. . . godsend in this emergency . . .
This wasn’t an emergency! she realized with a start. Somehow, Kincaid had known, or at least suspected, that something bad was going to happen. That was why he was aboard. And if he’d devoted his entire existence to hunting down and destroying one of the legendary evils of history, then . . .
Didn’t that Rithian say the would-be Conqueror of the Universe was a water breather?
She didn’t catch up with the two, but did have them in sight, tiny figures in the distance whom she made out mostly by the fact that they moved.
Angel quickly discovered that to walk without getting dizzy and sick along this passage, she had to keep her eyes steadily on that vanishing point ahead. The tube was transparent; in null-space there was a Great Void, a nothingness that the brain interpreted as jet-black because it had no other way to depict it. Otherwise, there was only the ship, bathed in an energy glow that kept it insulated from the Great Void beyond.
She didn’t think she was going to make it, but eventually she did. Out of breath, disoriented, with some nausea to boot, she finally reached the end and a solid section with a double airlock. She stepped inside the one, heard it close behind her, and felt gravity of almost ship’s normal return. When the aft lock was closed, the forward one opened, and she walked into one huge wretched-looking mess.
There was the smell of electricity in the air, and a lot of the instrumentation on the big semicircular control panel was blinking red or simply shorted out. The whole place seemed covered with rusty reds and bleach-white and granular yellow scum, the undoubted residue of what was in the water. A computer pad, some papers, and a few customized real printed books—rare in this day and age, but common, she knew, among starship captains—were waterlogged, twisted, and ruined.
The whole place smelled like it had just been fumigated and not properly aired.
“Don’t mind the smell!” Kincaid called to her from a slightly elevated platform in the rear of the bridge. “I’m afraid it’ll get worse before it gets better, but the computer probe assures me that it won’t really damage any of us, just annoy the hell out of our lungs.”
She saw the big, padded command chair in front of the bridge, definitely the seat of authority, its high back blocking the view of anyone who might occupy it. It had controls and circuitry in the arms, and a set of modules on arms that could be brought in front or to one side. A series of monitors, six of them, were directly in front, although only a couple were working. She had the sudden, uneasy feeling that somebody was in that chair. Without saying a word, she walked toward it, slowly, almost as if expecting some monster to leap out from it at her throat, and for some reason she couldn’t explain, she began reciting the prayer of comfort to the Blessed Virgin over and over again. Still, she was drawn to the command chair.
Kincaid looked up, saw her and shouted, “I think you’d better not!”
But it was too late, nor could she have stopped if she wanted to. She came around the side of the chair, saw the occupant, stifled a scream, and looked away. She felt like throwing up, and couldn’t stop it. That nice dinner mixed with the mess and ooze on the deck.
The occupant of the chair was quite dead, and was almost certainly the late and heretofore missing Captain Dukodny. At least he hadn’t drowned, for all the good that meant. Clearly, whoever had done it hadn’t wanted the ship’s Master to have any idea of what was going on, nor any opportunity to stop it. They’d blown an airlock, probably from the tug, once they’d bypassed the ship’s computer, and Captain Dukodny had essentially imploded.
Captain Kincaid was by her side in a moment. “Are you all right? I tried to stop you—”
“No, no, I’m okay,” she assured him. “It was just—I hadn’t ever seen anybody dead like that. I’m all right now.”
“Hmm . . . I don’t know . . . Great Scott! Are you bare-foof?” he exclaimed, looking at the prints in the sludge.
It hadn’t occurred to her. “Yes, I—I just didn’t think I needed anything when I came to the lounge to have dinner and get the briefing.”
“It never occurred to me that anybody would walk barefoot around this crud.”
“Is it toxic?”
“Probably not, but I’d wash it all off as quickly as possible when I could get to some plain water, and watch for any reactions just in case. Not toxic doesn’t mean that it might not be caustic. If it starts to burn or feel inflamed, get to the medical station.”
“It feels all right. I admit to feeling foolish now at not thinking of it myself, but things happened so fast . . .”
He nodded. “Good girl. You are some kind of priest or nun?”
“Some kind, yes. I am Angel Kobe. You could call me Sister Kobe if you would feel more comfortable doing so, but Angel is fine.”
“Okay—Sister. You got guts or faith or maybe both, and that’s a handy set of attributes to have right now.”
“I’m afraid I’m beginning to think you may need a naval escort instead of a woman of God,” she commented. “Or am I wrong in what I am thinking here?”
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I wish you were. And I’m afraid we haven’t any idea how many of our fellow passengers know all about this as well. Our Rithian friend seemed less surprised by the condition of the bridge or the Captain, for example, than in checking out how much damage might have been done.”
She got the hint. “Where is he now?”
“Teynal is helping the main computer by running temporary lines back in here independent of the usual systems. He can move through those ducts rather handily. We’ll need to get this up and running and also run down the taps and bypasses that allowed them to do all this right in plain sight. The computer thinks it’s got most of them now, but we’ll see.”
She looked over at the chair. “What will you do with—” She nodded toward the body.
“It is a tradition that if you die in the line of duty, you are given to space. We’ll pass him through to the fuel chambers, where his mortal remains will be consumed and then output as exhaust gasses that will join with and return to the universe. One day some tiny fragment of him may become part of a new star, a new world, or who knows what? It’s what he would have wanted.”
“I know nothing of him or his faith, if he had one, but I should like to perform a basic funeral rite and prayer for him as this is done.”
“It’s not necessary.”
She looked into those hollow eyes. “Yes it is. His place in the universe was as Master of this ship. My place is to perform what God has made me to perform.”
He sighed and nodded. “All right, then, Sister. It won’t do any harm. Now, though, you should go back if you can and see to those feet, and then you can do best in this circumstance by calming and informing the others. Don’t give too much away, but give them enough.”
“I cannot lie,” she told him.
“But you can playact. I saw you with the gown and the wig earlier. I assume you were just trying to mix without having the usual reaction to clerics kick in, but if it wasn’t a lie, it was at least not bringing up an important fact. There are two important facts here that we should keep quiet about, at least for a while: say nothing about this being a deliberate act, and nothing about the possible fuel shortage.”
“Is that really a problem? I thought the scoops brought in enough.”
“No, that’s only true in normal space. Propulsion here is from carried fuel. However, it’s not as bleak as all that. The purpose clearly was to have us not know what went on here, and run dry at a predetermined point. They didn’t count on me being aboard. Once we get this bridge back to some sort of normalcy, if need be I can use some of the cargo ahead. Almost anything works. It’s just not as efficient as the real stuff. Back in the age of steamships on oceans, on old Earth, there would be emergencies, they’d run out of wood or coal, and wind up cannibalizing the ships, which tended to be wood, and any cargo that would burn. That’s what we can do, and we have a tremendous amount of cargo stretching out in front of us. In fact, I’d like to find out what’s really in some of those container modules. I’ll bet you it isn’t all just what’s on the manifest.” He paused a moment, licking his lips. “And then we’ll look over the passenger manifest as well. Particularly the one for the two water modules . . .”
“You’ll be all right here? I mean—you’re going to be the target next if half of what you suspect is true, and you are a long way from friends and help if I leave,” she said, concerned.
“Well, bless you for the thought, but go ahead, I’ll be all right,” he responded, seeming genuinely touched by her concern. She wondered just how long it had been since anybody had treated him as a real human being. “I’m not as helpless and vulnerable as you think. In fact, I daresay I may be the only person anywhere who these people genuinely fear.”
Most of the people who had been milling around were gone by the time she got back, which was fine with her. She went immediately to her cabin, took a full shower and washed all the crud off her feet, found some sandals with thick soles in case she had to get back up there again, and felt a little better clean and dry. She was concerned about Kincaid even if he wasn’t worried about himself. It was odd how an object of fear and pity had turned so quickly to friend and ally, but she had taken a liking to the man, who had proven not as grim as his outward persona nor as unfeeling in his hate as his reputation suggested. Not that he didn’t hate. She could sense that, and the fact that he cared little about his own personal safety and well-being. He did, however, care about the safety and well-being of others, and that was what she found so likable in him. She had much the same attitude herself.
Angel decided to see if she could get a lighter and calmer fare for her now-empty stomach and then pretty much sit and wait. If any of the others came by and asked, she would give them a limited amount of information. Mostly, she wanted to see Kincaid again and be reassured that he was okay.
A ship’s clock with a standard time setting was maintained aboard so that guests wouldn’t get thrown completely off and some routine cleaning and maintenance by the module computer was possible. By that clock, it was now past two in the “morning,” so she wasn’t at all surprised to find the lounge empty. She was able to use the restaurant automation to order a light room service breakfast—some toast, jellies, and herbal tea—that made her feel much better. Still, as nobody else showed up, she was tempted to make the long walk back to the bridge. The restaurant holographic host, however, advised against it.
“Captain Kincaid is all right,” the maitre d’ assured her. “I have conveyed your concerns to the ship’s computer and on to him, and he states that you are to get some sleep and be prepared to brief passengers in the morning. He also states that you should be prepared to do your service for Captain Dukodny at 1000 hours, if that is convenient for you.”
She nodded. “Send him my thanks. I suppose he’s correct, but it will be difficult getting to sleep after all this.”
And yet, oddly enough, it wasn’t that hard getting to sleep. It had been a long, tense, and tiring day, and the future was even more questionable, but for some reason, she was out as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Angel had never needed a lot of sleep, and she’d left a wake-up call for 0800, enough time to get composed and dressed, talk to people, and then make it up to the bridge. She was still concerned about Kincaid, alone in a possibly compromised bridge with a computer that might be compromised as well, and with a Rithian he felt might be part of it. But she had the strong feeling that Kincaid knew what he was doing and was used to being alone. That, in fact, was his true tragedy—that he lived his life isolated and alone.
Some of the passengers were up and about when she got to the lounge the next “morning,” but she checked first with the computer connection inside the restaurant in the guise of a maitre d’.
“Good morning, madam,” he said in his usual stuffy tones.
“Is Captain Kincaid still up there?”
“No, madam. He and his companion returned about two hours ago. It was necessary for the area to be sealed before it could be sanitized. He said you should meet him here at 1000 hours.”
She thought a moment. “He can’t have had any sleep. Do you think he will be awake then?”
“I have instructions to ensure this. He shows evidence of using tricaps in the past, perhaps too much. I believe he has a more difficult time sleeping than staying awake.”
Angel didn’t like the sound of that. Using that level of stimulant at all was wrong, but using it enough to develop the characteristic pallor and lines and raised blood vessels in the eye said that it was dangerous. It certainly explained his hollow, almost corpselike appearance.
Even if she could override his instructions, which she couldn’t, she still wouldn’t order him to bed now, though. As much as Kincaid needed sleep, and as much as he’d need it even more later on, if he slept, he would be vulnerable, and she saw the problem with that.
She’d been relieved that her feet and ankles weren’t burned or peeling when she’d awakened, but the mixture of rust and yellow had dyed them a striking random pattern. She wondered if it wasn’t mostly the toughness of her skin and the callused soles and sides that had saved her. Save for the times out in the Junction and the little time of masquerading here, she hadn’t worn shoes in two years.
Angel took a light pastry and herbal tea breakfast and let the curious come over to her.
“Well, good morning, Sister Angel,” Ari Martinez said, approaching her small table still carrying a mug of coffee. “So, what was the big mystery and where did everyone go?”
She nodded but didn’t smile. “It wasn’t a very pleasant thing. We found the captain dead and the bridge flooded.”
There was always a slight murmur, an undercurrent of collective conversation, in almost any restaurant or cafe setting. It suddenly ceased, as if somebody had turned the volume down.
Martinez seemed genuinely shocked. “Dead! How?”
“We don’t know. It looks like some foul play back at the Junction. All of this is essentially handled by the various computers, you know. It did appear that it was quick. Then they filled the bridge with pressurized water to keep anyone from coming in until, I suppose, we were in null-space and far beyond any legal jurisdiction.”
“Then we’re running without a captain?”
“No, Kincaid’s a certified captain. A little out of practice, but he can do what little has to be done. At least the ship’s computer thinks he can, and that’s good enough for me. It’s not like we have a choice, is it?”
“Um, no. But—murder you say? And water? Why would anyone do this? How could they do this?”
“When we find out, you’ll be among the first to know,” she assured him.
In the time after the initial breaking of the news, Angel discovered that she’d become quite popular. Some seemed to be pumping her for details; others just wanted confirmation or merely reassurance that the ship was still going to get where it was going.
What she found most interesting were the various people who didn ‘t question her. She could understand why the Rithians didn’t—Teynal certainly gave them the gory details— but when she thought back on it, neither Wallinchky nor the Kharkovs came near her, nor did that little weasel Tann Nakitt the Geldorian.
And then there was Ming Dawn Palavri. She came over, all right, as friendly and casual as the night before, but the kind of questions she asked had less to do with the crime than with wanting exact details about it. Angel had the impression she was being interrogated, and she didn’t like it.
“I am not going into any more detail right now,” she told the businesswoman. “Sorry. Why do you want to know every little thing, anyway?”
“Just curious. Maybe curious as to why somebody would do this, and looking for some clues.” Ming sighed and smiled and patted Angel on the shoulder. “Sorry. I should know better. Force of habit. Still friends?”
Angel frowned and looked up at the other woman, feeling both patronized and lied to at the same time. Still, she answered, “Yes, of course. It was a very tiring day and I am short on sleep.”
Afterward, Angel wondered about her own reactions. Ming and Ari were kind of private detectives, after all. Was she getting as paranoid as Kincaid? But then, Ari hadn’t pressed her as Ming had. Why would Ming give her the third degree? Unless . . . unless she wanted to find out how much she and Kincaid really knew and what they might have in mind to do about it. That possibility annoyed Angel. She didn’t like the notion of being reduced to a pawn.
Promptly at 1000 hours, Jeremiah Kincaid showed up. He was dressed in utilitarian work clothes and boots, but he’d obviously had a shower and cleaned himself up, and he looked in remarkably good shape.
He seemed genuinely happy to see her. “How’s your feet?”
“Colorful, but otherwise no problem,” Angel assured him. “They are pretty tough.”
“Are you ready to go on back up?”
She nodded. “Lead on.”
They went back through the cafe and out the rear once more, into the bowels of the module. This time, however, Kincaid stopped her short of the ladder.
“That’s a storeroom with light over there,” he told her. “I think the pragmatic thing to do is to get you into general disposable work clothes. I took the liberty of having some made up by the computer. I think things will be warmer and generally better suited to this sort of area.”
She wanted to object and point out that the robe was okay with her, but she saw his point. The stretch jumpsuit was the same bright orange he was wearing. It fit like a glove and adhered to her body. The ankle-top sneakers grabbed where they met the deck, and she had to admit that the outfit was far more utilitarian.
She walked out and struck a pose. “Better?”
“Somehow I hadn’t expected you to have quite that good a figure. But, yes, it’ll serve. For one thing, it breathes but can also be a good insulator if need be, and the bright color allows you to be seen at a distance, which can be imperative inside the bowels of a ship this size. If you are satisfied, the computer can deliver a dozen more to your cabin. When you are done with this one, simply dispose of it as trash. Now— you aren’t bringing a Bible or something?”
“I don’t need one,” she assured him. “It is a simple affair.”