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
COPYRIGHT ©, 1975, BY A. BERTRAM CHANDLER
All Rights Reserved.
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?”
摘要：

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