man grinned and tousled the younger man’s blond hair. “As a regimental color sergeant I had the honor of decking and drinking with often said, ‘Wait for it, lad.’”

Minutes later, the target moved into the sunlight. Husband and wife both gasped as the human figure appeared. Oddly, though it sported the red and blue strobe, it didn’t display the bulk one would expect with an environment suit.

Onslow rumbled, “Kinder, meet Beach Ranks. Say hello, Beach.’”

Chris and Meg looked at each other. Meg broke the silence, “Ranks? You mean the Deck 14 cannibal?”

The big man’s voice was grim, “That be him, all right. I strapped the reaction unit and strobe on his back me self.”

Cris asked in a hushed tone, “And then you spaced him?”

Uncle Onslow slowly shook his head. “Nay, not me. The peacekeeper in charge of the investigation. It be hair-splitting I know, but…there ye be.”

Meg looked back at the screen. “Isn’t there supposed to be a transponder?”

The chief engineer nodded. “Aye, supposed to be. Must be on the fritz. Ye’ll want to report it as a hazard to navigation.”

Chris quietly asked, “When was he—was it done?”

Onslow thought for a moment, then answered, “Thirty-three standard years ago he left planetary orbit. Another half century, he’ll reach the sun.”

Meg shivered. “A long flight.”

The other scratched his belly once more. “Aye. But then, he’s got all the time in the cosmos.”