Willful Child (27 page)

“Can I suggest, perhaps, your stateroom?”

“Ah, you’re a Ping-Pong player, then?”

“Sir, marines are exceptionally trained in everything, including Ping-Pong. I understand, sir,” and she plucked out the cigar to smile at him, “the table has a low-g field emitter?”

“Uh, why, yes, it does.”

“Outstanding, sir.”

Hadrian began sweating. Desperate, he looked about the bridge and found his gaze settling on Jimmy Eden at comms. “Eden!”

“Sir!”

“Prepare a T-packet message to AFC.”

“Message, sir?”

“Yes, I will need to compose that, won’t I? Full details, I mean, on our present course—”

Sin-Dour cleared her throat and said, “I am happy to do that, sir, with your leave. I can liaise with Dr. Printlip, the chief engineer, and indeed, with Tammy, to ensure a thorough report. In the meantime, sir, you and the lieutenant here can … debrief. In the stateroom. In low-g.”

He swung round to eye her. “Well. I see. I mean, of course. That makes sense. Thank you, 2IC.” Shakily, he faced Sweepy Brogan. “Okay, then, I guess. Debriefing. Right. Uh … follow me, Lieutenant Brogan.”

TWENTY-ONE

Hadrian opened his eyes and sighed. Then frowned. He looked around and saw that he was lying on a bed in the infirmary. Doc Printlip was working at a table, writing notes on three notepads with three hands. “Doc?”

Printlip’s eye stalks swiveled to face him. “Ah, at last!” The Belkri leapt down from the walkway and waddled over. “Better now, yes?”

“Uh, what happened?”

“Well, rather confusing, sir. Shortly after Lieutenant Brogan departed your stateroom, it was noted that you were late in returning to the bridge. After a few hours, your first commander ventured in to
speak
with
you.
” Printlip paused to draw a new breath. “You were found, eventually, two and a half meters up an air duct, where, it appears, you dragged yourself
before
falling
uncon
scplgb
ssplf.
”

“Oh.”

“Hematoma on sixty-two percent of your body. Three fractured ribs, bruised testicles, and a cigar jammed up your—”

“I seem to have blanked out on, well, everything, Doc.”

“Ah, yes. Trace evidence of a neural wipe, Captain. Needless to say, I queried Lieutenant Brogan, and while she assures me that you were fine when she left your company, I did detect certain stress patterns in her speech, suggesting she
was
not
altogether
truth
fllflb.
”

“I see.… Uhm, when Sin-Dour found me, was I clothed by any chance?”

“I am afraid not, sir. Your attire had been, well, shredded, and scattered all over the Ping-Pong table.”

“Right. Then, uh, First Commander Sin-Dour—”

“Contacted me immediately upon finding you, sir. I ensured that you were displaced directly to sickbay.”

“Ah, where you got me into this bed, et cetera.”

“Well, Nurse Wrenchit did that, sir, in addition to bathing you and reducing the swelling almost everywhere. She did fail in reducing the swelling while handling your—”

“Have you got field restraints on me?” Hadrian asked as he struggled into a sitting position.

“Ah, apologies, sir. Allow me.” Printlip reached out and flipped a switch. “There. Better? Nurse Wrenchit found you somewhat resistant to her ministrations, particularly in regard to the cigar.” Printlip paused, swelling visibly while eyeing Hadrian, and then the doctor said, “I believe something untoward occurred when you were with Lieutenant Brogan, sir. It may be advisable to suspend her from duties pending a hearing.”

“Good grief, no!”

“Captain! Proper interrogation procedures, employing a full array of disinhibitor drugs—”

“Unnecessary, Doc. Let’s just, uh, let it lie, okay?”

Printlip’s eye stalks were waving about. “Most disconcerting, Captain, this reluctance of yours.”

“Never mind that. I need clothes. What’s our ETA to the Known Rim? How long have I been out?”

“You have been in an induced coma, sir, for twelve hours.”

“What? Why?”

“Examination of your brain activity indicated prolonged sleep deprivation.”

“Really! If I get my way, Doc, this is the last time you’re getting your hands on me! Now, find me a uniform!”

“One is here, Captain, on the chair beside you.”

“That? That’s a standard-issue captain’s uniform! Forget it. Tammy?”

“What now, Lothario?”

“You watched!”

“Watched, recorded, copied, filed, cached.”

“Displace me a proper uniform, from the stateroom. As for the rest, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Good idea,” the AI replied. “I am reviewing all the possible iterations of extortion, but have not selected the best one to use, just yet. Perhaps in a day or two?”

“Shut up and give me a uniform.”

Printlip was standing beside the bed, wringing its many hands.

Hadrian scowled at the Belkri. “What now?”

“Adjutant Tighe wishes to see you, Captain. She is in the waiting room. But I must warn you of her condition—”

“I can judge her condition all on my own, Doc. Send her in.”

A few more seconds of hand-wringing, which, Hadrian had to admit, was kind of fascinating to observe, and then Printlip scuttled over to a side door. Activating the iris, the doctor leaned into the room beyond and said something.

Tighe pushed past Printlip, stumbled, and barely righted herself, while the Belkri lost its footing at the nudge and rolled across the floor to thump up against a workbench. The adjutant was holding a bottle in one hand. She weaved over to Hadrian’s bed and managed to halt before colliding with it. “There y’are. Y’want symp’thy? Freggit. Naw from me!”

“Adjutant, I do believe you’ve been drinking.”

“I’m useless! Why not? Marines takin’ o’er scurity, and you! Kaptin! You jus stomp shtamp … stump … st-stamp o’er F’filiation regurltions like a … a … a ssshtomper!”

Printlip joined them, a few hands still dusting itself down. “I did try to warn you, Captain. She needs a detox misting … again. But there are complications.”

Hadrian squinted at the Belkri. “Go on.”

“Long-term immersion in Radulak slime, Captain, has resulted in permanent psychological dysfunctions, particularly
in
the
neo
corte
ffbl.
”

Tighe leaned onto the bed, bottle swishing. She leered at Hadrian. “What it’s sayin’, Kaptin, is I got bad thoughts, right? And I’m seein’ things. And hearin’ things. ’Sworse when I’m sober. ’Sworse.” She reeled back to take a drink, and fell onto the bed, across Hadrian’s shins. “Mmm, lumpy.”

Hadrian frowned down at her. “Half a detox at least, Doc?”

“A difficult balance to achieve, Captain, while she continues to replicate, and then imbibe,
more
alco
hol.
”

“Make it an implant?”

“Ah, yes, a maintenance program in a subdural ’bot. Excellent solution, sir.”

Tighe was staring up at the ceiling, cradling her bottle. “I’m useless. All that trainin’. All those nights with the admiral—”

“Adjutant!”

She tilted her head to eye him. “Y’barkin’ at me, Kaptin? Fuggoff.”

Hadrian worked his legs free. He saw that Tammy had replaced the clothes folded on the chair. Back to the lime green shirt with the gold piping. Black stretchy slacks and high-topped boots. He worked the shirt on. “Best keep her here, Doc, until you’ve got that implant in her. When that’s done, send her back up to the bridge.”

“Advisable, sir? She will continue to be half inebriated.”

“We’ll adjust.” Hadrian pulled on the slacks. “Socks? Where’s my—ah, there. Good.”

Leaving Tighe still lying crossways on the bed, with Printlip fussing over something at its desk, Hadrian made his way to the nearest elevator.

Out in the corridor, Tammy spoke, “Your officers are crumbling in your wake, Captain. Buck’s dosage of, well, everything, is off the charts. Your adjutant is in a slime-induced self-pitying funk—not all of it unwarranted. Your comms officers—both of them—are either dyspeptically neurotic or exhibiting varying degrees of post-traumatic stress disorder. As for Helm Jocelyn Sticks, well, she continues to be an absolute airhead.”

“I still have Galk,” Hadrian said as he entered the elevator.

“If you thought the screens on the Radulak ship were disgusting, you haven’t paid a visit to the combat cupola. I have displaced more spittoons into that cubbyhole than I can count, and he uses none of them. As for the porn magazines, well—”

“He’s Varekan, Tammy. It’s the long-distance trucker in his genes, that’s all. No, I have full confidence in my combat specialist.”

“Then you’re as insane as the rest of them! Your man with the finger on the trigger has an incurable death wish—do you think that’s a good idea, Captain?”

“It’s not a ‘wish’ as such, Tammy. It’s more like a ‘death-I-don’t-care’ thingy. And that makes him fearless and cool under pressure. No, I consider Galk to be an astounding success.”

He returned to the bridge to find the chicken seated in the command chair.

“Tammy!”

The chicken turned to eye him. “Yes?”

“Get rid of this!”

“No,” the chicken replied, “I kind of like it.” It stood on the chair and then flapped down to the floor. “But now, as you are once again in command, I humbly yield—ooh, look, some lint!” The chicken scrambled toward it.

Hadrian eyed the officers. Sin-Dour was at the science station, and she turned in time to meet his eyes.

“Captain,” she said, as expressionless as ever, “it’s good to see that you have recovered.”

“Right. Good as new. Uh, status update?”

“The chicken wouldn’t budge from the command chair, sir.”

“And now it’s pecking lint from the carpet, yes, yes, never mind that. ETA?”

“Well, I convinced Tammy to permit us dropping out of T space at six-hour intervals. We are in our second rest period, navigating through an asteroid belt orbiting a burned-out star. But sir, there are some strange readings from behind our ship.”

“Strange?” Hadrian went to his command chair, plucked away a few feathers, and then sat. “In what way?”

The chicken looked up and tilted its head as it muttered, “I feel another episode coming on.”

“Well, sir,” said Sin-Dour, studying her screens, “we are being followed by a small vessel, of indeterminate configuration. The propulsion system is very peculiar, as I am detecting trace elements of sulfur and methane.”

“Rear view on main screen,” Hadrian commanded.

The image shifted.

“I don’t see it, 2IC. Distance?”

“Three point two-one meters, sir.”

“What? Is it cloaked?”

“No, sir, but it appears to be surrounded by an organic cloud—well, uh, that would be our bilge dump, which of course is presently matching our heading velocity, at least until we change vectors.”

“I see,” murmured Hadrian. “You know, I never thought of it before. There must be tens of thousands of shit piles flying every which way through the galaxy. Anyway. What you’re saying is, there is a tiny ship hiding in our bilge dump.”

“It’s emerging now. Mass, eighteen ounces.”

“Magnification—let’s get a visual.”

The image blurred, corrected, found focus. Hadrian slowly leaned forward. “Sin-Dour, are you sure that’s the vessel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But that’s a turd. Granted, a big one, but then I’ve seen bigger.”

“Uh, sir,” said Sin-Dour. “That turd is equipped with antimatter engines, an array of surface sensors, weapon mounts, and what appear to be porthole windows.”

“Wow,” said Jimmy Eden from his position at comms, “what did that guy eat to make all that?”

Sin-Dour moved up to stand beside Hadrian. “Captain, my preliminary analysis is complete. We are about to make first contact with a new spacefaring alien species. The inhabitants of that vessel are, according to my scans, tiny hive-sentient insectile entities, spontaneously evolved into a higher life-form probably due to constant radiation bombardment. Sir, they have begun transmitting on primitive radio frequencies.”

“Brilliant!” said Hadrian. “Discover new, strange, and utterly disgusting life-forms! What’s wrong with a civilization of tall, statuesque women who’ve never experienced the attentions of a real man? Dressed like, I don’t know, hotel maids, but with skimpy short skirts and high-heeled boots, and those hairdos where it’s all piled up like a melting wedding cake? I want too much eye shadow and cake powder, false eyelashes and soft focus! But no! What do I get? Why, I get to shake hands with a piece of shit!”

Eden gasped. “Captain! We have a translated communication from the Turdians!”

Hadrian spun round. “Turdians? I like it. What are they saying, Jimmy?”

“They want to speak with God, sir.”

“Hmm. Acknowledge and put them on hold, Jimmy.” Hadrian stood. “Fine, then. First contact, and one that’s starting on the right foot, though that foot might need a roadside curb once we’re done. Lo and behold, I shall be their god! Tammy, project a hologram for them. Something that should be impressive to a bug that lives in shit. Oh, and when you translate my commands, make sure I sound properly impressive.”

The chicken advanced on him. “I refuse! There’s only one god here, and it’s me!”

“You? Fine, then,
we’ll
do the special effects stuff. Sin-Dour, mock up a proper godlike image to do the talking for Tammy.”

She looked blankly at him. “I’m sorry, sir, but nothing comes to mind.”

“Right then, let’s think—”

“I see no problem,” said Tammy, hopping up onto the command chair, “with my appearing as this chicken.”

“Chickens eat insects,” Hadrian pointed out. “You’ll give them a hive heart attack. No, what I’m thinking is a giant multisegmented turd—a real groaner—with a couple legs, a couple arms, and big glowing eyes. Just say hello, drop a few tablets with Affiliation-friendly commandments on them, and warn them not to look behind the curtain. Oh, and give yourself a name, too. Something like, Seriously High Turdster.”