Dana Cartwright Mission 2: Lancer (7 page)

Something else troubled her. Being an empath, she was accustomed to feelings and sensations coming from members of the crew. She had the N-link on a cord about her neck. It could block out most telepathic thoughts, but empathetic sensations it could not curb.

Big L
had a strong, discordant, vibratory energy field of its own. She found it troubling.

“Get used to it, DD,” she chided, riding the lift back up to the Main Bridge.
 

CHAPTER NINE

Janz Macao stepped off the lift and onto the Bridge, quite preoccupied with a dozen matters on top of the latest foul-up by Fleet Operations.
Lancer
’s orders were: return to patrol until further contact. The whole mission depended upon venturing deep into the borderlands among the outer colonies, which could take many days travel, yet their orders were to return to patrol.

What in hell is wrong at Star Service Ops?

He shook it all off, and focused on his command crew.

“Time, Mister Nichols?”

“Seven minutes to departure, sir,” First Officer Nichols advised from the helm, obviously ready.
 

Macao glanced around the remainder of the bridge stations and accepted nods, until his eyes fell on the chair at Circuitry, where his new, replacement officer should have been. Where Cartwright wasn’t…

His expression turned sour, seeing the vacant chair. His new C-O-C was not at ‘his’ post.

Macao aggressively crossed the octagonal Bridge, standing beside the command chair, demanding, “Status?”

“All stations ready except circuitry, Captain,” Nichols returned, without lifting his head from his console.

“Fane,” Macao muttered, sinking down in his own chair.

Dana Cartwright felt the chill as she returned to the Bridge a moment later.

“You’re late, Mister Cartwright. We are five minutes to departure.” Macao scowled as he swiveled the command chair to face her. “When I give an order, I never expect to repeat myself, so mark well. There are three standing orders on my bridge: Never be late, there shall be no squeamish females here, and lack of experience gains no sympathy.”
 

He swiveled to face forward and punched the
 
communications button. “All hands, this is the Captain. Secure all stations. Status reports due from all departments. Report to…Mister Cartwright on the Main Bridge. Departure in two minutes…”

Macao thumbed the off button and rose. “Mister Nichols, take us out once Circuitry reports ready. I’ll be below, with Chief Gordon.”

Dana proceeded to her station; whatever protest she might have given would only have reached the lift doors. Captain Macao was gone, leaving only his haunting and humiliating accusations hovering in the air.

Not one, of all the Bridge officers, looked her way. No one would meet her gaze.
 

Too embarrassed…They should be
, she decided. As would the Captain, once she set him straight.
 

However, she’d learned one rule of thumb from her years in the Star Service, ‘never embarrass a superior officer in public,’ unless, of course, it couldn’t be helped.

After a six-hour shift, her anger and indignation would subside. She’d log a request, via the Captain’s yeoman, to discuss the matter in private. If he didn’t recant the citation, she’d use all the proper channels and submit a formal protest.

I have never, ever, been late for duty,
she stewed as she monitored
Big L
’s departure from Station Four.
And I hope to the Universe I never, ever, will be.

First Officer Nichols called commands back and forth to them all and soon
Lancer
was up to full speed. Dana shrugged off a nagging bit of nervousness when she caught a last glance as Station Four vanished amid the star field on the aft view screen.

One year tour of duty,
she mulled,
and already off to a wonderfully piss-poor start.

CHAPTER TEN

To Doctor Patel’s utter annoyance — though he masked it carefully — Captain Macao paced the length of the main medical ward multiple times, muttering and grumbling. He allowed the rant to continue, knowing how very much the Captain needed a confidante.

“A bloody female!” Janz continued, mumbling, “They replaced a trained warrior with a bloody female. Are they deliberately sabotaging this mission? Fane! I can’t believe the incompetence at Operations.”

Patel watched his Captain pace, eyes following to and fro, while standing at the instrument cabinet sorting new additions to the inventory. The Doctor was especially glad to have an updated, portable neuro-scanner with spinal weave capabilities, though he wasn’t fully rated on that model.

“She had the blasted gall to show up on the bridge late, though I gave a direct order to be there promptly.” Macao balled his left hand into a fist. “Incompetence everywhere I turn!”

Lancer
’s Chief Surgeon diagnosed the situation: signs of agitation, stress and physiological exhibition of anger. He bit back an instinctual response. Macao would not appreciate anything along the lines of ‘give the girl a chance.’ So he offered, “I can find her unfit for duty, sir.”

Macao frowned. “Too late for that…Station Four has already assigned her to take Neville Brandt’s place, and we had to get under way. There’s no time to find a replacement for the replacement. We’re already behind schedule for this mission. Fane! I’ll just have to…” The Captain paced straight out of the infirmary without completing the comment.

Patel heaved a sigh, recalling past incidents with replacement crewmen.
Lancer
’s new C-O-C would, no doubt, last one short mission. “Maybe…” Macao had a reputation of being hard on staff.
 

The Doctor closed the cabinet and took a few moments, folding his fingers together, employing a meditative technique to diffuse the negative energy the Captain riled up. Patel liked his domain to have a balanced, healing feel. His term for the technique was ‘mellowing.’ It didn’t work on Janz Macao.

Macao scoffed at such things, though fully trained in all the Alphan techniques of a 33
rd
degree Master of the Elect. Clearly, he no longer practiced. Perhaps it was time to suggest a return to the ‘inner’ arts.

Patel strongly believed that the mental health benefits of yogic breathing and meditation far surpassed other pastimes, like wrestling and the more martial of martial arts. He called up on the desktop viewer the Star Service file on
Lancer
’s newest crew member, and perused the details with interest.

“Cartwright, Dana January…No relation to Admiral Barrett Cartwright? Good. Enturian/Earth-Human hybrid? Well, isn’t that fascinating. I’ll need to brush up on the latest medical journals.” He dug deeper, accessing the details of her medical history beyond the main page of her personnel record and scowled, “Wait! Not a hybrid…an Enturian/Galaxean and Human…a tribrid! Well, now, that’s an abomination! A product of a genetics lab experiment, no doubt. Humph,” he snorted, but digging a bit deeper was disappointed to see: birth records sealed.

His Earth-human sensitivities found the mixing of human DNA with that of alien races to be a very dangerous thing. In fact, Patel had been on the Medical Board demanding that such experimentation should be banned. Some of the resultant embryos were outright freaks. Rather than destroy, he believed there should be no such experimentation whatsoever.

He pronounced, “This Dana Cartwright is quite an oddity — brilliant, but an oddity. She has an IQ that is truly extraordinary, however, the file holds some interesting personal details. Perhaps the Captain’s reservations are justified.” He read further, “Trained as an Eridani empath, a certified, first responder EMT and…a surgeon — a neuro-ophthamologist and a transplant surgeon.” Patel’s eyes widened. “She gave up a stellar medical career to become a circuitry Mech-Tech? What? Why?” He had to know.

Patel logged a request, via her yeoman, to report for a required physical, even though Station Four had just done a thorough exam.

“How’d she know?” Ensign Landers groaned, downing a second shot of Tritian gin to celebrate the end of a long and brutal shift.

“Has she got circuitry diagrams memorized?” Ensign Lewis growled, nursing a tall beer.

Landers shrugged. “She looked at the blasted thing and knew it was jury-rigged. Amazing…I’ve never seen anyone just look at something and know it wouldn’t hold.”

“Spooky…downright spooky,” protested Lewis, “and what’s worse, she was right. It would have failed at some point.”

Chief Mansfield set his empty glass on the bar and wordlessly started for the door, leaving Starboard-Seven, the officers’ lounge.

First Officer Nichols oversaw the departure from Four, and authorized a course that would put
Lancer
back on their regular patrol route. Captain Macao never reappeared, though he called orders up from below.

For Dana, the six-hour shift — like six days — drew ever so snail-like slowly to a close. At the sight of Specialist Matthews at her elbow, a lanky, young Betelgean Exchange Officer with sleepy, silver eyes and dark blue hair, Cartwright let out a sigh and vacated the chair.
 

Shifts at base had never dragged on so long.

She took a last look about the Main Bridge before crossing to the lift.
 
Once inside, she shut her eyes and requested, “Deck Six.” She decided on a relaxing shower and a light meal, then would head down to supply and ream them over the ill-fitting uniforms. The Captain had other plans. He paced in the corridor outside her quarters. Hers would have to wait.

“Sir?”

“Mister Cartwright? Yeoman Napa relayed your request for an interview. Will now be suitable?”

She didn’t let his pleasantries dissuade her. Dana had taken on tougher men; Macao at his worst would never match Doctor David Cartwright, her guardian.

“If the Captain wishes, now is quite acceptable.” She led inside her quarters, letting him follow.

He paid her meager belongings some attention and even thumbed through the list of reading material on her personal padlet. “Physicians Desk Reference?”

She shrugged, regretting that, in her haste, she’d left the device precariously on the edge of the desk.
 

Macao noticed the trio of vintage books — the three Shakespearean tragedies — stacked there, and settled down, sitting on the edge of the desk, about at arm’s length away.
 

“Well, what is it, Mister Cartwright?” he finally asked, though he didn’t bother to make eye contact.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Please do…” He set the padlet aside.

“On the Bridge today, you made three clearly inaccurate statements, which may severely undermine my effectiveness in the eyes of the command crew.”

She had his attention now. He came back, defensively, with a glare in his blue eyes. “I cited you for being late. Don’t bother denying it.”

A Galaxean could not have responded with more composure. “With all due respect, sir, the record will show that I was one point two minutes early, but was summoned to Engineering, Deck Twelve, to perform a mandatory inspection of computer circuitry after a malfunction was reported and corrected. I went to prevent a departure delay, since Commander Mansfield was unavailable.”

His eyes finally met hers and stayed there.

“Nichols will have to verify that.”

“The Bridge log will confirm it,” she said, continuing calmly, “your second inaccuracy was the insinuation that I might fall into the category of ‘squeamish females.’ I thought I made it very clear down on the Shuttle Deck at Four that I do no fall into that category. And, lastly, the innuendo that somehow I lack combat experience, which gains, how you say, ‘no sympathy.’ I have, if you will review my complete history, a great deal of experience, though I have never served a heavy cruiser before. I was top of my class in mixed martial arts and marksmanship. In fact, my record at Coronado has yet to be surpassed.”

He showed no sign of being recalcitrant. “I have not read your complete history, Mister Cartwright. In fact, what Four gave me told me very little about you, and failed to justify why they substituted you for the war hero they promised. Perhaps I will owe you an apology, once I have verified to my satisfaction that you are as you say.”
 

He then looked away. “The truth of the matter is, the Star Service promised me Neville Brandt, an exemplary officer I know well and trust. I have no idea who in the galaxy you are, and whether you are worthy of my trust.”

“Commander Brandt has an impeccable reputation, I’m sure,” Dana returned, “I understand your…disappointment.”

Macao heaved a sigh, “Indeed.”

“He suffered a fracture to his left femur, and a punctured lung from three cracked ribs, in a brawl on Deck Twelve two days ago.” She added, “He was set upon by two men in an otherwise deserted corridor. They fled when I happened along.”

Macao pounded a fist on the edge of the desk then winced at the painful reminder of the excessive use of force. “Why in hell would he allow that? Neville doesn’t drink. And he is one hell of a good fighter. It doesn’t make sense.”

Dana sighed. “He was followed, no doubt, from the civvy decks.” She left off the part about Brandt looking for her to deliver a gift.
 

Macao scowled. “Are you some kind of conspiracy theorist?”

“Station Four has a history of such things,” she said flatly. “After two years, I’ve heard all the rumors. The locals stalk officers and do their best to compromise…reputations.” She didn’t smile. “There are gangs of non-coms. I learned early on to avoid potentially dangerous encounters.”

“How does one do that?” The Captain demanded.

“By making sure one has Commander Dutch’s seal of approval.”

Macao scoffed. “Dutch is still a tyrant?”

“No one dares get on his…uh…list, shall we say.”

The Captain once again locked stares with her. It stretched on far too long. Then he demanded, “Are your eyes naturally mismatched? Or do you wear lenses?”