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“Lassie, thrill us with a tune.” A soft Scottish brogue broke my reverie. Whirling, I threw myself into Seamus McLeod’s waiting arms.
Laughing, I said, “Good to see you, old friend! How fair ye?”
“I’m well, Joacim. I see you beat the rest of us up, as usual.” He smiled.
“Well, I let Bea beat me up again, as usually,” I said, rubbing my still tender back.
“Where is the bonnie lassie, anyway?” he replied.
“Off checking the weapons array, if I know her,” I snarked.
“I heard that,” came her huffy response over the comm.
So, where are you then?” I asked.
“Checking the weapons array, of course,” she replied blandly.
Seamus was the ship’s botanist. He managed the hydroponics, although we all chipped in. He also managed the ship’s distillery, which none of us were allowed to touch. Scotch was his preference. Somehow, amidst all his other duties, he found enough time to generate everyone’s favorite beverage and keep all who chose to imbibe happy.
I had debated over three equally-qualified applicants for his position until the day a package had arrived in my cabin on board. It had to have been screened by security so I didn’t hesitate to open it. Within was a fine, hand-worked silver hip flask. Inside that was the smoothest bourbon I had ever sipped. The note was simple. I hope you enjoy my handiwork. I made both.
The ship’s store could make alcohol, but it tasted like battery acid mixed with goat urine. Not that I’ve ever tasted either, but it was the comparison Sumiko had made. She said Seamus’ Sake was superb. As if on cue, she walked into the dining room. Moving straight to Seamus where he stood next to me, she kissed him soundly on the mouth.
“And hello to you too, little one,” he murmured softly.
A flittering ghost of annoyance crossed her face for a moment. Then her muted features immediately returned to the impassive blankness which so often characterized her demeanor. Turning, she walked to the food synthesizer and ordered Oolong tea.
Sumiko Nagasaki was the ship’s navigator, astral plane voyager, and primary shuttle pilot. She, like Jovi, was slight of build. That was the only comparison between the two.
In whatever garb she might be fitted, Sumi always carried a blade. When opportunity permitted, as now, it was always a Katana or Tachi. When pressed for space, she would at least have a Kaiken or Tanto. Spurning the Odachi and Nodachi as a brutish oaf’s weapon, she was without equal with any bladed instrument.
As a show of respect, she had presented me with a Wakizashi on our maiden voyage milk run around the solar system. Although she had spent hours trying to teach me proper sword technique, all I had ever managed to cut was myself. Ultimately, it was Sumiko who had suggested I use the trident in exercise. I regularly gave thanks to God that the committee had selected her as my pilot.
I walked over and sat beside her, concern in my expression. “Why the long face, Sumi?” I asked.
“Jack-san, am I a horse?” she asked, with just the faintest hint of amusement flitting over her bland features.
Sumiko had trouble pronouncing my given name correctly. Her native tongue lacked the learned maneuver of sounds common to many European languages. So she called me Jack, which was actually a loose English translation of my German name. It had also been my nickname since childhood.
“You seem troubled and your behavior is...unusual,” I replied.
“Am I not permitted to great a shipmate in whatever manner is appropriate to theirs or my culture?” she asked.
“Well, yes, of course, but what tradition was that?” I inquired.
“I intend to wed him once we are settled on the new planet,” she replied matter-of-factly. “It is tradition in his native village for the betrothed to kiss him on the mouth, signaling her intention.”
“That’s...good to know...”I stammered, dumbfounded. When had all this happened? Sumiko and Seamus had been together since the early part of the project. Only recently had she apparently decided to take their relationship into exclusivity.
We had been selected for hundreds of markers and traits, one being excellent reproductive capacity. Although the two smaller women might look tiny, small women worldwide have birthed children for eons. They usually paired with small men, making the potential for an overly-large fetus less likely.
With the ship successfully dismantled and arranged on our new world, we would have the finest medical systems known to man. Still, prudence dictated care in all considerations. There would be no level one trauma center to be rushed to on our new home.
Frank Miller chose that moment to amble in. He was the best-looking man on the crew and sauntered everywhere he went. He had a loose-hipped manner of walking which many women found appealing. He had left no less than a dozen women crying, wailing, and wishing him Godspeed on the launch deck. Frank had stood smiling amongst his harem until the last; basking in the glory of his maleness. It only followed that Frank openly worshipped two temples; the Set Occult and himself.
It had been quite the bon voyage when we lifted the final time for space. Women crying, engineers crying, family members who could make it desperately seeking the strength to maintain game faces. Most of the final farewells had been sent electronically, either in print or visual. All twelve ship’s departures had been compared by many in the global media as having dirge-like qualities. After all we were, for all intents and purposes, never to be seen again.
Frank was also the most brilliant general scientist I had ever met, and I’ve worked with the best. He was still part of the original team which had made it possible for all of us to be here and still young,
“Frank,” I said by way of greeting as he maundered over.
“Boss,” he replied. It was his favorite jab at me, and he threw it incessantly. I’d gotten used to it to the point it usually didn’t bother me. I had once asked him why he insisted on calling me Boss.
“Everyone I’ve ever worked for has been a backward double-SOB,” he’d replied, grinning. The grin took most of the sting out, but not all.
“Star systems online yet?” I asked. “Mica will need them as soon as she’s awake.”
Mica Chen was our astronomer, quantum physicist, and general stargazer, doubling as our second navigator/pilot. Mica had been easily forthcoming during our first interview. I had asked about her parent’s reaction to her signing up. Her father was Chinese, her mother a Dutch-America beauty. She had remarked that it was obvious from a young age which of her parents ran the household. Being the middle of five siblings, it was easy for her mother to wish her Godspeed.
Mica had striking steel gray eyes set in her fine almond-shaped features. Tall for a Chinese woman, her Dutch heritage was apparent. Still, her skin had the flawless alabaster complexion of traditional Asian aristocracy.
“Just as soon as I hydrate and fill the empty pit where my stomach should be, slave driver,” he responded.
His statement reminded me that I had done neither and had been exerting myself just as the room took the opportunity to dance sideways. I cautiously rose to pour my second cup, programming a bacon double-cheeseburger while I sat gingerly at the kitchen counter.
By the time I had put the carafe down, the autochef chimed. Retrieving my meal, I walked back to my table and took a big bite. Juices ran from the corner of my mouth and dribbled onto the table surface but I was oblivious.
Sherry Semican had programmed the meal exactly as I liked it, frowning all the while. Sherry was the ship’s nutritionist, herbalist, general practitioner, and surgeon. She dismissed the title of Doctor openly. As she put it, there are a lot more crewmembers with the title doctor, with levels of education far beyond mine. We would rely on her, the other medically-qualified scientists, and Jovi if anyone was injured.
Her prowess with all things food made her the ship’s favorite person. As the oldest female on board, she had also adopted the role of surrogate mother for several of the younger crew members. The fact that she was no more than a decade older than the youngest didn’t seem to matter. She accepted the role with the same quiet aplomb with which she addressed all her duties. She had been the easiest choice of all the positions I had been allowed to fill.
Sherry was French-Canadian and Israeli, and Jewish. I was a source of never-ending dispute from both sides of her family. She finally resolved the issue by leaving the planet forever. She was rumored to have prowess with blades other than a scalpel, but it was something neither her personnel jacket nor she personally ever spoke of. I often wondered if it had anything to do with her upbringing in Tel Aviv.
The aroma from my meal had three others lining up to program theirs and I was sure I smelled falafel just as Sari walked in. Sari Marsool was stunningly voluptuous and Junoesque. Her Arabic heritage was prominent in her dark skin and black eyes.
Being a Sufi Mystic only added an eccentric air to her persona. She was the equal of Frank’s sexual attraction in female form. Born Sari Marsool al-Harabibi, she had shortened her name officially when she applied for the Near-Earth program.
She was also the most brilliant genotyping specialist I could hire. She had started a distant forth in the position reviews. Her skills and confidence became apparent almost immediately. I wondered aloud as to why she was so obviously underrated in her professional community. She had made a sweeping gesture to take in her physical stature and flowing robes.
Strong-willed, she constantly butted heads with Frank. He had openly complained against her position on the ship’s council. He felt that as lead scientist on the cryo team, he could better represent the scientists on the team.
Turning from the food synthesizer, I saw him hand her a dish of what I had smelled. Her look of surprise gave way to immediate suspicion. After a moment’s hesitation, she graciously smiled and took his proffered gift.
I watched Sari as she sat, suspicious as always of Frank being nice. Picking up one of the fried balls, she bit into it and froze. Slowly finishing the bite, she chewed thoughtfully. A look of surprised satisfaction crossed her visage before she continued eating.
Pradip Anand walked in and headed straight for Sari. He was the epitome of the pencil-necked scientist. He had instantly impressed me with his knowledge and passion for all things toxicological and pharmaceutical. The added bonus of his being a certified General Practitioner and skilled orthopedic surgeon had sealed the deal. He had been the only crew member I had selected who had not seen me for multiple interviews.
Pradip and Sari were as disparate in appearance as possible. She was statuesque, opulent, and almost regal. He was gangly, rawboned, and clumsy of movement. Yet their lights shone for no other. As he sat beside her, he reached for her last falafel ball. I watched as she gently stayed his hand.
Stunned at her rebuke, he sat in silence as she spoke softly and briefly. His normally saturnine countenance had flamed red as he leapt from the table. Pradip headed straight for Frank with murder in his eyes. I intercept him as he reached Frank’s table. Placing my palm gently against his chest to check his movement, I greeted him.
“Hello, Pradip. Are you fully recovered? You seem to be slightly flushed. Perhaps Doctor Semican should examine you?”
“Do you know what this slimy pig of a poor excuse for a human being did to my Sari?” he growled through gritted teeth.
“No, tell me, Frank. What did you do to Sari?” I asked passively.
“He had the autochef prepare her falafel; with pork,” Pradip seethed.
“Is that correct, Frank? Did you violate one of the prime guidelines for conduct onboard my ship?” The steel in my voice was unmistakable.
“What’s the big deal?” Frank smirked. “She ate it and seemed to enjoy it. Besides, it’s not really pork. It’s synthesized vegetable protein.”
“That’s right, Frank. I did eat it. I did enjoy it. I do know it is vegetable protein. I also know it is flavored, colored, and textured so that it is actually certified and approved by the Global Nutrition Council as pork.” Sari spoke from behind my right shoulder. “I forced myself to eat it because I wasn’t going to allow you to get my goat,” she concluded.
“Bea, to the dining room; double-time.” I made the call over the general frequency. All heads turned my way. I wanted everyone to know what was happening.
“What do you need her for?” Frank inquired, almost whining.
Bea and Sari were the only women on board completely immune to his charm. He had tried and failed repeatedly. She trotted into the room as he finished speaking.
“What’s up?” she asked, stopping beside me. She wasn’t even breathing heavy, even though she had obviously run the entire way.
“Escort Mr. Miller to the Star Systems Array station. Ensure he brings it fully and functionally online.” Turning from her, I look coldly at Frank.
“You have one hour to complete the necessary processes, Mr. Miller,” I stated flatly. “It should take you half that.”
Turning back to Bea, I continued. “As soon as Mr. Miller finishes his assignment, escort him to the brig. He is to be confined there for 72 hours on minimal rations.”
“What!” Frank exploded. He leapt from his seat.
Bea stepped forward only half a pace, but her intent was unmistakable. She was almost begging Frank to do something stupid.
“You can’t do that,” he argued. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“It is a violation of ship’s code, social etiquette, and good common sense to purposefully and with malice insult another crew member’s race, creed, culture, national origin, or heritage,” I quoted. “I believe you hit at least four of those.”
“Sari. I’m sorry, it was just a joke,” Frank said, pleading with every inch of his being. “Tell them it was all in fun. Tell them it’s okay,” he begged.
“No, Frank, I can’t tell them that, it would be a lie,” Sari replied.
Frank’s face fell. Looking at me, he growled as he spoke. “I guess you really are a backward double SOB.”
Turning to Bea, I amended my sentence. “Make that four days.”
“Now just a damn minute,” Frank started.
“Five,” I said, looking him squarely in the eyes.
He looked ready to cry. Dejectedly, he walked past Bea and out the entrance. Bea followed him closely.
“Captain,” Sari spoke softly. “Far be it from me to question your judgment, especially in view of your having just defended me. But five days in solitary on minimal rations?”
“Call me Ishmael,” I said.