Trust Me

by Alcuin Fromm

Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Part 2

The bright chirp of a bell woke Lemm nearly three hours later. A recording over the cabin’s intercom announced that the crew of the Storna would be received in the Huntress’s Assembly Hall. Lemm rose with a groggy grunt and hastily prepared himself.

Various crew members of the Storna and the Huntress packed the corridor outside the Assembly Hall. Dallor, standing in the doorway to the Hall, saw Lemm approaching and waved him over with a look of impatience. Lemm bumped and excused his way through crewmates and strangers. When he reached his brother, Dallor frowned at him but quickly softened his expression. He put his arm around Lemm and ushered him into the Assembly Hall.

Garlands in the silver and red of the Empire decorated the Hall and a long table had been set for an elegant meal. The narrow space was choked with officers and enlisted men from both ships. Dallor scanned the faces while Lemm furrowed his brow, staring at the ground.

“What took you so long?” said Dallor.

“I’m sorry, Captain, I fell asleep,” said Lemm, then lowered his voice and added, “Dal, we need to talk as soon as—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Dallor. “Later.”

Dallor was already looking away from Lemm to the far side of the crowded Hall, where the Huntress command crew gathered, speaking amongst themselves. Dallor swept ahead of Lemm and strode up to two officers in conversation. He slapped one of the men on the back.

“Boothe, you hound,” said Dallor with a broad smile.

The surprised officer took a moment to recognize Dallor, then burst into a cheerful laugh and returned the smile, slapping Dallor’s shoulder and darting out a hand which Dallor seized and shook vigorously.

“Dallor Meetrich, Captain Dallor Meetrich. How the blazes are you?”

“All in one piece thanks to the Huntress. You couldn’t have come a second later. We were right on the verge of—”

An electronic whistle blew. Everyone stopped speaking and drew himself to attention.

“Captain on the deck,” said the bosun.

Lemm watched a tall, bearded man step into the Assembly Hall through a door at its far end. He wore a ceremonial uniform and nodded to the officers and crewmen as he strode past, his command crew assembling behind him. The command crew of the Storna moved similarly behind Dallor. Captain Quont Prestill smiled warmly and shook Dallor’s hand.

“On behalf of the crew of the ISS Huntress, I am pleased to welcome aboard Captain Dallor Meetrich and the survivors of the ISS Storna. We applaud you and your vessel for your heroic efforts in what is already being called the Battle of the Prohnian System, and we mourn with you for your losses. The Empire will long remember this triumphant and important sacrifice towards ending the war with the Revolutionaries and establishing peace and security throughout all the Imperial star systems.”

Quont began to clap and everyone in the Assembly Hall followed his lead. Dallor nodded graciously and turned to face the people.

“Thank you, Captain. And on behalf of the crew of the ISS Storna, I heartily thank the valiant efforts of Captain Prestill and the crew of the ISS Huntress for rescuing her from what seemed to be certain destruction. We pledge to you our undying gratitude and remembrance for this selfless deed.”

There was another general round of applause.

“Now, please allow me to introduce my command crew,” said Quont.

He began with the officers of lower ranks, naming each man and his position. With every new name, Lemm felt a surge of anxiety. Who could the Welder be? Perhaps he was an enlisted man or even lower functionary, thought Lemm, or perhaps he was not even aboard the Huntress anymore. Anything was possible.

“And lastly, my commander, Boothe Griss, with whom I believe you attended the Academy, Captain Meetrich, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, Captain,” said Dallor. “We shared a room as first-year cadets.” He chuckled. “With all the typical chicanery you might expect.”

“Yes, well, I can assure you, Captain Meetrich,” said Quont, “that immaturity is no longer a problem for my excellent commander.”

Quont made a sweeping gesture towards the table and smiled broadly.

“And now,” said Quont, “your command crew is cordially invited to remain here for a festive dinner.”

Another whistle blew, announcing the general call to the evening meal. The enlisted men began shuffling out of the Assembly Hall to go to the Mess Room, and the officers, well-versed in Imperial etiquette, moved to their seats arranged strictly by order of rank.

The two captains sat in the middle, across from each other, and Lemm found himself at one end of the table. He responded politely to questions and occasionally posed his own to keep up the semblance of a conversation, but his attention was focused on the discussion between the captains.

“It was a mistake I’ll never make again,” said Dallor as he attacked his Allarallian steak. “The enemy cruiser had completely shut herself down, even cutting life-support, so that she gave off no energy signature whatsoever. We thought she was just a dead hull.”

Quont nodded knowingly and sipped his green-tinted Uhrr wine.

“Once we had passed her,” Dallor continued, “the cruiser relit her core functions and got off a short-range missile from behind us before we even registered her presence.”

“Dreadful,” said Quont. “I have long advocated for the mandatory assignment of two-ship units once the main formation has scattered and a general melee has begun.”

“Yes, I agree entirely,” said Dallor. “And, in fact, we were part of just such a unit with the ISS Krestor, but she lost two of four engines and couldn’t keep up.”

“I see,” said Quont. “Dreadful.”

The conversation continued and soon switched to lighter topics as the wine continued to flow and the two crews became more familiar with one another. Happily for Lemm, who hated politics, no one felt inclined to discuss the state of the war with the Revolutionaries or the political fighting back on the Capital Worlds. Between the dessert and the digestif, Dallor chuckled and leaned forward, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“I’m suddenly reminded, Captain,” he said, “of a situation your first officer experienced back during our Academy years.”

Boothe placed his hands on the table and leaned back as if to distance himself from the impending anecdote.

“Oh no, not that,” said Boothe, grimacing.

“Oh yes,” said Dallor with a smile. “One of our final cadet missions before we began officer training was on Tremboth Seven, just about the time it was all over the Imperial newsfeeds because of the Revolutionary agitation and riots going on. Our mission was something completely banal, though, overseeing the loading of a freight ship or something.”

“No,” said Boothe with a reproving tone. “We were unloading a transport ship.”

“Whatever,” said Dallor with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The point is, Cadet Boothe is operating a heavy, anti-grav lifter. One of those floating platforms. The work drags on all day, and it becomes clear that we aren’t going to finish on time. Our dashing, young cadet has a date with a wild Trembothian girl that night and Trembothians are not known for their patience. Neither is Cadet Boothe. So, in order to speed up the whole process and get done faster, he decides his lifter can handle not merely one, not even two, but three crates at a time.”

A general snicker went up among those hearing the story. Boothe shook his head, smiling.

“So everything seems to be going well. Cadet Boothe is whipping his lifter back and forth with three crates at a time, back and forth, back and forth, until—”

“Until that piece of garbage—” Boothe began.

“Until that mistreated, abused lifter becomes so overheated,” continued Dallor, speaking over Boothe, “that its orientation servos fry. Our hero takes one last load of crates, floats them out of the ship, floats them to the unload point and then... they just kept floating.”

Everyone began to laugh.

“Cadet Boothe is slamming his control panel, but the lifter’s not responding. He’s screaming profanities at the thing as it slowly glides on by, happy as can be, and heads straight into the next hanger. People are jumping out of the way, an alarm goes off. The lifter is heading right for a monstrous bulk transporter.”

Boothe rolled his eyes and threw back his head, stifling laughter. Dallor’s animated story had attracted the attention of the whole table. Only Lemm was not smiling or laughing, only listening intently. Dallor took a sip of wine to create a dramatic pause.

“Cadet Boothe gives up in despair and is just watching the lifter get closer and closer to the transporter. This is a bulk transporter, mind you. She’s huge. One of her engines alone is ten times the size of the tiny lifter coming towards it. And as if things could not possibly get any worse, our crew chief shows up right at this point. He gets out the words, ‘What the—’ before the transporter fires her pre-launch thrust.”

Dallor hunched forward in laughter, wiping tears from his eyes.

“So- so-,” he said between laughs, “so the transporter fires her pre-launch thrust right when the tiny, little lifter just kind of... bobs its way into the path of the engine fire. And in a matter of seconds, the whole thing, lifter and crates, gets melted into a puddle of bubbling, white-hot, molten goo by the engine blast!”

Everyone laughed again, and Boothe covered his eyes as he chuckled.

“The Corps of Engineers had to bring in a special laser team to detach the liquified lifter off the hanger floor!” said Dallor.

“I lost six months of my stipend to cover those damages,” said Boothe, laughing.

“And that’s how your commander got his nickname during our officer training years, elleren,” said Dallor. “That’s what all the angry Trembothians who had to clean up after him at the spaceport started calling him.”

“You never told me that story before,” said Quont.

“For obvious reasons,” said Boothe.

“Yes,” said the captain, chuckling. “I see why.”

“What does ‘elleren’ mean?” asked the Storna’s gunner.

Boothe laughed and said, “The Welder.”

After the meal, Lemm refused to let Dallor out of his sight before he could speak privately with him. Lemm attached himself to the group of officers accompanying Dallor down the corridor like starstruck teenagers, continuing their reminiscing and joking about happier times.

Lemm’s impatience grew with every passing second. Finally, when the group reached Dallor’s cabin, but not before he had recounted a final humorous anecdote, Dallor bid everyone a good night and entered his cabin. Lemm slid in with him before Dallor had a chance to object, and the door shut.

“Ah,” said Dallor, too tired and too full of wine to be upset by his brother’s intrusion. “Lemm, you’ve been quiet all night. You need to relax a bit. I know the battle was stressful” — he hiccuped — “but we’re safe now, for a few days, at least.”

Dallor flopped onto his bunk and loosened the collar of his uniform. Lemm had been pacing and scratching his head absently. He stopped and looked at his brother who had closed his eyes, already moments away from falling asleep in his clothes.

“Dal, I listened to that message from Father.”

Dallor’s eyes opened and he turned his head to look at Lemm. “What message?”

Lemm sighed in exasperation. “The message that came in during the battle. The Priority-One from the planet Ireth.”

Dallor furrowed his brow. “It’s good you’re telling me this now that I’m half-drunk and exhausted, otherwise I might take umbrage with your accessing a private communication intended for the captain of an Imperial starship.”

Dallor waved his hand, leaned back his head, and closed his eyes again. “But I’m too tired, so, don’t do it again. The judge has spoken. Case closed. Now go to bed.”

“I’m not apologizing, Dal. I did it because it was from Yellevar Meetrich, our father, remember him?”

“Don’t be glib, Lemm.”

“Who’s being glib? If I had ignored the message like you did, we wouldn’t have gotten Father’s warning.”

“Warning? What warning?” said Dallor, draping his arm over his eyes.

“The message was cut off and lost when we got hit by the missile, but Father said their intelligence had identified a dangerous man that couldn’t be trusted aboard the Huntress. This ship. And that man was known by the codename ‘the Welder’. Your friend, Boothe.”

Dallor let his arm slide off to his side as he sighed in frustration. With a grunt, he hoisted himself up and swung his legs out over the bunk to sit facing Lemm. “All right, Lemm, what in Creation are you talking about?”

Lemm recounted everything he had heard and the reasons for the incompleteness and loss of the message. When he had finished, Dallor looked at his brother with an incredulous expression. “What are you saying? Boothe is wanted by the Ministry of Intelligence?”

“Yes!”

“And the proof is some coincidental nickname?”

“That’s no coincidence, Dal. No one has a nickname like that. It’s too strange, too uncommon.”

“It’s too preposterous,” said Dallor, pulling his legs on his bunk and lying back down.

“Why?”

“Why?” said Dallor. “Why? Because I’ve known Boothe for nearly two decades. He’s not dangerous. Maybe he’s not the most intelligent officer in the Imperial Navy, but he’s a solid man.”

“And how long have you known Father? Is he intelligent? Is he solid?”

“I’m not saying anything against Father, Lemm; don’t put words in my mouth. I’m just saying that this is probably a misunderstanding or an error. We don’t even know why they’re looking for this Welder, whoever he is. How many star systems are under the surveillance of the Ministry of Intelligence? Two-fifty? Three hundred? How reliably can they pinpoint one particular man with a weird nickname on one particular ship?”

Lemm leaned on the cabin’s small desk, folded his arms, and lowered his head, nearly defeated by Dallor’s disbelief. His anger and frustration relented, and he felt disappointed and saddened instead.

“It’s a question of trust, Dal,” he said quietly. “Father would not send us this message if it weren’t important, if it weren’t true.”

“He didn’t send us that message. He sent it to me, the captain of the Storna. Now, as captain, I’m telling you to drop it and go get some rest.”

Lemm was silent for a moment. “And what are you telling me as a brother? What are you telling me as the eldest son of Yellevar Meetrich?”

Dallor sighed. “Go to your cabin, Lemm. I’m finished with this.”

Lemm knew his brother well enough to recognize that any further discussion would be useless. He stood and left the cabin without a word, as Dallor began to breathe heavily. He consoled himself with the idea that Dallor might be more amenable the next morning. But as Lemm slowly walked back to his cabin through the cold, empty corridors of the Huntress, he admitted to himself that he had no idea what either he or his brother could do.

* * *

Proceed to Part 3...

Copyright © 2023 by Alcuin Fromm