The Tesserene Imperative (Book Two of The Imperative Chronicles)

Chapter 1

I cursed my fate until the hiss of oxygen in my EVA suit sputtered and died. Then I cursed the friends who didn’t come for me.

“SPA-A-A-RKS!”

* * * *

I sat up abruptly in my bunk aboard ship, wild-eyed and heart pounding. Sweat beads meandered down my chest. My sheets were soaking wet—yet again. It was the same nightmare. Always the same.

And it wasn’t true. In reality, Guido had spotted me starting to drift away from aboard Shamu and called Sparks. Double-tethered to the safety lines anchored to the asteroid’s surface, Sparks jumped and caught me before I had gone more than a dozen meters. Then it was a simple matter of reeling us both back in. Sure, it was scary at the time, but only for a minute.

I sighed. Maybe I’d been at this game too long. Maybe it was time to get out.

And do what? I’d been a spacer for sixteen years. It was all I knew how to do. I was good at my job and made a decent living. But I’d begun to wonder whether the money was worth the risks.

The ever-present threat of death is something every spacer has to come to grips with. It’s either that or find another line of work.

I shrugged off such negative thoughts. I had work to do.

It took only minutes to shower, dress, and head to the galley for a quick cup of synthcaf with the rest of the crew.

Then we exited the boarding ramp outside Shamu’s airlock on ODF Odyssey. We spent the next few hours inspecting the work the refit crew had done on her. The old girl had gotten pretty dinged up on our last trip. Even small, drifting debris can do a number on a ship. But now she looked to be in tip-top shape.

Her starflight drive on idle, a subtle energy permeated the docking area. It always seemed to me before a mission that she was positively vibrating with excitement, straining at her docking clamps to get going. Silly, I know. She’s just a collection of inanimate parts, like any other ship. Maybe it was just my own excitement coloring my perception.

In fact, the five of us were all in high spirits—certain, as ever, that this mission was The One…the one where we strike it rich and retire to a life of luxury.

Yeah, it was only a dream. But without dreams what’s the point?

* * * *

“Are we all secure below, Swede?” Cap inquired. His clipped British enunciation tended to make even his queries sound like orders.

“All secure, Cap,” I replied. “Ready when you are.”

My name is Jan Johansen, but between my name and my Nordic white-blond hair and pale complexion, almost no one calls me that. Among the ranks of spacers, I’m known as Swede. The fact that I’m from Denver is irrelevant.

“Odyssey Control, SI ship Shamu requests a departure slot.”

Sparks spoke without emotion, a professional who has done something so many times he no longer has to think about it. His voice emanated from the intercom in Engineering, where I was strapped in for the initial stages of the trip.

Jeremy Clinkscales was our Communications and Sensor Officer, or CSO. He hated the name Jeremy, so we all called him Sparks, following the hallowed tradition of radio officers.

A moment later, the husky contralto of Orbital Docking Facility  Odyssey’s traffic controller replied, “It’ll just be a few minutes, Shamu, until we get a ship docked.”

“Acknowledged, Odyssey; Shamu standing by.”

Four minutes later, Odyssey’s traffic controller reported, “You’re cleared for departure, Shamu. Good hunting!”

“Thanks, Odyssey. See you in a few months.” Sparks’ professional mien gave way to playfulness. “When I get back, Marilyn, what say we go away together somewhere for a few days and get to know each other better.”

Flirting with Marilyn was de rigueur for all departing CSOs when she was on duty—even though everyone knew she was married and a grandmother. It was all part of the routine.

“You wish!” she retorted, chuckling, and thereby completed the ritual.

Hers was the last female voice we would hear for many weeks. We had nothing against women in space; but hard experience had shown what could happen when you put a mixed crew in tight quarters for months on end. The bloody lesson of the Spry Wanderer twenty-three years earlier was one that no one needed to see repeated. As a result, deepspace vessels always carried same-sex crews, including more than a dozen ships crewed by women.

Cap released the docking clamps and used the maneuvering thrusters to gently ease Shamu’s bulk away from the immense docking facility and into position to engage the starflight drive. It would be an embarrassment to the Company and a professional stain on Cap’s record if he damaged his ship before even leaving Earth orbit. But Cap was every bit the professional that Sparks was, and in his many years at the helm, nothing like that had ever happened. Captain Tyrone Gilroy, our mission commander and pilot, was the Company’s senior captain, and not one to make careless errors.

As the Refinery and Cargo Officer, or RCO, it was my job to watch over whatever supplies we were carrying: mostly food, medical stuff, and other consumables, plus spare parts for some of the essential equipment onboard. I was also in charge of processing whatever crude ore we might find into as much refined minerals as we could squeeze into the cargo holds. I was part chemist, part metallurgist, part mining foreman, and part engineer.

The rest of the time I was chief cook and bottle washer. I spent most of my time cleaning up, making minor repairs, keeping the other guys fed, and doing whatever else needed to get done to make sure the rest of the crew wasn’t disturbed from their labors. Someone had to act as mother hen for the crew, and that someone was me.

After a few minutes of thrust we were in position.

“Get ready, lads,” Cap announced as he engaged the starflight drive. “Next stop, Richelieu. Make yourselves comfortable. It’s gonna be a long trip!”