which had been decompressed to prevent further decomposition. It had been a nasty job. Some of those bodies were weeks old. Once that grim job was complete, they began preparing Rekesh for her long sleep. All of the survivors moved onto one deck. They carefully shut down systems and machines that were not necessary for the ever-smaller number of survivors, using the ship’s instruction manuals if necessary. They dumped fusactors as their power became unnecessary, and shut down life support systems. They shut down the ship’s hydroponics and atmosphere plants. The air in Rekesh ’s tanks would last long enough for the few people left. As crew people became sicker and died, they took the bodies to the hangar deck and shut down more and more systems. When they were down to two dozen, all sick to some extent, they began the final preparations.
They began at the very center of the ship, and wedged open every door and hatch. There are a lot of hatches and doors on a ship half a kilometer in diameter, and there were less than half a dozen survivors by the time they had finished. Just in time, Rog knew. The last of them had only a few days left. He staggered to the bridge and began systematically trying to shut down the ship’s AI. The two other survivors went to Engineering, and began shutting down the last of the fusactors, artificial gravity, and life-support systems.
Coughing sounds heralded the approach of Ensign Jak Tor-Kur even before he rounded the corner of an intersecting corridor, accompanied by Chief Gunner Kantro. The young Ensign looked even worse than the grizzled Chief did. Rog sighed. All of them were approaching the limits of their energy reserves.
'All done, Captain,' Jak reported wearily.
Rog nodded. 'Me, too,' he replied. 'All right gentlemen. This is your last chance to back out of our pact.'
Jak merely shook his head. 'I'm ready, Captain,' the Chief replied.
Rog smiled. 'Excellent. I knew I could count on you. All right, gentlemen. It's time to put the Rekesh to sleep. Chief, please take the Port Three Supply Personnel lock. Jak, you've got the Starboard Four Personnel lock. I'll take the Main Bridge lock.' With an effort he forced himself erect. 'It has been a real privilege to serve with both of you.'
Chief Kantro struggled to attention. 'The privilege is mine, sir. And may I add I've never served with a better Captain.' His right hand swept into an arm-cracking salute.
Jak straightened with an effort and rendered a crisp salute. 'Thank you, sir. For Everything.'
Rog returned their salutes with a nod. The two men slowly removed their ident tags, and handed them to Rog, who added them to a box he was carrying. The three of them shook hands and walked away silently and painfully. Rog turned to watch Jak totter down the passage and shook his head. Just in time. He hoped Jak would live long enough to carry out his orders.
Rog wearily carried his box through what seemed to be miles of bloody and blackened passages, stopping to rest several times against a bulkhead before he reached his destination. He had to lean against the airlock door for a moment to gather the strength to begin donning one of the heavy space suits. As he began struggling into it, a timer clicked down and the last active fusactor began shutting itself down. Suddenly the gravity disappeared, and Rog found himself floating in total darkness until the emergency lighting activated. Rog grinned in relief. That fusactor had been his second-to-last worry. He hoped his companions had made it to their respective airlocks. He had no doubt that they would carry out their orders if they lived long enough.
Free fall made it much easier for Rog to suit up. Finished, he latched back the inner door of the airlock so it would remain open. Entering the lock itself, he swam to the manual control for the outer door of the airlock.
The lack of gravity made it difficult to operate the manual control's pump, but he finally wedged himself into a position that let him work the pump's handle. After a moment, a line of blackness opened around the edge of the outer door. Rog could not hear the hiss of escaping air, but he could feel it begin to buffet him and see the rime of frost that grew on the door as it slowly swung aside. Finally, it was open, and Rog bounced on the end of his safety tether as millions of cubic meters of air escaped past him.
Between coughing spasms, Rog found himself grinning. He was bouncing like a child's balloon on a windy day, and it was actually kind of fun!
Finally, though, the rush of air ceased, and Rog floated on the end of his tether. He pulled himself hand-over hand along the safety line toward the pool of light that was the lock. The batteries powering the emergency lighting would last a few weeks. The utter silence was unnerving as his magnetic boots anchored him inside the airlock. He had not realized how many subliminal sounds and minute vibrations there were in an active spaceship. Especially one as large as Vir Rekesh.
Now, though, the only sound was his own breathing in the suit. The Rekesh was silent, dead. A derelict without life circling a sun without worlds until someone came to claim her. Rog hoped someone would find her. He didn't like to think of his ship and her dead crew circling this barren sun forever.
He struggled to a sitting position just inside the airlock and again wondered if the others had also succeeded. He hoped so. It was all they had lived for these last few weeks.
He just watched the stars for a while, finding calm in their remote coldness. He recorded messages for his family, and wondered if they would ever receive them. Instead of his father, perhaps his message would reach his great-great-great grandnephew.
Finally, it was time. He reached up and shut the air valve to his suit, and began simply talking, knowing that the message crystal in the arm of his suit would record everything. After a while, he became groggy and his talk became more disconnected, less intelligible as he exhausted his suit's air. His last intelligible comment was that it was a hell of a way to spend his twentieth birthday…
PART 1
Chapter 1
It all began when he broke his Admiral’s jaw, though he didn’t know that for a while. Long, weary months under quarters arrest seemed to drag on forever as the court martial preparations ground on and on. Kas Preslin could see the end of his career in the imperial fleet in the eyes of the military lawyers. But through all the gloom, and the despair, and the boredom, he still knew he’d done the right thing.
The insistent signal of the vidphone dragged him to consciousness, bleary and groaning. Damn. He had done it again. If something didn’t happen soon he was going to turn into a full-fledged alcoholic.
He staggered to the desk and keyed the phone to receive. He was also careful to key the privacy button. Whoever was calling wasn’t going to see him naked, unshaven and hung over.
The image on the screen was of an immaculate Fleet Lieutenant Commander. The man looked like a recruiting poster, Kas thought sourly, except for the scowl that radiated disapproval. “Captain Preslin?”
Who else? Kas wondered, “This is Captain Preslin.” He was surprised by the shakiness in his voice.
The Lieutenant Commander noticed it too. His expression became even more disapproving. “Captain,” he said brusquely, “You are directed to report to the office of the commander in chief at 1400 hours. Please be prompt.” The image disappeared before Kas could reply. 1400. It was 1125. Not much time to prepare for an audience with the Grand Admiral.
Kas took a deep breath and expelled it in an explosive sigh. He considered himself reasonably brave, but he told himself that even the bravest would be nervous if summoned to the office of Grand Admiral Rev Pankin, Commander-In-Chief of the Empire Fleet and one of the most powerful men in the Universe. He hurried to the ‘fresher.
Kas regarded his reflection in the mirror in the outer office of the commander in chief, searching for any sign of his agitation. The figure that looked back was not impressive. Kas sighed in resignation. He was one of those unfortunates who always manage to look rumpled, even when wearing a new uniform with knife-edge creases. Though his plain, open face was freshly depilated, he was glumly aware that in only an hour or so a hint of blue would begin to creep over his wide features. If he weren’t in uniform, he decided, he could easily pass for a
