Pearl of the Stars | Far From Home

It was a four day jump for the Nexus, the Rising Sun and the Calypso. Four days of nothingness, of the drab off-black monotonousness of Jump Space. If a person did not know any better, they could quite easily have been forgiven for assuming that a ship travelling through Jump Space was not moving at all as there was no sense of movement whilst on board, even though that ship was actually travelling incredibly fast.

The crews of each respective vessel utilised their time wisely, running many thousands of individual systems checks, and then running them again to ensure that if they ran into trouble of any kind, they and their ships were ready for it.

Captain Frank Holding was not running any such checks though. He sat, his arms folded across his chest, a stern look upon his face, as across the table in front of him a young weapons technician dallied over his testimony.

The tech stood accused of sexual assault and that was not something that Frank could take lightly. He hated that aspect of the job, more for the fact that the man and his accuser were both on his crew and he knew them fairly well, as well as any reasonable person could expect a battleship Captain to.

“Well, come on man,” he said, angrily. “Out with it. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing I can say, Sir,” the tech replied. “Whether I admit to anything, it doesn’t matter. Canston’s made the accusation and that’s all it takes.”

“That’s true enough,” said Frank. Council Fleet regulations dictated that any man or woman accused of sexual assault must be issued the maximum punishment, unless the accusation was proven to be false. In that event, the false accuser would receive that same punishment of fifty lashes.

“All right, technician. There’s a couple of marines outside to escort you back to your quarters. You’ll remain there until summoned.”

“Sir,” he said, as he stood and saluted.

Frank watched him leave, shaking his head. He lit a cigarette whilst waiting for the Nexus′ resident medical officer who was to give testimony in place of Ms Canston. He arrived moments later and took a seat.

“Go on then, Jared,” Frank sighed. “What’s the verdict.”

“There’s definitely evidence of unprotected intercourse,” the medical officer replied. “Vaginal bruising and tearing, and bruises upon her arms and neck, too. It could be that she likes it a little rough but in my opinion, Ms Canston was raped.” He paused, and lit a cigarette. “She’s in a bad way, Frank. She’s definitely going to need counselling, and I’d suggest reassignment, too.”

“You know, Jared. This is the best job in the whole fickling galaxy, but sometimes I fickling hate it.” Frank took a swig from the glass of water upon the table and lit another cigarette. “Keep her in the medical bay under a subtle guard. The only visitors she’s to receive are those she says are OK, and that includes me. I’ll talk to Senna when we get outta’ Jump and get her recommissioned to the Rising Sun.”

“It’ll be the best thing for her, Frank, believe me.”

“I do, Jared,” replied Frank holding with a weak smile. “Punishment will be issued in an hour. Are you going to be on hand to tend to the lads wounds?”

“Of course, that’s my job,” said Jared. “But don’t be surprised if my bedside manner slips by the wayside.”

“Duly noted, Jared.”

“Are we still on for poker, later?”

“Fick yeah, I need to win back some of that money you took from me last week.”

An hour later, Weapons Technician Ardal Spits was led out onto the Nexus′ starboard deck. It was the largest open area aboard the vessel and as the ship was traversing Jump Space, it was not in use.

Yellow lines painted upon the metallic floor indicated set routes fighters were obliged to take, either coming or going. In Jump Space though, those fighters were towards the back of the deck, well out of the way but at the same time, they still had a straight run, should they be called upon when the Nexus exited the jump.

There were a thousand or so sailors gathered, the Nexus′ entire crew. Captain Frank Holding had insisted that all be present. It was a rare occasion that a punishment of this magnitude was called for, but Frank thought it best that everyone witnessed what was about to happen. Discipline was a must, the only way to maintain a successful and happy vessel. It was true, Captain Frank Holding was no disciplinarian. In fact for the vast majority of the time he was exactly the opposite. But certain situations called for certain measures, however drastic those measures might be.

Spits was in handcuffs as was standard for any prisoner. Major Hynes stepped forwards and took him by the shoulder, saluting the marine who’d brought the man from his quarters. There was a little resistance from the young man, twenty years old if he was a day, and Hynes applied a little gentle pressure to his shoulder, just to show that he was not in the mood for fickling around.

The handcuffs removed, Spits clothing was removed from his torso, and he was positioned between two upright metal struts. A pair of handcuffs was then attached to each wrist, whilst the other ring of each was fixed to the struts.

Captain Holding stood before the man and stared him down. Part of him, a large part of him, wanted to beat the living piss out of him. He’d remove the ’cuffs first, of course, to give the man a fighting chance. It wouldn’t do him any good though, and Frank would make damn sure he thought twice before he so much as looked at another woman again.

“Weapons Technician Ardal Spits,” he said, his voice carrying the length and breadth of the deck. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, before your punishment is issued?”

Behind Captain Holding, the crowd of a thousand sailors were gathered. Spits was facing them. That way, the pain he was about to go through would be seen by all, spread across his face.

“No, Sir,” Spits replied, his voice wavering slightly.

“Hmph,” Frank grunted, and nodded in Hynes’ direction, before he stepped back.

The first crack of the whip echoed around the deck. The pain etched upon Spits’ face, was something that Frank knew would stay with him for the rest of his days, and he sincerely hoped he was not alone in that. A glance over his shoulder though, told him each and every one of his crew were equally as scarred.

The second crack jarred the technicians body and he contorted in agony, fighting futily to free himself from his bonds.

The third crack brought with it a whimper of pain.

After that, well, Frank stopped counting.

When Major Hynes finally laid the whip to rest, there was a pool of blood upon the floor at Spits’ feet, and his body sagged forwards, his bound wrists taking all of his twelve stone.

“Let him down, Major,” said Frank. “Jared, you’re up.”

Commander Hen Riley glanced frantically at his wrist watch. Grace had been gone for a while, a little over ten minutes, and whilst Hen wasn’t entirely sure exactly what she’d needed to do in the ladies room, there were few possibilities he could think of that would take so long.

Catching the eye of their waiter, he beckoned the man over.

“Yes Sir?” the waiter asked, in the manner of one who quite frequently got asked silly questions.

“My companion,” Hen began. “She’s been gone a while. I don’t suppose you could have someone check the ladies room, just to make sure she’s OK?”

“Of course, Sir,” the waiter replied, kindly. “I shall have one of the Hosts do so at once.”

“Thank you,” said Hen, as the waiter bustled off, only to return a few moments later.

“I am assured that the ladies room is currently unoccupied.”

“You’re sure?” asked Hen, realising it was a damn stupid question.

“Yes Sir.”

Hen stood quickly, knocking the chair over in his haste, and dropped a wad of notes to the table.

“Thank you,” he said, as he rushed off.

“No, thank you,” the waiter shouted after him, having done some quick mental arithmetic, and realised that the gratuity left on the table would probably put his granddaughter through college.

Once outside, Hen put a call through to the docking station and asked to be diverted to the Pearl of the Stars. It took only a matter of seconds, but those seconds felt like minutes to him.

“Commander Riley,” said Emily Johnson, as she answered the call.

“Ms Johnson, isn’t it?”

“It is, Sir.”

“Have you seen or heard from Captain Ifhans?”

“No Sir,” Emily replied. “It was my understanding she was having dinner with you.”

“She was,” said Hen. “But I think something has happened to her.”

“With all due respect, Sir, you’re being a little vague.”

“She visited the ladies room and failed to return,” Hen said. “I fear she has been taken.”

“By whom?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Stay where you are, Sir,” Emily said, authoritatively. “Mr Holden and I will be down as quickly as we can.”

The call terminated, Emily turned her head towards Mr Foster.

“The Chief, Mr Foster.”

“Aye Ma’am, the Chief.” Foster carried out the order as if it were Captain Ifhans herself who’d issued it, for she’d given Emily Johnson command in her absence.

“Chief.”

“Ms Johnson,” he replied with a salute.

“Are your planes equipped with DNA detectors?”

“Aye Ma’am, they are.”

“We’ve got a missing Captain. Scramble two of your pilots, and have them scan every inch of this planet for her.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he replied. Saluting again, he terminated the transmission.

“Mr Holden, you’re with me,” Emily shouted across the bridge. “Mr Foster, the Pearl is yours.”

“Aye Ma’am,” both men replied, simultaneously saluting.

Emily ran with Holden in tow, and soon they were at the docking station proper.

“I need you to take us to La Verdê at once,” she said to a security officer, who was currently loitering against the cab of his vehicle, smoking a cigarette.

“On whose authority, little lady,” he asked with a smirk.

“On Commander Hen Riley’s authority,” she snapped in reply. “And that’s Ma’am, thank you very much.”

Upon hearing the name and rank of one of the Allied Worlds’ most senior and respected men, the security officer stood to attention at once, and snapped off what was probably the smartest salute he’d ever managed.

“Yes Ma’am, sorry Ma’am.”

A pair of fighters screamed from the Pearl’s deck, and out into the planet’s atmosphere. Fighters were designed to operate in thousands of different atmospheric conditions, from a complete lack of one in space, to the most oxygen rich atmosphere imaginable. Their optimal operational window existed in space, where there was no atmosphere at all, for it was quite rightly assumed that most of their flying would occur there, most likely in battle. But they operated almost as well in conditions fit for human habitation.

They quickly rose to a cruising altitude of twenty-three thousand feet, and began their scans.

The communications units of both sparked into life, with a fizz and crackle of static.

“Whistler, Spark. Do as quick and thorough job as possible.” It was the Chief’s voice on the com. “If in the event there’s no sign get your arses back here, and await further orders from Ms Johnson.”

“Aye Chief,” both replied.

“If she’s down there we’ll find her, Chief.”

“I know, Spark. Good hunting,” he replied, and cut the transmission.

Senna Karavel pulled up a chair and sat down, glancing down at the gruel upon her plate. It was nutritious and contained most elements that the human body needed to function correctly but it tasted like crap. It was the gruel or the ration bars though, and they were so much worse. Again, a man or woman could survive indefinitely eating nothing but the bars, but once you’d had one, it was a brave sailor who’d have another.

She toyed with her food, moving it around on the plate with the plastic spoon as she did her utmost to imagine that it was not grey sludge she was about to ingest, but something much more desirable.

So engrossed was she, that Senna didn’t notice when three sailors sat at her table, until one of them spoke to her.

“Ma’am.”

“Yes, sorry crewman.”

“If we’re intruding...” he said, taking hold of his plate, with a similar dollop of gruel upon it.

“Not at all,” she replied. “I was just trying to decide what I want this crap to be today. Steak and chips, or chicken in a white wine sauce.”

“I normally go with korma or my mum’s hotpot,” said another of the three.

“I never was a fan of spicy food,” Senna said with a smile.

“Is it true, Ma’am,” the third began, “that the Calypso has an alien survival pod on board.”

“It’s true that Captain Jargo and his crew located a survival pod, yes,” she replied. “But that survival pod is currently quarantined aboard the Calypso, and there is no evidence to suggest that its origins are alien.”

Other than the fact we’ve no fickling idea where it came from, she added, silently.

“We’ll know more when we exit our current jump,” she said, out loud. “Captain Holding and I, along with Captain Jargo, will determine exactly where it came from. It’s most likely the pod is from a ship that got knocked way off course.”

She didn’t believe that for a second, but it would not do to let on to her crew what she actually suspected it was. Evidence of yet more intelligent life.

The table remained silent whilst Captain and crewmen finished their respective meals, each imagining that what they were ingesting was one of any number of delicious delicacies, rather than the foulness it actually was.

Senna nodded to the three crewmen and stood, before taking her empty plate to the racks on the far wall of the mess, where it would remain with the rest until one of the kitchen porters came in to hose them down in preparation for the next shift to eat their own meal.

She glanced at her watch. Fourteen hours until the Rising Sun exited Jump Space and the mystery of the survival pods origins could be laid to rest.

Two marines stood guard at the door beyond which was the quarantined survival pod. As she was only a Mobile Repair Vehicle, essentially a space-bound garage, the Calypso’s marine consignment was minimal and those two represented a fifth of the total on board.

It was rare for an MRV to encounter any kind of action, certainly the kind where marines were necessary. They would normally be utilised upon a planet, moon, or asteroid, when the MRV’s crew were mining or collecting supplies, just in case anything untoward occurred. That’s not to say that these marines were not just as good at what they did as those consigned to a battleship or battlecruiser. They were highly trained individuals, and were more than capable of dealing with any given situation.

However, unbeknown to them, a red light started to blink, hidden away inside the quarantined pod.

The light was attached to a tracking beacon.

The Calypso was being watched.