Breach

fiction by michael werneburg

2002.07.26

But just then the door slid open, and the Prince sauntered out, looking peevish and wearing what seemed to be sleepwear. "What the hell is going on?" he asked, rubbing at his unshaven face. He had natural charisma and easy good looks tempered with early dissipation. As he neared, he was preceded by an acrid scent, as if he'd been sweating in his sleep.

"A routine checkpoint has gotten interesting, your Highness," Marl informed him. Beside her, Hiram read a log entry indicating the Prince’s joining the discussion.

"It couldn't wait 'til morning?"

"It is nearly 11:00, your Highness," she said in a factual tone. "And there's really no morning on board a Ranger-class vessel. We serve when we're needed."

"Ah, don't remind me. What I wouldn’t give for some creature comforts. The crew complement could at least have a cook."

"A cook?" Hiram asked with a smile. "It's just the five of us aboard. But I can fix you a cup of coffee, your Highness."

The Prince glared at the young man with narrowed eyes for a moment. Hiram made a small nod to emphasize what he said. The Prince decided that Hiram wasn't being impudent, and said, "No, I can run the food processor. My brain feels, I don’t know; woolly?" He shuffled toward the back of the bridge, seeking chilled water to clear his throat. "We were in subtime while traveling, yeah? How long?"

"Four months, nominal."

"Four months!" The Prince was fiddling with the water container, shaking it. It struck Marl as odd he'd be shaking water. The Prince shook his head. "I've missed the solar sail finals off Rigel. I've missed the debutante's ball back home. And the racing season on Tendell."

Marl considered it odd that a man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties was interested in a debutante's ball. She had heard from other crews that these 'guest Captains' could be awful people. Sometimes they had displayed such antisocial tendencies that they were assigned to a crew like this one to spend long years away from home. "Your Highness, in Waste Control, we spend virtually all our time travelling between star systems doing checks like this. We always spend lengthy periods of stasis."

"But isn't four months a lot?"

"My personal record was six and a half years."

He stared at her in shock. "You gave up six and a half years for one of these inspections?"

She realized she would have to think carefully about that question. Marl went to the deck's rear bulkhead and pressed a recessed button. One of the storage units slid out, and she drew out the suits that they would need to wear on the planet. She handed him one, and said, "There are helmets on the shelf, here, you see?"

"Sure."

"As for the travel, yes, we're still working our way back toward Terra."

"And how long have you been on this current voyage."

"I've experienced two a half years."

"But in what do you call it? Nominal time?"

This is what concerned Marl. The Prince must surely understand what he'd signed up for? "Twenty-four years."

The Prince cursed. "That's outrageous! So, everyone back home has moved on without you?"

"Well, I hear from them all the time, of course. My salary remittance helps fund their lives, I should add. In a way I'm providing for them."

"Very selfless of you. That's not for me, though. No way."

"Your Highness, I don't understand. You have signed on like the rest of us."

The Prince drank half his water in one go. "I've got too much going on at home, Lieutenant. I come from a noble house, you understand. Anyway, what's the big deal this morning? You said something was interesting?"

"Someone's colonized a world with one of our toxic waste repos."

"Hmm. Isn't that illegal?" The Prince approached and had another sip.

"It's not technically a settled Terran world, your Highness. The Corporation has a charter, but it doesn't fall under the same laws as a settled planet. Besides, Alien races can hardly be appraised of corporate regulations."

"I see," the Prince said, nodding. He sipped his water yet again and gave the Lieutenant a reflective look. "What did you say this gang was called?"

She sensed Hiram giving her a look but ignored him. "The charts just call them species Ci-70. You may know them by the colloquial term ‘Caofsh’. It’s our word for them, not theirs."