The location triangulation would take a moment, so Samson stood and went to the viewport. He didn’t know the system well enough to recognise any of the stars, not that he would have been able to estimate their location from them if he had. The era of navigation by the stars alone was long past. Now it required powerful computing to triangulate between stars, then calculate planetary orbits so they knew where they had to go—far too much number crunching for any person to manage alone. It was certainly a less romantic process than looking out at the stars with a sextant, but was easily made up for by how compelling the unknowns of space were.
He turned and looked back over the bridge, empty but for himself. The beige housings and panelling had, Samson suspected, once been white, but years of grime had stained them into the bland and unwelcoming shade they were today. He felt a pang of loneliness as he stood there. There was no one who could make his decisions for him, and he had a crew that might turn on him again as soon as he put a foot wrong. Perhaps he might even lose the support of Price and the Marines. The thought felt like a burden on his shoulders, and the only relief he could find was the thought that he would not have to bear it for long.
They would soon reach the Capsilan Orbital Depot. Once there, he would be able to send word to the Admiralty, and help would be on its way. All that would be left for him to do was idle around on the station until he was relieved—if, of course, the reaction matter cooperated. Still, the list of problems he had to deal with finally seemed to be getting shorter, rather than longer. With that in mind, he returned to the command chair, and hit the intercom button to check on his recalcitrant power plant and engineer.
Satisfied that the reaction matter wasn’t going to end them all in the blink of eye—at least not anytime soon—Samson finally allowed himself to relax a little. Getting back to Capsilan felt like a welcome homecoming, even though he had not spent much time in the system. It had long been the unofficial capital of that region of Frontier space, for no reason other than that the Navy had established a resupply depot there when first covering the area with the umbrella of their supervision. That had given the system an air of legitimacy, and it had quickly become the most populous one in the region. It was the closest thing there was to civilisation in this Frontier sector, and the depot contained everything they needed, and more, to keep them going until relief arrived. They weren’t out of danger yet, but the light at the end of the tunnel seemed considerably brighter than it had before the Nexus transit.
Samson had not visited the surface of Holmwood—or Capsilan 2-C, as it was still officially known—but he had heard stories aplenty. People on the Frontier tended to have different mindsets to those in the Core Systems; they sought adventure, riches, and a life not so constrained by rules—or simply somewhere they could disappear. Holmwood Landing provided those people with everything they wanted, and had a reputation as a lawless spot where people lived hard, fast, and often violently.
He had looked forward to seeing it for himself—there were few places as exciting and dangerous—but that experience would have to wait. He felt an almost uncontainable urge to feed the data they had collected into the depot’s computer and see what it turned up, but as with everything else on the Bounty, its short range communications system wasn’t up to the task of sending the information.
The prospect of making his report to command filled Samson with far less enthusiasm. How could he phrase it in a way that wouldn’t make him sound like a lunatic? The sensor data was the key. If he confined himself to whatever facts they presented, he could allow the Admiralty to draw their own conclusions. They would be the same—he couldn’t come up with any other way to view it—but at least they would be getting there themselves, without having to question his sanity first.
The journey from where they dropped out of the Nexus in Capsilan to the depot in orbit over Holmwood would take longer than the trip between systems, and Samson had to remind himself to be thankful that they had arrived in the right system at all. Nevertheless, he could feel his impatience grow as he watched the distance to their destination slowly count down. The temptation was to increase thrust and then decelerate harder, but that would put more strain on the reaction matter, not to mention the ship itself, and it wasn’t something he was willing to do.
All that remained was to sit and watch the distance tick down, and inevitably let his mind wander to places he’d have preferred it not go. Was it the same for every young officer in their first command? Second-guessing every decision, seeing danger and terrible consequences behind every corner?
Whatever his own worries, he knew an idle crew was dangerous. All the more so when considering what had already happened. He had faith in Price, but the intimidating Marine sergeant was only one man.
Samson shook his head. He was letting himself get paranoid. It was one of the pitfalls of deep-space assignment, and one the Navy worked hard to combat. However, the Bounty had no therapists, nor any of the distractions and recreational activities even a corvette as small as the Sidewinder had been able to offer. He was on his own with this, and that was how he would have to get through
