Massoud (Massoud Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Copyright

  Massoud by Amanda R. Norris

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2018 A.R. Norris

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form whatsoever.

  Contents

  1. Departure

  2. Voyage

  3. Destruction

  4. Desolation

  5. Desperation

  6. Weakness

  7. Rescue

  8. Wanting

  9. Character

  10. Confession

  11. Interview

  12. Marriage

  13. Judgment

  14. Birth

  15. Death

  16. Homecoming

  17. Hypocrite

  18. Crazy-assed Woman

  19. Distance

  20. Good Health

  21. Duty

  Acknowledgments

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  1. Departure

  A reasonably intelligent woman, with three decades of life informing her decisions, should have more sense than to succumb to the casual urgings of her acquaintance. Unfortunately, reasonably intelligent women do not always behave as they should.

  Contemplating the consequences of her recent actions, Massoud walked down the gangway where the walls reflected white light into her sensitive eyes and the sharp sound of her shoes tattooed in her head. The cruel walls, the cruel shoes, made her head ache.

  She first met Walsh, and he greeted her with a respectful short bow and a less respectful grin. “Did you...?” he started, but she put up her hand to stop him saying anything more. Then there was the avuncular Takei, Chief Engineer, with a startlingly loud “How you feeling, girl?” Around the next corner was Evans, scrutinizing her for evidence of the gossip he had heard. She greeted him with a sharp and cautionary, “Evans”, as a warning to keep his questions to himself, before she continued to the captain’s ready room.

  The captain stood examining his slate intently, merely glancing up as she entered. “Reporting for duty, sir,” she announced, hoping that her voice sounded normal.

  “Welcome back, Massoud. Takei is conducting the engineering inventory. The medical and food inventory is yours. My intent is to conduct the fuel and chemical inventory. I was also planning to conduct weapons inventory. However, you may prefer to do that yourself?” Massoud was both the first officer and the weapons officer.

  “Yes. That’s not a problem. I bet Dr. Foster is waiting for me, so I’ll do medical first, but I should easily have time for weapons.” Inventory was the last major planet-side task prior to launch. Casting oneself into barren space for six months allowed for no error in provisioning. Each item was checked multiple times, first by automation, then by a shore-side quartermaster, and finally by a senior officer accompanied by the ship’s specialist. As first officer, much of this responsibility fell on Massoud’s shoulders.

  Massoud took her leave of the captain gladly. She was not in a fit state to bridge the social gap with a man whose habitual manner was reserved. Congratulating herself that her superior had not observed her condition, she proceeded to sickbay, treading carefully so that her head would not shatter with the impact of each step.

  It was ridiculous, at her age, and after more than a decade in the service, to succumb to peer pressure and to yield to the urgings of inebriated crewmates. “Meccans don’t drink,” she had told them, presenting a red flag to a bull. They cajoled, coaxed, and wheedled—behaviors she had successfully resisted innumerable times, even when she was an impressionable new recruit. She knew she should not have gone to the bar in the first place, and she knew she should not have engaged with her manipulators, but she had. She had, like a fool.

  At first, they had gleefully given her something called vodka with a purplish juice. It wasn’t bad; she had only tasted the juice. That was followed by something harsh and intense that had scalded as it slipped over her tongue and into her throat. After that, who knew? Improbably, she had told the crew she loved them, and how she missed them when she was planet-side. There may have been hugs. She was unclear on that point. She did remember throwing up in a public planter on the way to her apartment, only then realizing that Speck and Painter had followed her most of the way home. She should have been grateful they were watching out for her, but it made her wince when Painter leaned over her deposit in the planter and announced, “Fertilizer.” Speck laughed. Massoud grumbled, “If you’re coming this way, walk with me. I feel like I’m being stalked.”

  And they did, escorting her to her apartment, lining up eight glasses of water and presenting her with a pill before they left. “Take this,” Painter instructed forcefully. “It will help, but if you’ve really never been drunk before you’re going to feel crap in the morning, no matter what.” She had been prophetic, of course.

  The doctor smiled as Massoud entered sickbay. “How are you this morning?” he asked with uncharacteristic cheeriness.

  “Not you too. If anyone else has a wild night on planet, it’s barely worth mentioning.”

  “It’s the curse of acting out of character, Massoud,” was the amused reply. “Oh, and if you took that pill Painter gave you last night, there’s nothing I can do for you for another forty hours or so. That stuff interacts horribly with every drug I have.”

  “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” the doctor responded with barely suppressed delight.

  The doctor was not just a doctor of course. With a crew of only twenty-three, everyone on board the Constance was multi-skilled. Among the senior personnel on board, Massoud was the only one who was neither a scientist nor an engineer. The doctor was the crew microbiologist, Walsh was the botanist and the pilot, and even the captain was a geologist. The Constance was a science ship. Most of the crew were scientists first, and fleet officers second.

  Not so Massoud, who was fleet to a fault. She had forgone the academy by signing up to be a weapons officer. It was the quickest way into space—train on board while other officer recruits sat in classrooms. After nearly a century of peace, the training for her specialty had not been codified into a degree program. Self-study and mentoring was her archaic route to becoming a Commander Third Class. Others, at the same age, were junior officers on Class A or B ships, but she was happy to know that her next step was the captaincy of a small Class C ship, like the Constance. To be a ship’s master was the height of her ambition; she could captain her own little ship until retirement and be perfectly content. In due course, her peers would pass her in rank, getting promoted to larger ships, but she did not feel any regret about the route she had followed. She simply could not have spent all those years in lecture halls when the opportunity to leap into space was available.

  Inventory complete, she reported to the bridge for departure. Those of the crew, who did not have duties elsewhere, crowded the compact bridge for this last moment in orbit. They were spacefarers, discontent anywhere but among the stars; but they were human too, with hearts tethered to the planet below. Walsh and the captain handled the launch. There was the curious, but false, lurching sensation as the ship released; it was nothing more than the little ship losing touch with the station’s artificial gravity before the onboard dampeners compensated. Then the floor beneath their feet felt wavy—yet another result of the apparent change in gravity. This was followed by a sense of being rejected by the station as the thrusters operated. These commonplace effects were especially
noticeable on the snug little Constance.

  Massoud had always loved these peculiarities and the feeling that she had been set free and afloat, as if an umbilical cord had been cut to unleash an adventure. It was the beginning of life and the release into infinite possibilities.

  Not so today. The slight rumbling of the ship turned her stomach. She willed it into complacency, while placing a steading hand on a console and grimacing.

  “How is your head Massoud?” asked the captain. Ugh! She’d hoped that he didn’t know of, or notice, her condition. Had someone bypassed her and mentioned the events of last night, or had he observed her bloodshot eyes? There was no point in dissembling to him; she had invested too much into earning this taciturn man’s trust to be anything other than embarrassingly honest.

  “It’s a little fuzzy, Captain.”

  “I trust the inventories were conducted properly.” He tilted his head in query, in the Gnostian fashion.

  “Absolutely.”

  The captain had a way of making her feel inadequate, not by deliberate intent, but merely by being himself. She aspired to captaincy, and he was, by any common measure, an excellent model to follow. However, she could not emulate his behavior. They were as different as two people could be. A typical Gnostian, he possessed superlative self-discipline and efficiency, was aloof and erudite. Massoud was expressive and friendly, empathetic and intuitive. Her formal education was unremarkable. In fact, she had barely completed the required courses for her master’s license prior to her last promotion. The captain, by contrast, received his scientific education from the most renowned university on Gnost, was academy trained, and had fifteen years of command experience. Although a confident person, Massoud felt comparisons to the captain were unflattering.

  Even in appearance, the captain and his first officer were stark contrasts. He was tall, pale, and angular, and looked as if the fleet uniform was designed specifically to flatter his form. Massoud was shorter, rounder, darker—like most earth-descended—and knew from her own experiences that the fleet uniform was not cut for the female shape, despite the admiralty’s protests to the contrary. The uniform made her feel dumpy, especially when she stood next to the linear form of her captain. Nevertheless, the captain recognized her strengths, and used her interpersonal skills to his own advantage. Although, he occasionally handled disputes between the scientists when they were in, what Massoud dubbed, ‘scientist-mode’, she dealt with most personnel issues. When members of the crew were acting as pursers, pilots, or physicians, it was her job to manage them. If there was not a logical reason for the complaint, conflict, or confrontation, the captain appeared to be at a loss. Massoud would smooth those irrational human disputes without help from her superior. He acknowledged that, although he had of necessity dealt with these issues before Massoud was assigned to the ship, her efforts were more effective. This was the only direct praise, if it can be called such, that the captain ever gave her. Otherwise she had to be satisfied that he allowed her to expand her duties and test herself, in preparation for her own future command.

  The station and the planet of Denison faded from the screens. Walsh adjusted magnification so that the planet remained in the viewer until it became minute and insignificant. The small crowd filtered away from the bridge. The connection to the planet had been broken. Now they were isolated in a way their ancestors would never have comprehended—twenty-three people separated from death by a thin membrane structure and dependent on fragile engines for their existence. Yet there was nowhere else that these particular individuals could be. They belonged here, on the Constance, in space, and disconnected from the rest of humanity.

  It was to be a three-week voyage to Delta Alpha 7B, a potentially habitable planet which was to be surveyed by the Constance. It was a farther journey than the ship had ever taken, but thanks to newly retrofit Cantrell engines, the travel time was shorter than in prior expeditions. Takei had commented wistfully on his new engines. “This is the last major retrofit this old girl will see. Her structure is getting old. It won’t be worth replacing the membrane when the time comes.” Massoud understood his feelings; the Constance had character. Each of her systems dated from a different era, but she was remarkably reliable and had a solid feel, like a good friend standing at your side.

  Generally, Massoud took the late watch on the bridge but was expected at the captain’s table for dinner beforehand. Although, the captain had breakfast and lunch in the general mess, he took dinner in his tiny private dining space, in the company of any senior officer who chose to join him. It was whispered that he avoided the general mess at dinner because, by the end of the day, his Gnostian nose could not tolerate the smell of Terrans who hadn’t bathed since morning. Since Massoud was always expected at the captain’s table, she sometimes re-showered before the meal, just in case the gossips were right.

  On this first night in space, there was additional company at the table. Both Takei and the doctor were in attendance, willing, at this early stage of the journey, to tolerate the captain’s vegetarian tastes. The doctor had relented and had treated Massoud’s hangover, making the enlarged dinner gathering tolerable for her. The conversation rallied with the satisfaction of being aboard again but flagged a little when the talk turned to those left behind. Takei produced an image of a new grandchild to be admired, and he lamented not witnessing her first few months. Massoud commiserated kindly.

  The doctor picked up the conversational thread of home and hearth: “Well, captain, I expect that you couldn’t visit Gnost in the short turnaround we had since the last expedition. How long is it since you’ve been home?”

  “A little more than three years. However, I took time, while on Denison, to communicate with my parents, and I renewed my acquaintance at the embassy.”

  “It must have been delightful to have spent time with people with whom you can see eye-to-eye.”

  Massoud sighed. This comment may have been a reference to Gnostians’ strapping height or may have been a reference to the captain’s cultural differences. Either way, the fact that the doctor was already needling the only Gnostian on board did not bode well.

  “I enjoyed time with my peers, if that is what you are implying.” The captain was cool.

  “I am sure the conversation was intellectually superior to anything that you can find on board our little ship.”

  “It was good to speak Gnostian, attend Gnostian performances, and to resurrect the manners of my youth. However, contrary to your belief Doctor, I am not one of those Gnostians who judges my culture and my race to be superior to that of the earth-descended. I am perfectly satisfied with the quality of conversation on this vessel.”

  Takei shot a look at Massoud. The captain did not normally counter the doctor’s provocations.

  “But surely,” the doctor taunted, “such an ancient culture as yours must be inherently superior, don’t you think? Everyone is so disciplined and studious.”

  “There are those who believe that our superiority, if it exists, is due to our self-discipline. However, after living so many years among Terrans, I have developed an opposing view.”

  “Really, how so?”

  “Self-discipline is most challenging when adopting behaviors contrary to one’s inclination. Little discipline is needed for a Gnostian to study, or otherwise follow his prescribed path in life. Our inclinations are in line with our obligations. In addition, Gnostians are emotionally stable and have a long life to devote to both our education and our careers. By contrast, Terrans have a limited life span and spend much of it wrestling with a host of unruly emotions. I marvel, at times, at the discipline exerted to tame such emotions, and to attend to the purpose at hand. Despite such challenges, the earth-descended have accomplished much. By such reasoning, they are superior to Gnostians.”

  The doctor was both mollified and confounded, and remained silent.

  Presently, the captain added: “Of course, Gnostians are still superior in strength and size.”

  Tak
ei smiled wryly at this last comment; the captain was in the mood to spar. However, Massoud saw an opportunity to enter, and hopefully end, the vexatious conversation. “Captain, I have to disagree. When it comes to size, smaller people, such as Terrans, have significant advantages. They use less oxygen, consume less food, and use less fuel for transportation. Small people are superior—at least when it comes to space travel.” She smiled with a hint of self-deprecation.

  The captain nodded his acquiescence. The doctor laughed, the last vestiges of his ill-temper dispersing.

  “Well you should know Massoud. Did we ever check to see if you were the shortest person on the ship?” he asked.

  “No, and we will not.”

  The doctor was a vain man and was troubled that he, the most educated person on the ship, was neither the most senior nor the most respected person on board. His self-perception was too clouded to see his own unsuitability for command. The geologist captain irritated him. However, he liked Massoud. He was not in competition with a fleet-trained girl. The conversation moved on to safer subjects.

  During the following week, the crew settled into a familiar routine. Massoud had her watch, and her supervisory duties. In addition, she and Speck, the Security and Safety Officer, conducted a daily inspection of the hull. Assigning a senior officer to this task emphasized its importance. Every week or so, the pair expected to find a pinhole that needed repair, but that was normal. Once, when Massoud was only a few weeks out of basic training, and on her first ship, she had found a split that was a half centimeter long. She had excitably shared this news with her shipmates, and they had mocked her novice reaction, telling tales of more ominous occurrences. With more experience, she understood that was how the crew coped with their own worries. A half centimeter rip was a significant threat, and chilled even the crustiest spacefarer. A little teasing of the officer cadet had been a good antidote to their anxiety.

  However, the Constance, that reliable old lady, had never had more than a half millimeter leak. Also, after a few years in space, Massoud discovered she could sense a compartment leak, despite the superlative ventilation systems. Since it was considered lucky to have a ‘leak canary’ on board, this trait enhanced her reputation. No insidious leak had the opportunity to grow under Massoud’s watchfulness.