Well, it is something, I suppose, to have turned down the chance to become a god.
Any mood of self-congratulation I might have had, though, is punctured as Thala hands me a PADD with the laconic comment, "Damage report, boss."
The Madagascar has tractored my ship away from the Carnegie, and the atmosphere leaks from both ships have been sealed. I study the PADD. It is not as bad as I feared; the forward decks of the main saucer are open to vacuum, true, and several strategically placed crumple zones have crumpled according to design... but Amphicyon's inertial dampers and high-intensity SI fields handled the impact well; we are functional, even warp-capable, though battle-ready might be too much to expect....
"Better than I thought," I remark aloud.
"Better than the Carnegie, that's for sure, boss," says Thala. "We broke her main structural unit - the keel, if you like. With that out of alignment, they can't restore their SI fields, and without those, they can't run drives - or tractor the ship away without it breaking up. Unless someone comes out here and builds a spaceyard around them, they're stuck here."
Vansittaert's giant ship, on the screen, does have something of a broken-backed look to it. I grunt. "Well. There was already a hazard to navigation at this location - all we will need to do is change the details. No doubt Vansittaert's estate will send me the bill, in due course."
Thala chuckles. "That's an interesting point, boss. There's already a lot of shouting on the news channels, and it turns out nobody knows what to do, because Vansittaert never left a will. Crazy, huh? With all the lawyers he must have employed...."
"No," I say, "no, it is... all of a piece."
If you asked Vansittaert, I suspect he would have answered simply that he never expected to die. That medical advances would keep him alive, or that he would transcend his human flesh and be uploaded into some transhumanist immortality.... The real answer, though, I think, is that people like Vansittaert think that nothing but them matters. That the world will not be real, when it no longer has them in it.
When I am dead, a human egomaniac once said, let fire the world confound.
I would rather face any amount of evil, of plain ordinary malevolence, than that sort of blinkered egotism. The unconscious, unquestioned assumption that what mattered to him was the only thing that could matter. There are monsters who delight in suffering... and there are real monsters who simply do not understand that such a thing as suffering exists.
Well. Vansittaert is dead, his schemes are confounded, and all I have to deal with now is the aftermath.... "Mr. Thala," I say.
"Boss?"
"And you, Lieutenant Lillian... all of you, in fact." I settle back in my command chair and turn from side to side, surveying the bridge. "I have been guilty of an error, I think. I believed you all to be a pack of Federation weaklings, wished upon me by Personnel to quench my warrior spirit. But you have acted, all of you, with courage and ingenuity and loyalty, in these recent events. You are a fine crew. It is my honour to command you. Qapla'."
There is a brief, bemused silence. Then Thala says, with obvious sincerity, "Thanks, boss."
"Well." I shift uneasily in the chair. "I do not know where I will command you next, though, beyond Starbase 271 and urgent repairs -"
"This might help, sir," says Som Bloxx. "Incoming transmission from Admiral Kavanagh."
"On screen." I stand up, and come to attention as Kavanagh's face appears on the viewer.
"Captain Surella." Kavanagh is an older human male, with shrewd grey eyes gleaming in a face seamed with wrinkles; his hair is grey, thinning at the top of the head, but he has cultivated some impressive snowy side-whiskers, perhaps to compensate. "I understand there was some admin foul-up that stopped you joining my task group. Something about you being classed as K6 when you're actually T22 -?"
"A17, sir." What is T22, and do I want to know?
"Well, whatever. I gather you've kept yourself busy, at least. Good. I can use an officer with initiative. Task Group Origen's mission is successfully concluded, but I have an assignment in mind that might suit you and your ship."
"Yes, sir?"
"Diplomatic thing, really. We need to wave the flag around some of the frontier systems near Tzenkethi space. I can transfer you and the Amphicyon over to Public Relations Command for the duration."
I have to choose my next words very carefully. "I'm sorry, sir. The combat damage to my ship means she's quite unsuitable for any - prestige - assignments, at least until repairs are complete. It could take weeks in spacedock to bring her up to the required standard, I'm afraid."
"Hmph." Kavanagh's eyes narrow. "Combat damage?"
"I have the damage report here, sir." I pick up the PADD and hold it out. "I can transmit the details on your data subchannel -"
Kavanagh snorts. "I'm bored enough reading my own damage reports, thank you, Captain. Very well. I'll have to turn that assignment over to someone else." He fixes me with a hard stare. "You need to think hard about your career track, Captain. You can't just go around running odd jobs for Science Division, you know. Kavanagh out." The screen goes blank.
"Dodged a bullet there, I think, boss," says Thala.
I sit down, heavily. "Indeed. Someone find out what category T22 is, why I am supposed to be in it, and how many I would have to kill in order to wipe that category out completely." I snarl at the viewscreen. "Running odd jobs for Science Division...." Someone has switched channels, and I contemplate the wreck of the Carnegie, hanging in the space where GO4704 used to be. "Well, at least that is interesting."
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