A. Bertram Chandler - Big Black Mark

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The Big Black Mark

A. Bertram Chandler

a commander john grimes novel

EBook Design Group digital back-up edition v1

HTML

April 9, 2003

This file is valid XHTML 1.0 Strict

Contents

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 |

16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28

| 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 |

41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 |

DAW BOOKS, INC.

DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER

1301 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y.10019

Cover by Kelly Freas.

DEDICATION:

To William Bligh

Chapter One

^ »

Commander John Grimes, Federation Survey Service, should have

been happy.

Rather to his surprise he had been promoted on his return, in the

Census Ship Seeker, to Lindisfarne Base. He now wore three new,

gleaming stripes of gold braid on his shoulder boards instead of the old,

tarnished two and a half. Scrambled egg—the stylized comets worked in

gold thread—now adorned the peak of his cap. And not only had he been

promoted, from lieutenant commander to commander, he had been

appointed to the command of a much bigger ship.

He should have been happy, but he was not.

The vessel, to begin with, was not a warship, although she did mount

some armament. Grimes had served in real warships only as a junior

officer, and not at all after he had reached the rank of lieutenant. As such

he had commanded a Serpent Class courier, a little ship with a small crew,

hardly better than a spacegoing mail van. Then, as a lieutenant

commander, he had been captain of Seeker, and in her had been lucky

enough to stumble upon not one, but two Lost Colonies. It was to this luck

that he owed his promotion; normally it was the officers in the fighting

ships, with the occasional actions in which to distinguish themselves, who

climbed most rapidly up the ladder of rank.

Now he was captain of Discovery, another Census Ship.

And what a ship!

To begin with, she was old.

She was not only old; she had been badly neglected.

She had been badly neglected, and her personnel, who seemed to be

permanently attached to her, were not the sort of people to look after any

ship well. Grimes, looking down the list of officers before he joined the

vessel, had recognized several names. If the Bureau of Appointments had

really tried to assemble a collection of prize malcontents inside one

hapless hull they could not have done better.

Or worse.

Lieutenant Commander Brabham was the first lieutenant. He was some

ten years older than Grimes, but he would never get past his present rank.

He had been guilty of quite a few Survey Service crimes. (Grimes, too, had

often been so guilty—but Grimes’s luck was notorious.) He was reputed to

carry an outsize chip on his shoulder. Grimes had never been shipmates

with him, but he had heard about him.

Lieutenant Commander (E) MacMorris was chief engineer. Regarding

him it had been said, in Grimes’s hearing, “Whoever gave that uncouth

mechanic a commission should have his head examined!” Grimes did not

know him personally. Yet.

Lieutenant (S) Russell was the paymaster. Perhaps “pay-mistress”

would have been a more correct designation. Ellen Russell had been one of

the first female officers of the Supply Branch actually to serve aboard a

ship of the Survey Service. From the very beginning she had succeeded in

antagonizing her male superiors. She was known—not affectionately—as

Vinegar Nell. Grimes had, once, been shipmates with her. For some reason

or other she had called him an insufferable puppy.

Lieutenant (PC) Flannery was psionic communications officer. He was

notorious throughout the Service for his heavy drinking. He owed his

continuing survival to the fact that good telepaths are as scarce, almost, as

hens’ teeth.

So it went on. The detachment of Federation Marines was commanded

by Major Swinton, known as the Mad Major. Swinton had faced a

court-martial after the affair on Glenrowan. The court had decided, after

long deliberation, that Swinton’s action had been self-defense and not a

massacre of innocent, unarmed civilians. That decision would never have

been reached had the Federation not been anxious to remain on friendly

terms with the king of Glenrowan, who had requested Federation aid to

put down a well-justified rebellion.

Officers… petty officers.

Grimes sighed as he read. All were tarred with the same brush. He had

little doubt that the ratings, too, would all be Federation’s bad bargains. It

occurred to him that his own superiors in the Service might well have put

him in the same category.

The thought did not make him any happier.

“Those are your officers, Commander,” said the admiral.

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes. He added hastily, “Sir.”

The admiral’s thick, white eyebrows lifted over his steely blue eyes. He

frowned heavily, and Grimes’s prominent ears flushed.

“Don’t grunt at me, young man. We may be the policemen of the galaxy,

but we aren’t pigs. Hrrmph. Those are your ship’s officers. You, especially,

will appreciate that there are some people for whom it is difficult to find

suitable employment.”

The angry flush spread from Grimes’s ears to the rest of his craggy,

somewhat unhandsome face.

“Normally,” the admiral went on, “Discovery carries on her books some

twenty assorted scientists—specialist officers, men and women dressed as

spacemen. But she is not a very popular ship, and the Bureau of

Exploration has managed to find you only one for the forthcoming

voyage.”

Maggy Lazenby? Grimes wondered hopefully. Perhaps she had

relented. She had been more than a little cold toward him since his affair

with the cat woman, but surely she couldn’t bear a grudge this long.

“Commander Brandt,” the admiral went on. “Or Dr. Brandt, as he

prefers to be called. Anthropologist, ethologist, and a bit of a

jack-of-all-trades. He’ll be under your orders, of course.

“And, talking of orders—” The admiral pushed a fat, heavily sealed

envelope across his highly polished desk. “Nothing very secret. No need to

destroy by fire before reading. I can tell you now. As soon as you are ready

for Deep Space in all respects you are to lift ship and proceed to New

Maine. We have a sub-Base there, as you know. That sub-Base will be your

Base. From New Maine you will make a series of exploratory sweeps out

toward the Rim. A Lost Colony Hunt, as you junior officers romantically

put it. Your own two recent discoveries have stimulated interest, back on

Earth, in that sort of pointless exercise. Hrrmph.”

“Thank you, sir.” Grimes gathered up his papers and rose to leave.

“Not so fast, Commander. I haven’t finished yet. Discovery, as I can see

that you suspect, is not a happy ship. Your predecessor, Commander

Tallis, contrived to leave her on medical grounds. The uniformly bad

reports that he put in regarding Discovery’s personnel were partly

discounted in view of his nervous-or mental—condition. Hrrmph.

“Now, Grimes, I’m going to be frank. There are many people in the

Service who don’t like you, and who did not at all approve of your last two

promotions. I didn’t altogether approve of them myself, come to that,

although I do admit that you possess one attribute that just might, in the

fullness of time, carry you to flag rank. You’re lucky, Grimes. You could fall

into a cesspit and come up not only smelling of roses but with the Shaara

Crown Jewels clutched in your hot little hands. You’ve done it, figuratively,

more than once.

“But I only hope that I’m not around when your luck runs out!”

Grimes started to get to his feet again.

“Hold it, Commander! I’ve some advice for you. Don’t put a foot wrong.

And try to lick that blasted Discovery into some sort of shape. If you do

find any Lost Colonies play it according to the book. Let’s have no more

quixotry, none of this deciding, all by your little self, who are the goodies

and who are the baddies. Don’t take sides.

“That’s all.”

“You mean, sir,” asked Grimes, “that this is some sort of last chance?”

“You said it, Commander. You said it. But just don’t forget that the step

from commander to captain is a very big one.” The admiral shot out a big

hand. Grimes took it, and was surprised and gratified by the warmth and

firmness of the old man’s grip. “Good hunting, Grimes. And good luck!”

Chapter Two

« ^ »

Grimes dismounted from the ground car at the foot of Discovery’s

ramp. The driver, an attractive blonde space-woman, asked, “Shall I wait

for you, Commander?”

Grimes, looking up at the towering, shabby bulk of his new command,

replied, “No, unfortunately.”

The girl laughed sympathetically. “Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said.

He tucked his briefcase firmly under his arm, strode toward the foot of

the ramp. He noted that the handrails were long unpolished, that a couple

of stanchions were missing and that several treads were broken. There was

a Marine sentry at the head of the ramp in a khaki uniform that looked as

though it had been slept in. The man came to a rough approximation to

attention as Grimes approached, saluted him as though he were doing

him a personal favor. Grimes returned the salute with unwonted

smartness.

“Your business, Commander?” asked the sentry.

“My name is Grimes. I’m the new captain.”

The man seemed to be making some slight effort to smarten himself up.

“I’ll call Commander Brabham on the PA, sir.”

“Don’t bother,” said. Grimes. “I’ll find my own way up to my quarters.”

He added, rather nastily, “I suppose the elevator is working?”

“Of course, sir. This way, sir.”

Grimes let the Marine lead him out of the airlock chamber, along a

short alleyway, to the axial shaft. The man pressed a button, and after a

short interval, the door slid open to reveal the cage.

“You’ll find all the officers in the wardroom, sir, at this time of the

morning,” volunteered his guide.

“Thank you.” Then, “Hadn’t you better be getting back to your post?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Grimes pushed the button for CAPTAIN’S FLAT.

During the journey up he was able to come to further conclusions—none

of them good—about the way in which the ship had been run. The cage

was not quite filthy, but it was far from clean. The gloss of the panel in

which the buttons were set was dulled by greasy fingerprints. On the deck

Grimes counted three cigarette butts and one cigarillo stub. Two of the

indicator lights for the various levels were not working.

He got out at the Captain’s Flat, the doughnut of accommodation that

surrounded the axial shaft, separated from it by a circular alleyway. He

had a set of keys with him, obtained from the admiral’s office. The sliding

door to the day room opened as soon as he applied the appropriate strip of

magnetized metal. He went in.

An attempt, not very enthusiastic, had been made to clean up after

Commander Tallis’ packing. But Tallis had not packed his art gallery. This

consisted of a score of calendars, of the type given away by ship chandlers

and ship-repair firms, from as many worlds, utterly useless as a means of

checking day and date except on their planets of origin. Evidently

Discovery’s last census run had consisted of making the rounds of

well-established colonies. Grimes stared at the three-dimensional

depiction of a young lady with two pairs of overdeveloped breasts,

indubitably mammalian and probably from mutated human stock, turned

from it to the picture of a girl with less spectacular upperworks but with

brightly gleaming jewelry entwined in her luxuriant pubic hair. The next

one to catch his attention showed three people in one pose.

He grunted—not altogether in disapproval—then found the bell push

labeled PANTRY over his desk. He used it. He filled and lit his pipe. When

he had almost finished it he pushed the button again.

At last a spacewoman, in slovenly uniform, came in. She demanded

surlily, “Did you ring? Sir.”

“Yes,” answered Grimes, trying to infuse a harsh note into his voice.

“I’m the new captain. My gear will be coming aboard this afternoon some

time. Meanwhile, would you mind getting this… junk disposed of?” He

waved a hand to indicate the calendars.

“But if Commander Tallis comes back—”

“If Commander Tallis comes back, you can stick it all back up again.

Oh, and you might give Lieutenant Commander Brabham my

compliments and ask him to come to see me.”

“The first lieutenant’s in the wardroom. Sir. The PA system is working.”

Grimes refrained from telling her what to do with the public-address

system. He merely repeated his order, adding, “And I mean now.”

“Aye, aye, sir, Captain, sir.”

Insolent little bitch, thought Grimes, watching the twitching rump in

the tight shorts vanishing through the doorway.

He settled down to wait again. Nobody in this ship seemed to be in any

hurry about anything. Eventually Brabham condescended to appear. The

first lieutenant was a short, chunky man, gray-haired, very thin on top.

His broad, heavily lined face wore what looked like a perpetual scowl. His

faded gray eyes glowered at the captain. The colors of the few ribbons on

the left breast of his shirt had long since lost their brilliance and were

badly frayed. Grimes could not tell what decorations—probably good

attendance medals—they represented. But there were plenty of canteen

medals which were obvious enough—smudges of cigarette ash, dried

splashes of drinks and gravies—to keep them company. The gold braid on

Brabham’s shoulder boards had tarnished to a grayish green.

A gray man, thought Grimes. A gray, bitter man. He said, extending

his hand, “Good morning, Number One.”

“Good morning. Sir.”

“Sit down, Number One.” Grimes made a major operation out of

refilling and lighting his pipe. “Smoke, if you wish.” Brabham produced

and ignited an acrid cigarette. “Mphm. Now, what’s our condition of

readiness?”

“Well, sir, a week at the earliest.”

“A week?”

“This isn’t an Insect Class Courier, sir. This is a big ship.”

Grimes flushed, but held his temper in check. He said, “Any Survey

Service vessel, regardless of size, should be ready, at all times, for almost

instant liftoff.”

“But, to begin with, there’s been the change of captains. Sir.”

“Go on.”

“And Vinegar Nell—Miss Russell, I mean—isn’t very cooperative.”

“Mphm. Between ourselves, Number One, I haven’t been impressed by

the standard of efficiency of her staff.” Or, he thought, with the standard

of efficiency of this ship in general. But I shall have to handle people with

kid gloves until I get the feel of things.

Brabham actually grinned. “I don’t think that Sally was overly

impressed by you, sir.”

“Sally?”

“The captain’s tigress. She used to be Commander Tallis’ personal

servant.” Brabham grinned again, not very pleasantly. “Extremely

personal, if you get what I mean, sir.”

‘“Oh. Go on.”

“And we’re still trying to get a replacement for Mr. Flannery’s psionic

amplifier. He insists that only the brain of an Irish setter will do.”

“And what happened to the old one?”

Brabham permitted himself a small chuckle. “He thought that it should

share a binge. He poured a slug of Irish whiskey into its life-support tank.

And then he tried to bring it around with black coffee.”

“Gah!” exclaimed Grimes.

“Then he blamed the whiskey for the demise of the thing. It wasn’t real

Irish whiskey, apparently. It was some ersatz muck from New Shannon.”

Grimes succeeded in dispelling the vision of the sordidly messy death of

the psionic amplifier from his mind. He said firmly, “To begin with, Miss

Russell will just have to pull her finger out. You’re the first lieutenant. Get

on to her.”

“I’d rather not, sir.”

Grimes glared at the man. “I’m not being funny, Mr. Brabham. Shake

her up. Light a fire under her tail. And as for Mr. Flannery, he’ll just have

to be content with whatever hapless hound’s brain the Stores Department

can dig up—even if it comes from an English bulldog!”

“Then there are the engines, sir.”

“The engines? What about them?”

“The chief has taken down both inertial drive-units. There’re bits and

pieces strewn all over the engine room deck.”

“Was the port captain informed of this immobilization?”

“Er, no, sir.”

“And why not?”

“I didn’t know what the chief had done until he’d already done it.”

“In the captain’s absence you were the officer in charge. You should

have known. All right, all right, the chief should have come to you first.

Apparently he didn’t. But as soon as you knew that this rustbucket was

immobile you should have reported it.”

“I—I suppose I should, sir.”

“You suppose! Why didnt you?”

A sullen flush spread over the grayish pallor of Brabham’s face. He

blurted, “Like the rest of us in this ship, MacMorris has been in quite

enough trouble of various kinds. I didn’t want to get him into any more.

Sir.”

Grimes repressed a sigh. It was obvious that this ship was a closed

shop, manned by the No Hopers’ Union, whose members would close

ranks against any threatened action by higher authority, no matter how

much they bickered among themselves. And what was he, Grimes? A No

Hoper or a pillar of the Establishment? In his heart of hearts, which side

was he on? While he was sorting out a reply to make to Brabham a

familiar bugle call, amplified, drifted through and over the ship’s PA

system.

Brabham shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Are you coming down to lunch, sir?” he asked.

“No,” decided Grimes. “You carry on down, and you can ask—no, tell

—Miss Russell to send me some sandwiches and a pot of coffee up here.

After lunch I shall see Lieutenant Commander MacMorris, Miss Russell,

and Mr. Flannery, in that order. Then I shall see you again,

“That is all.”

Chapter Three

« ^ »

It was the little blonde stewardess, Sally, who brought up Grimes’s

lunch. While he was eating it she set about stripping Tallis’ calendars from

the bulkheads, performing this task with a put-upon air and a great deal

of waste motion. Grimes wondered if she had made the sandwiches and

the coffee in the same sullenly slapdash way. No, he decided after the first

nibble, the first sip. She must have gone to considerable trouble with the

simple meal. Surely all the available bread could not have been as stale as

the loaf that had been used. Surely it must have been much harder to

spread butter so extremely thinly than in the normal manner. And where

had she found that stringy, flavorless cold mutton? The coffeepot must

have been stood in cold water to bring its weak contents to the correctly

tepid stage.

“Will that be all? Sir?” she asked, her arms full of calendars.

“Yes,” Grimes told her, adding, “Thank you,” not that she deserved it.

He decided that he would tell Miss Russell to let him have a male steward

to look after him. Obviously this girl would give proper service only to

those who serviced her, and she was too coarse, too shop-soiled for his

taste, apart from the obvious disciplinary considerations.

Almost immediately after she was gone there was a knock at the door. A

big man entered. He was clad in filthy, oil-soaked overalls. A smear of

black grease ran diagonally across his hard, sullen face. More grease was

mixed with his long, unruly yellow hair. His hot blue eyes glared down at

Grimes.

“Ye wanted to see me, Captain? I’m a busy man, not like some I could

mention.”

“Lieutenant Commander MacMorris?”

“Who else?”

“Commander MacMorris, I understand that this ship is immobilized.”

“Unless ye intend to take her up on reaction drive, she is that.”

“By whose authority?” demanded Grimes coldly.

“Mine, o’ course. Both the innies was playin’ up on the homeward

passage. So I’m fixin’ ’em.”

“Didn’t you inform the first lieutenant before you started taking them

down? He was in charge, in the absence of a captain.”

“Inform him? He looks after whatever control room ornaments look

after. I look after my engine room.”

“As long as I’m captain of this ship,” snapped Grimes, “it’s my engine

room. How long will it take you to reassemble the inertial drive-units?”

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