Wreck of the Nebula Dream (8 page)

“Yes, Passenger Jameson.”

As Nick reached for the headclear inject popping up on the nightstand, he thought he heard satisfaction in the AI’s tone, now that this passenger was apparently getting with the program.

Speculating whether there was a chance of seeing Mara Lyrae again, Nick wandered up to the casino after dinner. If she was there, he couldn’t find her in the crowds. More and more of the passengers were emerging from their cabins, going out in search of entertainment as the cruise progressed. Certainly the casino was much more densely populated than it had been the night before.

Half hoping to encounter Lady Damais, Nick worked his way through the casino, to the observatory entrance, but tonight the Mellurean was not there. The stellar display had reverted to the more mundane selection of constellations SMT had programmed. No violently blazing Mellure rode in the “sky” overhead tonight.

A number of the giggling ‘Lites had appropriated the majority of the observatory space, and all the benches, for an informal, private party. Noisy foreplay was going on in the dimmer corners of the chamber, fueled by an inordinate amount of noise and drinking.

Giving up, Nick wandered to Level B, to see the Comettes Dance Troupe and get drunk. Or half drunk, anyway.

Moving seamlessly from the depths of a dream into alert awareness, he came awake in the middle of the night. He lay in the center of the bed for a second, trying to assess what had changed in the environment, triggering his reflexes.

“The engines are off,” Nick realized, sitting up and throwing off the covers. He raised his voice to a conversational tone. “Ship, what happened to the engines?”

No response.

“Ship, I want to know what’s going on.” Nick strode to the direct interface console in the bulkhead, keying in a quick inquiry.

“There is nothing to be concerned about, Passenger Jameson. We apologize for disturbing your sleep. Please resume your slumbers now, with no further care.” The AI’s voice was smooth, glib as always. “Do you require a sleep inject, Passenger Jameson?”

“No, I do not.” Nick allowed his considerable annoyance to creep into his tone. “Why are the engines off?”

“Merely some required maintenance, sir.”

“Yeah, right. And I’m a Bengaz silk trader.” Nick glared at the interface. “No one does engine maintenance in the middle of the shipping lanes.”

Silence from the AI.

Drumming his fingers on the edge of the interface panel, Nick had another idea. “Connect me with Officer McElroy. Holographic display both ways.”

A second later, the somewhat-stressed face of his tour guide materialized. When McElroy realized who had contacted him, he chuckled, a hint of embarrassment underlying his greeting to Nick. “Well, I guess you were right today about adapter technology.”

Unobtrusively trying to see what might be going on in the background behind the officer, Nick pursued his inquiry. “What’s going on?”

“The adapter on the Number Four engine ran an intermittent short, messed up the communications, so the other three Yeatters were sliding out of sync. Number Four shut itself down, and then we had to shutter the other three pronto.” Sighing, McElroy ran his hand through his lank brown hair. “Engineering says we can route around Number Four for the rest of the voyage.”

“There goes your speed record.” Nick was sympathetic.

“Captain Bonlors is not a happy man,” McElroy confided quietly, glancing over his shoulder at something or someone Nick couldn’t see in the narrow-angle holograph. “And neither is the president of the SMT Line. We’ve got him up here on the bridge tonight, too, and is he flaming! Good thing you didn’t bet on the arrival time. I have to go.”

“Yeah, thanks –”

The connection was severed abruptly.
 

Nick stood there a moment longer and then decided to go back to bed. There certainly wasn’t anything he could do about the problem, and from what McElroy had said, it didn’t represent any hazard to the ship. So much for the planned, triumphant arrival at Hub ahead of schedule, after breaking speed records for the run.
Well, this isn’t going to impress the military procurement types much when it comes time for the next round of cruiser and battleship contracts. What kind of half-assed acceptance testing did cruise lines do on these civilian ships, anyway?

Amused by the thought, Nick flopped on the mattress, punching the pillows to make them flatter, and shut his eyes.

In the morning, the engines were running again. After awakening normally at the customary time observed by his inner clock, Nick lay still, listening for the subtle vibration, the harmonics, telling an experienced spacer such as himself the ship was sliding through hyperspace. All indications seemed fine, as far as Nick could tell from his decidedly unscientific observation.

“There’s a message,” the ship announced, detecting his wakeful state.

Nick pulled a pillow over his head.
Will I ever be able to persuade this damn ship I don’t want it talking to me?

“It is a priority message on all my internal com queues,” the AI offered hopefully, raising the volume slightly.

Giving up, Nick threw the pillow aside. “Play the damn thing.”

The smiling visage of the bearded and somewhat portly Captain Bonlors appeared in holographic form across the cabin. “To all my passengers,” he began, voice deep and warm, “let me extend my sincere apologies and those of SMT President Gordis Yankuri, on behalf of the SMT Line, for any inconvenience you may have experienced during the night while we performed routine engine maintenance procedures. I know there’s been concern expressed regarding our arrival time at Sector Hub, and I want to assure you we still anticipate an early docking.” Leaning in, he winked conspiratorially. “I can’t say anymore, you understand – don’t want to influence the betting on the arrival pool.”

Running one hand over the stubble on his chin, Nick nodded.
The man is smooth. Not surprising SMT put him in charge of their newest, most luxurious ship.

“We don’t have any further maintenance planned prior to docking at Sector Hub, so you can count on uninterrupted nights for the rest of the journey. Again, my apologies to those passengers whose repose was disturbed. Don’t hesitate to let me or my crew know if there’s anything we can do to ensure your continued comfort and pleasure aboard the
Nebula Dream
.”

With a jarring buzz, the hologram winked off.

“Ship, what’s our new arrival time at Hub?” Nick was idly curious how much the engine incident had affected them.

“The arrival time at Hub is unchanged, sir.”

How can that be?
Mouth half open to ask the question out loud, Nick decided SMT preferred to keep the passengers blissfully unaware of not only the engine malfunction, but also the lost interstellar speed record.

When he went to the gym that morning, both attendants were there. Nick ribbed them gently about the captain’s announcement of routine, planned maintenance, versus what had actually happened.

The two men exchanged wary glances. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you’re referring to,” the senior attendant said a bit woodenly. “It was maintenance, sir, like the captain said.”

“Like the captain said,” Easton chimed in, a fake smile plastered on his thin face.

“Officer McElroy told me the inside scoop on what was going on,” Nick said over his shoulder as he selected the gravity parameters for the day’s workout. “Too bad about the speed record.”

“We’re still on track for the record, sir,” both men said in unison.

Annoyed to be treated like an oblivious civilian, Nick decided the service crew probably had their orders not to let on to anyone what had happened, so he let it pass.

After his workout and a brisk swim at the now-crowded beach, Nick tried to call McElroy. The Ship refused to put his message through, saying the officer was on duty and unavailable.

“I talked to him last night when he was on duty,” Nick protested mildly. “Is the poor guy on duty 24/7?”

“I’m sorry, Passenger Jameson, but the second officer isn’t available.”

“All right, all right, I got it. Say, what is the updated arrival time now, anyway?”

“Official arrival time at Sector Hub is unchanged, sir,” came the prompt, firm reply.

As he headed off in search of breakfast, Nick wondered how long SMT planned to keep up this pretense there was a chance of breaking the records.
Going to have a lot of upset passengers, once we reach Hub and they find out how much time the engine breakdown actually cost them. Glad it’s not my problem.

After another evening of half-hearted gambling in the casino, and attendance at the Tlingqit Acrobatic Show, Nick was tempted to ask for a transfer of his ticket to the cryo sleep pods on Level Six and get the rest of this long trip over with in blissful oblivion.
I’m probably the unhappiest person on the damn ship, other than the SMT Line president, who has to deal with the outrage of all the other passengers when we dock at Hub.

For the second straight night, Nick was awakened by a ship malfunction. This time he was hurled abruptly out of bed, landing halfway across the cabin, instinctively curling to break his fall even as he transitioned from sleep to full wakefulness in midair. The deck pitched violently underneath him, and Nick was thrown the other direction, fetching up against the bed platform shoulder first with bruising force.

Rubbing his shoulder, Nick glared around the cabin. “Ship, what the hell is going on?”
 

No answer.
 

The
Nebula Dream
pitched to starboard, but not as drastically, and then slowly returned to near vertical. Getting cautiously to his feet, Nick grabbed for his scattered clothes, pulling them on as fast as possible.

“Ship, I want status.” Nick fastened his blue shirt as the deck wobbled underfoot again.
The engines are down again, for one thing.
Determined to wrest some information from someone, he made his way to the interface panel.

Just as he got there, clinging to the molded desk as the ship shuddered again, the image of Captain Bonlors appeared. Flickering once, the holo stabilized. Amazingly, the captain continued to project unshakable calm.
If I hadn’t met the man, I’d be wondering if he was nothing but a well-designed hologram
. Reassuring to the passengers or not, no one should be this serene while in charge of a ship pitching and rolling in space like the
Nebula Dream
.

“Again, I must apologize to you, my passengers,” the image was saying. “We have experienced a small malfunction –”

“Not from where I’m standing, pal,” Nick said grimly. “Small is not the word for it.” He grabbed for his boots, which had gone flying across the cabin in the last gyration, and pulled them on with impatience.

“And we will be underway again shortly.” The captain’s well-modulated baritone voice remained soothing. “We must ask the passengers to stay in their cabins, or the casino – wherever you are at the moment, if you please, and not get in the way of the crew as we correct this minor situation.” Bonlors leaned in, as if talking personally to each passenger viewing this broadcast. “I have to say this will affect our try for the speed record a bit, but I’m confident we’ll still dock at Hub ahead of schedule. Just not as early, I’m afraid.”

And the image winked off.

Nick swore a string of vivid spacer’s curses.
What a load of condescending disinformation Bonlors was trying to sell. Even the civilian passengers must realize by now the situation isn’t good. Never mind talk of speed records!
“Ship, get me McElroy.”

“Not available, sir,” the AI reported immediately.

Nick was not surprised at the refusal.

Going out into the corridor, he checked in both directions to see what was happening on his level. There were a few other passengers congregated in the wide walkway, talking and laughing a bit nervously, but no sign of any SMT crew members.
 

Nick didn’t like this at all, not one bit. It was obvious to him the captain was lying to avoid alarming the passengers and starting a panic. Intent on making one more attempt to communicate with McElroy through the AI, Nick returned to his cabin. If unsuccessful, he was going to the bridge to find out the
Dream
’s condition. In an emergency, he could use his military standing to demand a briefing from one of the ship’s officers. And he would volunteer his services in any way useful to ship or crew.

“The SMT Line apologizes for this second interruption to your smooth journey,” the Ship was saying as he set foot in the cabin. The door slid shut behind him with an unusual slam, causing Nick to half turn and eye it. “SMT will be issuing credit vouchers to all passengers once we reach Sector Hub, as a gesture of goodwill for the inconvenience.”

The Ship announced something else but cut off in midword. There was an unpleasant buzzing. Captain Bonlors appeared again, but his image floated in the center of the cabin, not saying anything.

Nick stared at this apparition with cold anger, having no desire to hear another set of worthless platitudes. He wheeled to return to the corridor and as he did so, the lights dimmed dramatically. Emergency sirens began shrieking. Nick was unable to hear himself think over the din. Stalking through the mute image of the captain, he keyed the door.