Samson felt foolish in his optimistic hope that something so vital as the power plant might be kept in a slightly better state than the rest of the ship, and he didn’t know why he had hoped for anything different to what he was presented with in the Bounty’s engine bay.
It seemed the ship’s former master hadn’t had any engine grease left over by the time he had finished decorating his ship with it. In the one place it was supposed to be, it was conspicuously absent. If the rest of the ship could be considered ramshackle, the engine bay was a disaster zone. Tools and various other items lay around as if tossed aside and forgotten. Some were completely enveloped in grease that hadn’t made it to the engine’s moving parts, which were dry and rusting. It wasn’t the way the engine room of a man who ever hoped to reach his destination should look, and Samson hoped that none of the mess had found its way into the sealed engine chambers. They were a long way from spare parts, and with each passing moment, Samson felt the likelihood grow that Arlen’s Bounty would be written off and used by the Sidewinder for gunnery practice.
Vachon stood amidst it all, arms akimbo with his regulation-breaking stomach jutting out. Anywhere else in the galaxy, he would have been put on restricted rations and an exercise regimen, but on the Frontier it didn’t seem to be a matter of concern. Samson found it amusing that he, never a fan of overly strict application of naval discipline, was shocked by the lapses in it on the Frontier. Perhaps it was finally starting to sink in?
‘Is it as bad as it looks?’ Samson said.
Vachon sucked air in through his teeth. He had an expression on his face that Samson could only describe as despair.
‘Can you do anything with it?’ Samson asked.
Vachon approached the engine assembly, a metal behemoth dominating the centre of the room, and poked and prodded a few things. He shrugged. ‘What’s the output at the moment?’
‘Bridge controls say thirteen percent.’
‘Surprised it’s that much, sir,’ Vachon said. ‘She’s been ill-treated, but I don’t see anything obvious to be worried about. A proper service should sort most of what’s wrong. I doubt she’ll ever give one hundred percent again, but high seventies should be doable. More than enough to get her to port, I think.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘In a fully equipped dockyard? A day. Here? I’ll need to dig in and have a closer look before I can give you a reliable answer, sir.’
Samson frowned.
‘I’ll have to take her completely offline for an hour to clean and oil the converter heads; realign, clean, and grease the containment magnets; and clean the filters on the fusion reactor. From the looks of it, we’re losing a lot of power because the mechanical elements haven’t been properly maintained. All the filters are probably clogged too. That should give us a fair improvement in output straight away. We can fire her up and get underway then. There should be enough power left over to start charging the agitator, assuming it turns back on. With the magnets properly aligned and spinning smoothly, I can keep tweaking the fusion reaction while we’re on the move.’
‘Fine. I’ll recycle the atmosphere and take her offline. Did you copy that, Sidewinder?’
‘Acknowledged, Bounty. We need to get this done, so prioritise it.’
‘Aye aye,’ Samson said.
‘Attention all hands, we’ll be powering down shortly for one hour. Find somewhere comfortable to sit; it’s going to be dark. Keep your helmets close. All hands, report when ready.’ He looked over to Vachon. ‘Wait for my command, then take it all offline.’ As he left the engine bay, he just hoped that it would all turn back on again.
5
Samson returned to the bridge and flopped down in the command chair—his chair, for the time being. It was a good feeling, although he had to shut his eyes and imagine a different view to fully appreciate it: the pristine bridge of a capital ship, populated with equally pristine officers. Then there was the ever-present pressure of not messing up. He had a big enough blot on his record already, and needed a sustained period of quiet, competent performance. During his court martial, he had come to resent the way the Navy had treated him, but the threat of losing his career had confirmed to him how much he wanted to keep it. Still, how could a junior lieutenant on his first cruise be considered potentially guilty of mutiny, even if most of the senior bridge officers were?
The thing that frightened him the most was that if they had asked him, he probably would have joined it. Their protest was against the substandard performance of contracts for naval equipment, and the cost in sailors’ lives that resulted. Concessions were made by the Admiralty afterward, but many brave officers who had put the welfare of their crews ahead of their careers were executed. Out here on the Frontier, Samson had no idea if the Admiralty had made good on their promise to do better, but their brutal response to the mutiny meant it was unlikely they’d have to deal with another one any time soon.
Nonetheless, it still made him angry. The big galactic corporations made a fortune on military contracts, charging high prices, and often providing equipment that was barely serviceable. They sent men and women out into the depths of space to secure new systems and planets, so they could safely exploit whatever resources were to be found. That corruption at the highest levels of the Admiralty was involved was beyond question. Everyone knew it, and it seemed as though it was an accepted
