Steele, Allen - The Death Of Captain Future

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Allen Steele
With the publication of his novelOrbital Decay-about the engineering and political problems that zero-g
“beamjacks” overcome to build satellites in outer space-and its sequelLunar Descent, Allen Steele earned
comparisons to Robert Heinlein and established his credentials as a promising new writer of hard science
fiction. Since then, Steele has set his novels aboard space stations (Clarke County, Space;A King of
Infinite Space), in undersea research facilities (Oceanspace), and in an earthquake-devastated near-future
St. Louis (The Jericho Iteration).The Tranquillity Alternativeis set at a civilian-manned moon base in an
alternate world where manned space flight occurred in 1984 and lunar colonization took place shortly
thereafter. A prodigious writer of short fiction, some of which has been collected in All-American Alien
Boyand Rude Astronauts, Steele is the author of the Hugo Award-winning stories “The Good Rat,” “The
Death of Captain Future,” and “Where Angels Fear to Tread.”
- Introduction taken from "The Best Alternate History Stories of the 20th Century" - ed. Harry Turtledove
THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN FUTURE
Allen Steele
The name of Captain Future, the supreme foe of all evil and evildoers, was known to
every inhabitant of the Solar System.
That tall, cheerful, red-haired young adventurer of ready laugh and flying fists was the
implacable Nemesis of all oppressors and exploiters of the System’s human and planetary
races. Combining a gay audacity with an unswervable purposefulness and an
unparalleled mastery of science, he had blazed a brilliant trail across the nine worlds in
defense of the right.
-EDMONDHAMILTON,
Captain Future and the Space Emperor(1940)
THIS IS THE TRUE STORYof how Captain Future died.
We were crossing the inner belt, coasting toward our scheduled rendezvous with Ceres, when the message
was received by the ship’s comlink.
“Rohr . . . ? Rohr, wake up, please.”
The voice coming from the ceiling was tall, dark, and handsome, sampled from one of the old Hercules
vids in the captain’s collection. It penetrated the darkness of my quarters on the mid-deck where I lay
asleep after standing an eight-hour watch on the bridge.
I turned my head to squint at the computer terminal next to my bunk. Lines of alphanumeric code scrolled
down the screen, displaying the routine systems-checks and updates that, as second officer, I was
supposed to be monitoring at all times, even when I was off-duty and dead to the world. No red-bordered
emergency messages, though; at first glance, everything looked copacetic.
Except the time. It was 0335 Zulu, the middle of the goddamn night.
“Rohr?”The voice was a little louder now.“Mister Furland? Please wake up. . . .”
I groaned and rolled over. “Okay, okay, I’m awake. What’dya want, Brain?”
The Brain. It was bad enough that the ship’s AI sounded like Steve Reeves; it also had to have a stupid
name like The Brain. On every vessel on which I had served, crewmembers had given their AIs human
names-Rudy, Beth, Kim, George, Stan, Lisa, dubbed after friends or family members or deceased
shipmates-or nicknames, either clever or overused: Boswell, Isaac, Slim, Flash, Ramrod, plus the usual
Hals and Datas from the nostalgia buffs. I once held down a gig on a lunar tug where the AI was called
Fughead-as inHey, Fughead, gimme the traffic grid for Tycho Station -but no one but a bonehead would
give their AI a silly-ass moniker like The Brain.
No one but Captain Future, that is . . . and I still hadn’t decided whether or not my current boss was a
bonehead, or just insane.
“The captain asked me to awaken you,”The Brain said.“He wants you on the bridge at once. He says that
it’s urgent.”
I checked the screen again. “I don’t see anything urgent.”
“Captain’s orders, Mr. Furland.”The ceiling fluorescents began to slowly brighten behind their cracked
and dusty panes, causing me to squint and clap my hand over my eyes.“If you don’t report to the bridge in
ten minutes, you’ll be docked one hour time-lost and a mark will be entered on your union card.”
Threats like that usually don’t faze me-everyone loses a few hours or gains a few marks during a long
voyage-but I couldn’t afford a bad service report now. In two more days the TBSAComet would reach
Ceres, where I was scheduled to join up with theJove Commerce , outbound for Callisto. I had been lucky
to get this far, and I didn’t want my next CO to ground me just because of a bad report from my previous
captain.
“Okay,” I muttered. “Tell ’em I’m on my way.”
I swung my legs over the side and felt around for where I had dropped my clothes on the deck. I could
have used a rinse, a shave, and a nice long meditation in the head, not to mention a mug of coffee and a
muffin from the galley, but it was obvious that I wasn’t going to get that.
Music began to float from the walls, an orchestral overture that gradually rose in volume. I paused, my
calves halfway into the trouser legs, as the strings soared upward, gathering heroic strength. German
opera. Wagner.The Flight of the Valkyries , for God’s sake. . . .
“Cut it out, Brain,” I said.
The music stopped in mid-chord.“The captain thought it would help rouse you.”
“I’m roused.” I stood up and pulled my trousers the rest of the way on. In the dim light, I glimpsed a small
motion near the corner of my compartment beside the locker; one moment it was there, then it was gone.
“There’s a cockroach in here,” I said. “Wanna do something about it?”
“I’m sorry, Rohr. I have tried to disinfect the vessel, but so far I have been unable to locate all the nests. If
you’ll leave your cabin door unlocked while you’re gone, I’ll send a drone inside to . . .”
“Never mind.” I zipped up my pants, pulled on a sweatshirt and looked around for my stikshoes. They
were kicked under my bunk; I knelt down on the threadbare carpet and pulled them out. “I’ll take care of it
myself.”
The Brain meant nothing by that comment; it was only trying to get rid of another pest which had found
its way aboard theComet before the freighter had departed from Lagrange Four. Cockroaches, fleas, ants,
even the occasional mouse; they managed to get into any vessel that regularly rendezvoused with near-
Earth spaceports, but I had never been on any ship so infested as theComet . Yet I wasn’t about to leave
my cabin door unlocked. One of a few inviolable union rules I still enjoyed aboard this ship was the
ability to seal my cabin, and I didn’t want to give the captain a chance to go poking through my stuff. He
was convinced that I was carrying contraband with me to Ceres Station, and even though he was right-two
fifths of lunar mash whiskey, a traditional coming-aboard present for my next commanding officer-I
didn’t want him pouring good liquor down the sink because of Association regulations no one else
bothered to observe.
I pulled on my shoes, fastened a utility belt around my waist and left the cabin, carefully locking the door
behind me with my thumbprint. A short, upward-curving corridor took me past the closed doors of two
other crew cabins, marked CAPTAIN and FIRST OFFICER. The captain was already on the bridge, and I
assumed that Jeri was with him.
A manhole led to the central access shaft and the carousel. Before I went up to the bridge, though, I
stopped by the wardroom to fill a squeezebulb with coffee from the pot. The wardroom was a disaster: a
dinner tray had been left on the table, discarded food wrappers lay on the floor, and a small spider-like
robot waded in the galley’s sink, waging solitary battle against the crusty cookware that had been
abandoned there. The captain had been here recently; I was surprised that he hadn’t summoned me to
clean up after him. At least there was some hot coffee left in the carafe, although judging from its odor
and viscosity it was probably at least ten hours old; I toned it down with sugar and half-sour milk from the
fridge before I poured it into a squeezebulb.
As always, the pictures on the wardroom walls caught my eye: framed reproductions of covers from
ancient pulp magazines well over a hundred years old. The magazines themselves, crumbling and
priceless, were bagged and hermetically sealed within a locker in the Captain’s quarters. Lurid paintings
of fishbowl-helmeted spacemen fighting improbable alien monsters and mad scientists that, in turn,
menaced buxom young women in see-thru outfits. The adolescent fantasies of the last century-“Planets In
Peril,” “Quest Beyond the Stars,” “Star Trail to Glory”-and above them all, printed in a bold swath across
the top of each cover, a title . . .
CAPTAIN FUTURE
MAN OFTOMORROW
At that moment, my reverie was broken by a harsh voice coming from the ceiling:
“Furland! Where are you?”
“In the wardroom, Captain.” I pinched off the lip of the squeezebulb and sealed it with a catheter, then
clipped it to my belt. “Just grabbing some coffee. I’ll be up there in a minute.”
“You got sixty seconds to find your duty station or I’ll dock your pay for your last shift! Now hustle your
lazy butt up here!”
“Coming right now. . . .” I walked out of the wardroom, heading up the corridor toward the shaft. “Toad,”
I whispered under my breath when I was through the hatch and out of earshot from the ship’s com-net.
Who’s calling who lazy?
Captain Future, Man of Tomorrow. God help us if that were true.
Ten minutes later a small ship shaped like an elongated teardrop rose from an
underground hangar on the lunar surface. It was the Comet, the superswift craft of the
Futuremen, known far and wide through the System as the swiftest ship in space.
-HAMILTON, Calling Captain Future(1940)
My name’s Rohr Furland. For better or worse, I’m a spacer, just like my father and his mother before him.
Call it family tradition. Grandma was one of the original beamjacks who helped build the first powersat in
Earth orbit before she immigrated to the Moon, where she conceived my dad as the result of a one-night
stand with some nameless moondog who was killed in a blowout only two days later. Dad grew up as an
unwanted child in Descartes Station; he ran away at eighteen and stowed away aboard a Skycorp freighter
to Earth, where he lived like a stray dog in Memphis before he got homesick and signed up with a Russian
company looking for native-born selenians. Dad got home in time to see Grandma through her last years,
fight in the Moon War on the side of the Pax Astra and, not incidentally, meet my mother, who was a
geologist at Tycho Station.
I was born in the luxury of a two-room apartment beneath Tycho on the first anniversary of the Pax’s
independence. I’m told that my dad celebrated my arrival by getting drunk on cheap luna wine and balling
the midwife who had delivered me. It’s remarkable that my parents stayed together long enough for me to
graduate from suit camp. Mom went back to Earth while Dad and I stayed on the Moon to receive the
benefits of full citizenship in the Pax: Class A oxygen cards, good for air even if we were unemployed and
dead broke. Which was quite often, in Dad’s case.
All of which makes me a mutt, a true son of a bastard, suckled on air bottles and moonwalking before I
was out of my diapers. On my sixteenth birthday, I was given my union card and told to get a job; two
weeks before my eighteenth birthday, the LEO shuttle that had just hired me as a cargo handler touched
down on a landing strip in Galveston, and with the aid of an exoskeleton I walked for the first time on
Earth. I spent one week there, long enough for me to break my right arm by falling on a Dallas sidewalk,
lose my virginity to an El Paso whore, and get one hell of a case of agoraphobia from all that wide-open
Texas landscape. Fuck the cradle of humanity and the horse it rode in on; I caught the next boat back to
the Moon and turned eighteen with a birthday cake that had no candles.
Twelve years later, I had handled almost every union job someone with my qualifications could hold-dock
slob, cargo grunt, navigator, life support chief, even a couple of second-mate assignments-on more vessels
than I could count, ranging from orbital tugs and lunar freighters to passenger shuttles and Apollo-class
ore haulers. None of these gigs had ever lasted much longer than a year; in order to guarantee equal
opportunity for all its members, the union shifted people from ship to ship, allowing only captains and
first-mates to remain with their vessels for longer than eighteen months. It was a hell of a system; by the
time you became accustomed to one ship and its captain, you were transferred to another ship and had to
learn all over again. Or, worse, you went without work for several months at a time, which meant hanging
around some spacer bar at Tycho Station or Descartes City, waiting for the local union rep to throw some
other guy out of his present assignment and give you his job.
It was a life, but it wasn’t much of a living. I was thirty years old and still possessed all my fingers and
toes, but had precious little money in the bank. After fifteen years of hard work, the nearest thing I had to
a permanent address was the storage locker in Tycho where I kept my few belongings. Between jobs, I
lived in union hostels on the Moon or the elfives, usually occupying a bunk barely large enough to swing
either a cat or a call-girl. Even the whores lived better than I did; sometimes I’d pay them just to let me
sleep in a decent bed for a change, and never mind the sex.
To make matters worse, I was bored out of my wits. Except for one cy-cleship run out to Mars when I was
twenty-five, I had spent my entire career-hell, my entire life-running between LEO and the Moon. It’s not
a bad existence, but it’s not a great one either. There’s no shortage of sad old farts hanging around the
union halls, telling big lies to anyone who’ll listen about their glory days as beamjacks or moondogs while
drinking away their pensions. I was damned if I would end up like them, but I knew that if I didn’t get off
the Moon real soon, I would be schlepping LOX tanks for the rest of my life.
Meanwhile, a new frontier was being opened in the outer system. Deep-space freighters hauled helium-3
from Jupiter to feed the fusion tokamaks on Earth, and although Queen Macedonia had placed Titan off-
limits because of the Plague, the Iapetus colony was still operational. There was good money to be made
from landing a gig on one of the big ships that cruised between the gas giants and the belt, and union
members who found work on the Jupiter and Saturn runs had guaranteed three-year contracts. It wasn’t the
same thing as making another trip between Moon and LEO every few days. The risks were greater, but so
was the payoff.
Competition for jobs on the outer-system ships was tight, but that didn’t stop me from applying anyway.
My fifteen-year service record, with few complaints from previous captains and one Mars run to my
name, helped me put a leg up over most of the other applicants. I held down a job as a cargo grunt for
another year while I waited, but the union eventually rotated me out and left me hanging in Sloppy Joe’s
Bar in Tycho. Six weeks later, just as I was considering signing up as a tractor operator on the Clavius
Dome construction project, the word came: theJove Commerce needed a new executive officer, and my
name had been drawn from the hat.
There was only one hitch. Since theCommerce didn’t come further in-system than Ceres, and because the
union didn’t guarantee passage to the belt as part of the deal, I would have to either travel aboard a
clipper-out of the question, since I didn’t have money-or find a temporary job on an outbound asteroid
freighter.
Okay, I was willing to do that, but now there was another complication: few freighters had available gigs
for selenians. Most vessels which operated in the main belt were owned by the Transient Body Shipping
Association, and TBSA captains preferred to hire crewmembers from other ships owned by the co-op
rather than from my union. Nor did they want to sign up some dude who would only be making a one-way
trip, because they’d lose him on Ceres before the trip was half-over.
The predicament was explained to me by my union rep when I met with him in his office in Tycho.
Schumacher was an old buddy; he and I had worked together aboard a LEO tugboat before the union had
hired him as its Tycho Station representative, so he knew my face and was willing to cut me some slack.
“Look, Rohr,” he said, propping his moccasins up on his desk, “here’s the scoop. I’ve checked around for
a boat that’ll take you on, and I found what you were looking for. An Ares-class ore freighter, outbound
for Ceres . . . in fact, she’s already docked at Lagrange Four and is ready to launch as soon as her captain
finds a new second.”
As he spoke, Schumacher punched up a holo of the ship, and it revolved in the tank above his desk. It was
a standard rock hauler: eighty-two meters in length, with a gas-core nuclear engine at one end and a drum-
shaped crew module at the other, joined at the center by the long narrow spine and open cargo bays. An
uprated tugboat, really; nothing about it was either unfamiliar or daunting. I took a slug off the whisky
flask he had pulled out of his desk drawer. “Great. What’s her name?”
He hesitated. “The TBSAComet ,” he said reluctantly. “Her captain is Bo McKinnon.”
I shrugged and passed the flask back to him. “So what’s the catch?”
Schumacher blinked. Instead of taking a hit off the whisky, he recapped the flask and shoved it back in the
drawer. “Let me repeat that,” he said. “TheComet . Bo McKinnon.” He peered at me as if I had come
down with Titan Plague. “You’re telling me you’ve never heard of him?”
I didn’t keep up with the TBSA freighters or their captains; they returned to the Moon only once every
few months to drop off their cargo and change crews, so few selenians happened to see them unless they
were getting drunk in some bar. “Not a clue,” I said.
Schumacher closed his eyes. “Terrific,” he murmured. “The one guy who’s never heard of Captain Future
and it’s gotta be you.”
“Captain who?”
He looked back at me. “Look, just forget the whole thing, okay? Pretend I never mentioned it. There’s
another rock hauler heading out to Ceres in about six or seven weeks. I’ll talk to the Association, try to get
you a gig on that one instead. . . .”
I shook my head. “I can’t wait another six or seven weeks. If I’m not on Ceres in three months, I’ll lose
theJove Commerce job. What’s wrong with this gig?”
Schumacher sighed as he reached back into the drawer for the flask. “What’s wrong,” he said, “is the nut
who’s in command. McKinnon is the worst captain in the Association. No one who’s shipped out with
him has ever stayed aboard, except maybe the google he’s got for a first mate.”
I had to bite my tongue when he said that. We were pals, but racism isn’t an endearing trait. Sure,
Superiors can be weird-their eyes, for starters, which was why some people called them by that name-but
if you also use words like nigger, slant, kike or spic to describe people, then you’re no friend of mine.
On the other hand, when you’re hungry for work, you’ll put up with just about anything.
Schumacher read the expression on my face. “It’s not just that,” he said hastily. “I understand the first
officer is okay.”For a google, that is, although he didn’t say it aloud. “It’s McKinnon himself. People
have jumped ship, faked illness, torn up their union cards . . . anything to get off theComet .”
“That bad?”
“That bad.” He took a long hit off the flask, gasped, and passed it back across the desk to me. “Oh, the
pay’s okay . . . minimum wage, but by Association standards that’s better than union scale . . . and
theComet passes all the safety requirements, or at least so at inspection time. But McKinnon’s running a
tank short of a full load, if y’know what I mean.”
I didn’t drink from the flask. “Naw, man, I don’t know what you mean. What’s with this . . . what did you
call him?”
“Captain Future. That’s what he calls himself, Christ knows why.” He grinned. “Not only that, but he also
calls his AI ‘The Brain’ . . .”
I laughed out loud. “The Brain? Like, what? He’s got a brain floating in a jar? I don’t get it. . . .”
“I dunno. It’s a fetish of some kind.” He shook his head. “Anyway, everyone who’s worked for him says
that he thinks he’s some kinda space hero, and he expects everyone to go along with the idea. And he’s
supposed to be real tough on people . . . you might think he was a perfectionist, if he wasn’t such a slob
摘要：

AllenSteeleWiththepublicationofhisnovelOrbitalDecay-abouttheengineeringandpoliticalproblemsthatzero-g“beamjacks”overcometobuildsatellitesinouterspace-anditssequelLunarDescent,AllenSteeleearnedcomparisonstoRobertHeinleinandestablishedhiscredentialsasapromisingnewwriterofhardsciencefiction.Sincethen,S...

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