The Kruton Interface by John Dechancie Page A

sir.”
    What appeared on the captain’s personal screen looked like a moon, its surface cratered and bleak, but then it rotated on its axis, revealing itself to be the shaved, stubbly cranium of Rear Admiral Lyman Dickover. The admiral’s perpetual scowl, like a permanent marking on the lunar surface, was still there.  
    “Wanker? Dickover here.”  
    “Hello again, Admiral.”
    “I trust you’ve taken aboard the civilian party we talked about?”  
    “All aboard, sir.”
    “Don’t say ‘All aboard,’ for God’s sake. It sounds ridiculous.”
    “Sorry, sir. They’ve arrived safely.”
    “Good. I’m also relying on you to extend to them every courtesy and comfort.”
    “Of course, sir.”
    “And you’ll cooperate with them fully. Understood?”
    Wanker answered with reluctance, “Understood, sir.”
    “Bear this in mind. The successful testing and development of this special project is vital to United Systems defense needs. We must have a technological edge against our enemies. Is that clear, Wanker?”
    “Uhh.… that’s Vahn-ker, sir.”
    “Sorry, but the other way sounds more appropriate. Captain, the best way to accomplish your mission is to turn over your ship to your guests and try to stay out of their way. I trust that is within your capacity.”
    “Give up my ship? You mean, just hand it over? Sir, really, with respect, I must protest. It goes against the grain of a fighting man—”
    “Captain, you’ll be fighting court-martial charges of incompetence and dereliction of duty if you foul up this assignment as you did your last two. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
    Wanker nodded sadly. “Yes, sir.”
    “Then bring back a fully tested and operational device. Don’t fuck this one up, Wanker. Dickover out.”
    The screen went dark, and Warner-Hillary announced, “Transmission ended, sir.”
    Wanker muttered, “Weasel.”
    Dickover’s voice boomed from the speaker. “I heard that! Add a charge of insubordination to that list of court-martial charges. Dickover out!”
    Wanker turned savagely on the navigator. “You said the transmission ended!”
    “I couldn’t read the little thingie, here, sir.”
    “Lieutenant, the only little ‘thingie’ I’m aware of is your microscopic brain. Put yourself on report!”
    “Sir, communications isn’t my job! I’m only trained as a backup!’’
    “Nevertheless, you’re on report. Life’s nasty, isn’t it?”
    The navigator said sullenly, “It’s a bitch.”
    Warner-Hillary moped back to her station. As she passed behind Wanker she stuck out her tongue at him.
    “And then you get court-martialed,” Wanker murmured to himself.
    The captain tried to calm down, using transcendental biofeedback techniques that he had been taught in the Academy, most of them useful for summoning extra mental strength and stamina during combat. He did alpha-breathing, beta-chanting, and gamma-imaging; he visualized his favorite things, and tried to conjure up the happiest moment of his life. He made an effort to feel better about himself, searching within to find an inner strength that he knew he had. He attuned himself to goal-oriented behaviors that would maximize his options and minimize environmental negativity.  
    “DOCTOR!”
    O’Gandhi came running. “What is it, O my Captain of mine?”
    “FOR GOD’S SAKE GIVE ME SOMETHING BEFORE I GO OUT OF MY FREAKING MIND!”
    “Here they are, right in my tunic pocket, the happy little beggars.”
    O’Gandhi gave him a handful of pills, pretty purple, red, and green ones.
    Captain Wanker wolfed them down dry.
     
     

 
     
    CHAPTER 9
     
     
    Repairs to the ship were just about completed. The chief engineer at the graving dock placed a call to the captain of the Repulse, who had once again gone into hiding.
    “Sir, we’ve done just about all we could. But there’s just so much that we could do in the way of repairs and refitting… well, sir, there’d be no end to it.”
    “Is this ship