Vickers Goes Down With the Ship

Chapter 1 - The Boatman

“’Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.’”

Science Officer Cornet Barnaby Vickers was distracted – lost in a peaceful trance. Sleeping was never a regularly afforded luxury in the academy, and many of the cadets had trained themselves to rest by focusing on a single point. It was a makeshift form of sleeping, but it was incredibly rejuvenating compared to the alternative of struggling to convince a Cadre Instructor that one was not asleep.

He was on the Acheron, a staging and processing post, which at thirty-one and a quarter AU was relatively close to Earth. Vickers was waiting at the last station of processing before going out. Junior officers rarely have deep postings, but Vickers was an officer rare enough to fit the requirements. There was nobody waiting for him. He was no one’s son. There were no admirals to pull strings, no generals to lend a hand, and no senators to call in a favor. The impatient thud of a boot against his duffle bag jogged him back to awareness.

Standing before him in an unkempt black uniform was a boatman. His gaze made clear that Vickers had done something wrong. On his chest was an impressive number of ribbons for an administrative position such as boatman, and on his collar were pinned the silver bars of a lieutenant. Vickers then noticed the boatman’s Pilot Qualification Badge. It was shined to perfection, but his blouse was faded the exact same shade as his trousers, and it was obvious that he had been in an office for some time. His expression combined with his decorations made it clear that he was not a boatman by choice. He had been reclassed, and he was not happy in his post.

“What does that mean,” the boatman continued. “Are you implying that they are incorrect in saying that?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

The sunken eyes under the boatman’s slightly raised and unimpressed brow rolled down toward a graffito written in broad letters on the side of Vickers’ bag. He hadn’t written them. The words just happened to be on the bag that the quartermaster had issued him, and until now Vickers hadn’t given them much thought at all.

“Does or so they say make the rest of it sound more seasoned? Like you’re some hero of the void; it’ll earn some points with the vets? Catch the eye of some terrier girl who'll think you’re deep and interesting? Spark up a conversation?”

Vickers was confused. To his left was an incriminating line of empty chairs which let everyone know that he had not been paying attention. To his right sat a few officers who were enjoying the scene at Vickers’ expense, behind whom sat a commission of annoyed officers vying to look around the officer to their left in order to better see the cause of their delay. By their expressions alone he could tell they were veterans, and Vickers suddenly felt in the way. An awaiting sigh directed his attention back toward the boatman.

“No – I didn’t write…”

“How many years have you observed, Cornet,” the boatman again interrupted.

Vickers was excited to have a relevant answer and replied confidently, “Twenty-three, sir! Twenty-four years natural.” He thought that this single-year difference – which, in reality was only a forty-three-week difference -- in natural and observed time would be enough to impress the lieutenant. It was not.

“Twenty-three,” the boatman smiled. “Wise words for twenty-three.

“Give me your COINs.”

Vickers hesitated, “Sir?”

“I need your Command Instructions.” Every syllable was stressed and disrespectful and was immediately followed by the boatman facetiously muttering to himself, fuggin’ vacuum of space right here.

Vickers held out his biochip to be scanned. The boatman transferred the instructional data and processing forms to his tablet and scrolled across the screen mumbling and checking stamps.

“Medical – good, Dental – good, vision – good. Hearing – good. Fooled me.” A major waiting in the chair next to him shook her shoulders in silent albeit sympathetic laughter. “Psych – good.” He quickly locked the tablet, tucked it under his arm, drew in a sharp and irritated breath, and turned right face. The intimidating lieutenant commanded back to the inexperienced cornet, “Get your shit; follow me.”

Vickers threw his bag over his shoulder and started off quickly behind. The boatman pulled out the tablet again and began scrolling more while Vickers barely managed to match his pace. At the end of the passageway, they took a left. Without lifting his eyes from the tablet, the boatman walked deftly through the sea of contractors, servicemembers, and other boatmen. Vickers, to his embarrassment, managed to collide into almost every one of them. The boatman turned left into a small office and sat in a chair behind a cluttered desk. Vickers dropped his bag next to a chair opposite the desk and began to sit.

“Don’t sit; this will only take a moment.” The boatman transferred the tablet to his desktop and began rifling through the documents.

For the next four minutes and thirty-two seconds, Vickers wondered at which point it would be appropriate for him to attempt to sit again. The wondering was punctuated by the boatman rotating the image on his desktop toward Vickers before saying, “This is your Venerean Clause. Read it and sign it.”

A few centuries before Cornet Barnaby Vickers made his way out to the Acheron, the crew of Venerean 5 had accomplished the first manned travel at 1c. It was actually 0.999 repeating c, but it doesn’t have as good a ring to it. A research vessel consisting of eighty-eight men and women observed a week and some change travelling to an inhospitable and currently irrelevant system, deploying and activating a signal beacon, and returning home. The lawsuit that they filed – and won – awarded each of them fifty-six years in backpay including all regularly scheduled promotions. The entire crew -- most of whom had observed less than five total years of service -- turned in retirement papers and received full benefits. The majority were also awarded full disability due to the psychological stress of missing so much natural time. This led to a legal clause in all Out of Oort contracts and missions which specified that lengths of service were relative to the individual’s observation and not the Command’s. The clause is colloquially referred to in the rank and file as the Venereal Clause because everyone who signs it is permanently fucked.

Vickers dragged his index finger across the desktop and left behind an unattractive squiggle of what could only be described as signaturesque. The boatman reviewed the document and signed as a witness with a single flick of his index finger, transferred it onto the tablet and handed the tablet to Vickers.

“This is your copy of all documents, all orders, and all information related to your assignment. Do not lose this, and it would be wise for you to transfer this information to your onboard computer as soon as you board.

“Follow me.”

The boatman stood and walked quickly into the passageway. Vickers followed immediately and found that he was now much better at avoiding collisions. They arrived at an elevator and the boatman selected H.

“When we get off the elevator, we’re going to Hangar Frame 74. That’s where your worm pod is. A functions check has already been completed, but you’re encouraged to perform another before launch. Open your tablet and confirm that the navigator has selected the correct destination. Once you’ve done that…”

Vickers slowly tuned out the instructions and became more concerned about the fact that his bag was still resting in the boatman’s office. It was too late to go and get it, and Vickers could only anticipate his perpetual embarrassment that the boatman would find the bag and perhaps display the infantile graffito as a monument to that one jackass who left his bag.

“… which is probably the most important step for the safety check.” The boatman emphasized the last bit to show that he knew Vickers’ mind had wandered, but he did not repeat the information. “Once that’s done, your observation time begins.”

Before the elevator stopped, the boatman began stepping forward, and again with expert choreography cleared the doors as they opened precisely at that moment. Vickers followed closely behind until they reached Frame 74. The boatman swiped a keycard at the staging computer and began rattling off instructions again.

“Get in; watch your head, and…

“Oh, great,” the boatman lamented sarcastically. “Your aide-de-camp must have forgotten your bag in my office.”

Blood rushed into Vickers’ face as he screwed his mouth in frustration. He had hoped to at least make it a few AU away before the lieutenant had noticed.

“It’ll be another hundred and seventy-five years natural before we’re in position to send it out to you. Tough break; I hope they have an understanding quartermaster out there.

“Transfer your tablet information to the onboard computer and begin your functions check.” The boatman closed the hatch and sealed it.

Vickers’ mind raced into a self-deprecating rabbit hole of thought. A few minutes after he began performing a functions check, the boatman came in over the comm unit.

“Science Officer Cornet Barnaby Vickers. Comm check.”

“Lima Charlie.”

A taunting roger answered him. “One piece of advice, Cornet – shut up; listen. You’ll hear a high-pitched hum coming from the panel just aft of the starboard-side alert system. Let me know when you hear it.”

Vickers trained his ear and attention toward the panel, and slowly detected a slight whine which crescendoed until it was all that he could hear. He decided to respond without military jargon, as his last response was met with mockery.

“Yeah, I got it.”

The boatman, returned on the comms, “Good. Try not to concentrate on that. It’ll drive you crazy.

“Safe travels, Vickers.”

The worm pod began vibrating slightly preparing to tear through spacetime. Vickers had been in the training simulation hundreds of times, and though he was confident only yesterday, his recent slew of gaffes had shaken that confidence loose. He noticed a blue light flashing toward the rear of the pod and through the porthole saw the boatman attempting to signal something at him.

The lieutenant inhaled deeply, moved his face centimeters from the glass, and let out a visceral scream followed by the certain mouthing of dumbass through the most belittling grin Vickers had ever seen. Science Officer Cornet Vickers heard none of it, and he suddenly felt very cold and very alone.