CHAPTER 1
The Privateer Ship Madeline Drake
Deep Space
Rashid-231 System
Nickson Armitage awoke suddenly to an obnoxious buzzing sound in his compartment. He sat up quickly, bumping his head on the padded ceiling of his berth. He was soaked in sweat, and the air was insufferably dry; the environmental regulation systems were still being repaired.
“Yeah?” he said, into the intercom, checking his chrono. He’d been asleep for about ninety minutes. More time than he’d hoped for.
It was Reg, the flight medic. “Nix, you need to come down to sick bay. The skipper is asking for you.”
“Huh? He’s up? Is he doing better?”
Reg was silent for a moment. “No. You…you should come down here as soon as you can.”
“I…yeah, okay. On my way.” He tapped the controls and the hatch to his berth slid open, allowing slightly cooler air to flow in. The ship was still under acceleration, maybe 0.75 gravity, which was a good sign. It meant the engines were holding up and they were still on course. There were twelve berths on the crew deck, but no one else was around. Red emergency lighting provided illumination, and the air tasted stale. Nickson wiped the sweat from his face as he made for the hatch.
Sick bay was just below the crew deck, between it and the cargo hold. Sliding down the ladder, Nickson’s feet hit the deck with a thump. He turned around in the narrow ladder compartment and banged on the hatch to sick bay before opening it. The auto-open functions were disabled to save power, so he had to unseal the heavy hatch and push it open manually. Inside, the ship’s modest medical facilities were overcrowded. All four medical bunks were full, and two more injured crew were lying in gurneys, secured to the deck, with IV tubes stuck in their arms.
Reg stepped across the cramped bay to greet Nickson as he come through the hatch. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in days. He probably hadn’t; Dr. Mugabe, the flight surgeon, had been seriously injured during the battle and had succumbed to his wounds hours later. Reg wasn’t as well trained as the doctor, but he was an experienced rescue medic and had been doing his best to treat casualties. Between his efforts and the autodoc, no one else had died since Dr. Mugabe passed. Of the Maddy’s original complement of thirteen, only five were uninjured, not even enough to conduct proper damage control. They really couldn’t afford to lose anyone else.
Captain Ogleman’s pained expression brightened when he saw Nickson. Half his head was bandaged, and he’d lost an eye, but he was awake for the first time in days, and alert. “Nix,” he croaked, barely able to speak. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you awake, Skipper,” Nickson said. Captain O was in bad shape. He was sealed, from the armpits down, in an emergency body cast in a last-ditch attempt to keep him alive. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m dying,” he said flatly.
“Bullshit. You’ll pull through.”
“No, I won’t, Nix,” he said sadly. “The autodoc told me. The cast has not been able to stop the internal hemorrhaging.” He’d had a five-centimeter-wide chunk of hot metal tear through his chest. “I’m surprised I made it this long.”
Nickson forced himself to smile. “You always were a stubborn bastard.”
“Too stubborn. I should have listened to you.”
“It doesn’t matter now, Skipper. You should just try to rest. Save your energy.”
The captain laughed, coarsely. “Save it for what? I’m dying, man. The only reason I’m coherent enough to talk is because of the painkillers this…this burial shroud is injecting me with. Listen to me now. How’s the ship?”
“Not good, Skipper. Weapons are offline still. The cargo bay is a hard vacuum.” An incoming missile had blown the doors off the cargo bay, depressurizing it. “Only five of us are still on our feet. We lost a radiator, so we have to be careful about how much heat we generate, and that’s part of the reason it’s so damned hot in here. We’re not atmospheric right now. But we’ve got navigation, we’ve got propulsion, we’ve got life support, and the transit motivator is still functional. We should be able to make it back to Nantucket Station and get patched up enough to get us home.”
Captain Ogleman exhaled heavily, as if relieved. “Good. Good. My stupidity hasn’t doomed us all, then.”
“Skipper…”
“Save it. I was stupid. I got the doctor killed, and myself too, it would seem. I just want to let you know that I’m sorry.”
“The captain never apologizes for command decisions,” Nickson said.
“I’m not the captain anymore. You are.” He sat up a little more in his bed. “Reg? Come here, please.”
The beleaguered medic stepped over, putting on a fresh pair of sterile gloves. “What do you need, Skipper?”
“I need a witness. Tell the computer to record this, too. My name is Clarence Ogleman, owner and captain of the Madeline Drake. I hereby transfer all command authority to my executive officer, Nickson Armitage, and charge him with the duty of getting the ship home to port on Heinlein.”
Nickson felt numb inside. He’d assumed command while the skipper was incapacitated, but this formality drove home the point that he was dying. “I accept command, and will discharge my duty to the best of my ability.”
“Good,” the skipper said, weakly. “Good. End recording.” He turned back to Nickson. “Get the lads home, will you?”
He nodded solemnly. “I will, Skipper. I swear it.”
Captain O clenched his eyes shut, obviously in pain. “Thank you,” he said, breathlessly, a moment later. “Now get going. The crew needs their captain. I’m tired. I need to rest.”
“It’s been an honor working with you.”
“You too, son. I know the ship is in good hands.”
Nickson shook hands with his shipmate, turned, and left the sick bay without another word. He resolved that if they made it back to Nantucket Station, he was going to take a day and drink himself unconscious.