The Lotus Eaters

lifelike images of the bridge crew—rather, A bridge crew from sometime back in the Twenty-third century—going about their daily business. Past the bridge crew were several viewing screens. In one of them Saturn receded in the distance. Various well-lit diagrams of his ship stood spaced along the walls.

Richard felt the tiniest shudder in his command chair, even as the images likewise moved slightly in his view. He didn't notice it, but several sections of the diagram changed color subtly.

One of the female crew clasped a hand to one ear. 'Captain,' she announced, 'meteoroid strike amidships. Belts fifty-eight through sixty, decks . . . Zulu through . . . Victor report minor air loss.'

Richard hesitated for a moment, the nausea was still with him.

The crewwoman asked, 'Shall I seal off the affected sections, Captain? Shall I dispatch damage control?'

Fuck me to tears, Richard thought. The High Admiral will have my ass for lunch for that.

'Aye, away damage control parties to the area of the penetration.' Richard took a quick glance at the diagram. 'Negative on sealing the area.'

'Aye, aye, sir. Damage control parties away.'

'Casualties?' Richard asked.

'None reported, Captain.'

* * *

'Skipper, this is Damage Control Alfa. We've found the hull breach. Sealing it now.'

'How large is the breach?' Richard asked.

'Two millimeters, no more,' the program answered. 'We've leaked a little air but nothing dangerous.'

Richard turned his head toward life support, the VR helmet changing scene with the turn. 'How do we stand on reserve oxygen?'

'Reserve storage is more than adequate to compensate for the loss, Captain,' the program answered, in a man's voice. It then added, 'Carbon dioxide filtration and separation continues without degradation.'

* * *

Okay. Well enough, thought Marguerite. The boy didn't overreact. Of course, he hasn't yet asked the right questions . . .

* * *

His command chair definitely shuddered. And this time it was non-trivial.

'Meteoroid strike, Captain,' the same female simulacrum said. 'Stern, belts ninety-four through ninety-seven, it has passed through all decks. Captain, there are casualties. The ship has taken on a four mil yaw.'

Fuck.

'Damage control?' Richard asked.

'Aye, Damage Control here, Skipper. I've dispatched a team.'

'Good,' Richard said, then asked of the female bridge crewwoman, 'Can we get visual on the damaged sections?'

'On screen now, Skipper.'

Apparently power was at least partly out in the most recently struck section. The cameras had to operate off of light enhancement. This was perhaps just as well as the first image the viewscreen caught was of the remains of a crewman, sliced in two and then explosively decompressed. Parts of his torso had gone fairly flat while his inner organs floated outside. The two pieces of the late crewman rotated, one clockwise, the other counter. The grainy green image was at least some insulation from what would, in living color, probably have been another nausea inducing experience.

'Skipper,' Damage Control added, 'we're not going to be able to get in there until that team suits up.'

'How long?' Richard asked.

'Be at least a quarter of an hour,' Damage Control answered.

At least the strike wasn't near either of the reactors, the captain thought.

* * *

And you still haven't asked the right question. Tsk.

For a moment Marguerite contemplated giving the boy a hint. But, no, let him figure it out for himself.

* * *

'Meteoroid strike, Captain. Deck seventy-four, belt X-ray, compartment one-eleven. External cameras show it slicing the hull but not entering the ship. No casualties.'

'Elder gods, where in the Hell are they coming from?'

* * *

'Bingo,' Marguerite said aloud. In his VR helmet there was no chance of Richard hearing. 'That was the right question.'

* * *