Chapter 11: 1962

Supply Sergeant Grant was sitting behind his desk reading the latest issue of Astonishing when Corporal Pennington entered his office.

“Hey, Genie. How’s Shirley and the kids?” Pennington said.

Glancing up from his magazine, Grant replied, “Afternoon, Cy. They’re doing just fine, thanks. What brings you by?” The rhyme was stale from being aired so often, but Pennington chuckled at it anyway.

“Yeah, um, listen, Genie. Some of the guys are heading into Pensacola on leave before they get sent over to West Germany. I got some pals who invited me along. So, I was wondering if maybe you could swing me a weekend pass, maybe?”

Supply Sergeant Archie Grant had developed something of a reputation in the past few years as the sort of person who could make things happen for you or get things you wanted, on a purely unofficial basis, you understand, in return for either financial remuneration or a favor to be named later. One of the wiseguys had taken Grant’s last name and his ability to fulfill wishes, and started calling him Genie. That particular wiseguy had been transferred overseas years ago, but the nickname survived in the base scuttlebutt ever since.

Genie had developed a network of favors owed and grateful clients that he used in this under the table supplement to his income. There were junior officers whom Genie had done a little something for back when they were green recruits, and from whom Genie could, on occasion, impose upon for a little extra paperwork.

He had one rule he lived by: he wouldn’t deal in anything actually unlawful. He had to have some standards. But if it could be requisitioned, or purchased legally outside the confines of Eglin Air Force Base and shipped in, that was no problem. By the same token, he didn’t put much stock in what he saw as the arbitrary restrictions of living on a military installation. Booze, women, and cheap smokes were his most popular products, “women” referring not to paid companions, but rather to the opportunities to avail oneself of the local talent in the form of 1-, 2-, or 3-day passes.

Genie put down his pulp fiction, looked every way to make sure they were not being overheard, leaned forward, and said, “You want Friday and Saturday or Saturday and Sunday?”

“Friday and Saturday. I need to be back here for church Sunday anyway.”

Genie nodded conspiratorially, “Twenty five.”

Pennington nodded. While he fished out his money, Genie took the ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the desk. He opened the lower right drawer and lifted out a small lockbox. Another key opened that. Genie sorted through his available passes until he found one that fit Pennington’s request. He tucked that one into his magazine, then reversed the procedure to put everything back in its place, secure.

“Here you go,” Genie said, holding out the paper. “Be back by eight Sunday morning. We never had this conversation.” He held out his other hand for the cash.

“Sure thing, Genie. Thanks.”

“Sergeant Grant!” boomed the voice of Grant’s company commander, a short, squarish thumb of a man named Lieutenant Fields, from behind a tall stack of combat boot-filled boxes. Genie quickly made the cash disappear and shooed Pennington away from his desk.

He stood up, picking up his magazine so that he could be seen putting it down as Fields came into view. “Yes, sir?”

“Grant,” Fields barked, “I just got a letter from the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. You went behind my back to apply to be an astronaut?”

“I did, sir. The Apollo program was looking for men—“

“For pilots, Grant. They need people to fly to the moon, not fly a desk. What made you think you had any chance in hell of becoming an Apollo astronaut? Are you a test pilot?”

“No, sir,” Grant replied, his ears burning.

“Are you any kind of pilot at all?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s right, ‘No, sir.’” Fields picked up the copy of Astounding from Grant’s desk. “You read this nonsense, and you get stupid ideas in your head.” Fields threw the magazine down. It skidded across the desk and off the edge, landing on the floor. “You’re a grunt, Grant. You’re one of the nameless and faceless multitudes who make it possible for great men like Alan Shepherd to become great. You’re a cog, a piece of the machine. If you weren’t here, someone else just like you would take your place. You don’t get to be the star, Grant. You’re nobody’s hero.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant replied. There was really nothing else to say.

Field stabbed his finger at Grant’s face. “Now I don’t want to get any more letters or phone calls telling me you broke channels trying to get a transfer, Sergeant.” The way he emphasized Grant’s rank stung like a slap in the face.

“No, sir,” Grant obeyed.

“Good. Get back to work.”

Grant sat down at his desk as his superior officer marched away. He reached down and picked up his Astounding magazine. He looked at the cover, a picture of a man in a space suit holding a similarly-dressed woman by his side and shooting his laser pistol at some multi-eyed, tentacled thing, all in front of a gleaming silver rocketship.

With a sigh, he tipped it into the trash can.

Chapter 12: Citizens on Patrol

“Emergency! Emergency!” Docian called out over the ship’s radio. “This is the independent trading ship Actinium to Imperial vessel. I am dangerously low on fuel, and will not make it to the nearest refueling center. Request immediate docking and emergency fuel ration.” He waited impatiently for the response.

“Scout ship Perdition to Actinium. Request denied.”

“What?” Docian exclaimed. He briefly reconsidered the merits of actually draining his fuel tanks to increase believability. “Perdition, please! My gravity pumps are going to fail any moment! I don’t want to die! Requesting approach clearance!”

He waited. Then he waited some more. He began to hope that the delay meant there was some discussion taking place as to whether or not to allow him to board and refuel. Finally, the answer came. “Perdition to Actinium. Permission granted. Prepare to pay emergency fueling fees.”

“Thank you, Perdition,” Docian said, the relief in his voice not entirely faked. Docian set his controls to the vector transmitted to him. “Approaching now.”

“Acknowledged. Be aware your maintenance and travel logs will be audited during your stay. In addition, an unsafe flying citation will be issued as a result of your failure to properly fuel your vessel. Proceed to slip seven.”

“Understood.” Docian maneuvered the small craft into the aft hangar of the scout cruiser and landed at the assigned location. He flipped some switches to connect his ship’s “official” log book and trade manifest –the ones that said the ship had been several dozen thousand miles away in a different direction than was really the case – into the larger electric brain of the larger ship.

Once the connection was made and the data transfer begun, Docian activated another computer bank, designed to surreptitiously access the host ship’s databanks. He keyed in a request to locate two prisoners that had been brought aboard in the last day or so.

“Perdition to Actinium,” the radio startled Docian by saying. He almost hit the kill switch on the extra computer, but restrained himself.

“Go ahead, Perdition.”

“Actinium, according to your records, you shipped half a ton of plant fertilizer to Clod three days ago.”

“That’s right,” he confirmed. He stared at the blinking “Working!” light as if that would make it go faster.

“Sir, are you aware that fertilizer is a controlled substance on Clod? It acts as an aphrodisiac on the native inhabitants.”

“I did not know that,” Docian lied. Always give them something to find, so they stop looking.

“Well, it is, sir. There will be a fine applied to your license, payable before you depart.”

“Okay, sorry.” The computer light turned green, indicating success, as a tickertape printout delivered the information to Docian’s hands. “Hmm,” he thought, reading the results, “being held separately. Well, I only need the one.”

“Actinium, please wait until a maintenance crew is available to service you.”

“Will do,” Docian agreed amiably, happy for the delay, giving him the chance to mount his rescue. Quickly, he moved to several different places within the cockpit, retrieving a variety of small metal objects from them. He sat back in the pilot’s seat and assembled the parts into a small but functional death ray pistol. Range and number of shots were limited, but he hoped not to have to use it at all. It was only for emergencies.

He turned the copilot’s seat one and one half rotations counterclockwise, finishing with it facing the rear of the cockpit. Then, he reached under the control panel and pushed a recessed button while simultaneously pushing backward on the back of the copilot’s seat. It flipped over, lifting the floor panel below it on a shared hinge. From inside the revealed compartment, he retrieved a uniform of the Imperial Navy. Quickly, he stripped off his clothes and put on the uniform. Then, he closed the secret compartment again.

He took only a few more moments to gather up a few small personal items and to set certain controls just so before exiting the rear of the cockpit.

The airlock was to his right. He turned left and entered a small storage volume, intended to hold aether suits. He twisted on one of the wall hooks while pulling on another, and the floor fell out from under him. He carefully lowered himself through the hole, arriving on the flight deck of the Perdition, concealed behind one of his ship’s landing struts.

Docian looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to his ship. Seeing no one, he stepped out from under it and quickly straightened up, facing the hull as if he had been inspecting it. Another furtive glance around, and Docian strode away from his ship and into the interior of the Perdition.