The Wild Ones

Book 0: John Grimes

by A. Bertram Chandler

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Alien Contact

Synopsis

Back on earth with Shirl and Darleen from New Alice, John Grimes is off on a new mission. Giant golden creatures and accusations of witchcraft are all part of A. Bertram Chandler's last completed novel.

Release date: December 31, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 141

Sample

Sister Sue, John Grimes commanding, had made a relatively uneventful voyage from New Sparta to Earth and was now berthed at Port Woomera. But nobody seemed to be in a hurry to take delivery of her cargo, a quite large consignment of the spices for which New Sparta had become famous among Terran gourmets. This didn’t worry Grimes much. His ship, of which he was owner as well as master, was on time charter to the Interstellar Transport Commission and until her holds were empty she would remain on pay. What did worry Grimes was that the charter had expired and that the Commission had indicated that it might not be renewed. Another cause for worry was that Billy Williams, his chief officer for many years and, for quite a while, during the term of Grimes’ appointment as governor for Liberia, relieving master, was taking a long overdue spell of planet leave, returning to his home world, Austral. With him had gone the Purser/Catering Officer Magda Granadu, leaving Grimes with a shipful of comparative strangers, young men and women who had not been among her complement when he had first commissioned her. So he had to find a replacement for Magda and one for Billy Williams. The second officer, young Kershaw, was, in Grimes’ opinion, too inexperienced a spaceman for promotion. It would be many years before he would be capable of acting as a reliable second in command.

Meanwhile Grimes had no option but to hang around the ship like a bad smell. Until he had seen which ways the many cats were going to jump he could not afford to leave her in the fumbling hands of young Kershaw. And he wanted, badly, to get away himself for at least a few days, to revisit his parents’ home in Alice Springs. The old man was getting on now, although still churning out his historical novels. And his mother, Matilda, although one of those apparently ageless women, blessed at birth with a good bone structure, would be wanting to hear a first hand account of her son’s adventures as governor of Liberia and then on New Sparta.

He was beginning to wonder if he should make the not too long walk from the commercial spaceport to the Survey Service Base, there to pay a courtesy call on Rear Admiral Damien. Even though not many people knew that Grimes was back in the Service with the rank of captain on the reserve list, everybody knew that he was an ex-Survey Service regular officer and that at one stage of his career his superior had been Damien, then Commodore Damien, who had been Officer Commanding Couriers at the Lindisfarne Base. (But it was also common knowledge that young Grimes, as a courier captain, had been Damien’s bête noir.)

Still, Damien owed him something. He had acted as the Rear Admiral’s cat’s paw during the El Doradan piracy affair, and on Liberia and, most recently, on New Sparta. The Survey Service pulled heavy Gs with the Interstellar Transport Commission. If Damien dropped a few hints in the right quarters the Commission would either renew the New Sparta time charter or find some other lucrative employment for Sister Sue.

So, after a not very satisfactory breakfast—the temporary, in-port-duties-only catering officer thought it beneath her dignity to cater to the captain’s personal tastes and could murder even so simple a dish as eggs and bacon—Grimes got dressed in his best uniform, his own uniform with the Far Traveler Couriers cap badge and crested buttons. Then he sent for the second officer.

He said, “I shall be going ashore for a while, Mr. Kershaw. Should anything crop up I shall be with Rear Admiral Damien, at the Base.”

The lanky, sullen young man with the overly long hair asked, “Is there any word, sir, about a replacement for Mr. Williams? After all, I’m doing chief officer’s duties and only getting second’s pay …”

I’m doing the chief officer’s duties, thought Grimes indignantly. But he said, “The Astronauts’ Guild have the matter in hand. As you know, I require Master Astronaut’s qualifications for my chief officer. Unluckily you have only a First Mate’s certificate.”

Kershaw flushed. He knew that Grimes knew that he had already sat twice for his Master’s ticket and failed dismally each time. He decided to drop the subject.

“When will you be back, sir?”

“That all depends upon the Rear Admiral. He might invite me to lunch, although that’s unlikely. Or I might run into some old shipmates at the Base.”

“It’s a pity that you ever left the Service, sir,” almost sneered Kershaw.

“Isn’t it?” said Grimes cheerfully.

He walked down the ramp from the after airlock, puffing his foul pipe. The morning was fine although, with a southerly breeze straight from the Antarctic, quite cool. There were only a few ships in port—two of the Commission’s Epsilon Class tramps (Sister Sue had started her working life as one such), a somewhat larger Dog Star Line freighter and, gleaming like a huge, metallic skep in the bright sunlight, some of the bee people who were her crew flying lazily about her, a Shaara vessel. (Those bastards are getting everywhere these days, thought Grimes disapprovingly. Once he had quite liked the Shaara but various events had caused him to change his attitude.)

All these ships, he saw, were working cargo. They all had gainful employment. His Sister Sue did not.

He identified himself to the marine guard at the main gate to the Base, was admitted without question. (Fame, or notoriety, had its advantages.) He looked with rather wistful interest at the Survey Service ships in their berths. There were two Serpent Class couriers, the so-called “flying darning needles.” Grimes’ first command—how many years ago?—had been one of these little ships. There was a Star Class destroyer. There was a cartographic ship, similar to Discovery, the mutiny aboard which vessel had been the main cause of his somewhat hasty resignation from the Survey Service.

But he hadn’t come here to take a leisurely stroll down memory lane. He had come here to confront Rear Admiral Damien, to make a more or less formal request that this gentleman use his influence to obtain further employment, preferably another time charter, for Sister Sue. After all he, Grimes, was useful to the Survey Service even though very few people knew that he was back in their employ. And surely a willing—well, for some of the time—laborer was worthy of his hire.

He approached the main office block, passed another marine sentry. He went to the receptionist’s desk where a smart little female ensign was on duty. The girl looked at him curiously, noting the details of his uniform. Obviously she was not one of those who knew Grimes by name and reputation. But she was young, young. There may have been giants in those days, the days when Grimes himself was young, but this pert wench would never have heard of them. (Yet. But legends persist and, almost certainly, there would be those on the Base who would be happy to regale her with all sorts of tales, true, half-true and untrue, about that notorious misfit John Grimes.)

“Sir?” she asked politely.

“Could I see Admiral Damien, please?”

“Is he expecting you, sir?”

“No. But he’ll see me.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“John Grimes. Captain John Grimes.”

“Wait, please, Captain Grimes.”

She pressed buttons and the little screen of her telephone console came alive. Grimes shifted position so he could look over the ensign’s shoulder. He saw Damien’s face—that prominent nose, the thin lips, the yellowish skin stretched taut over sharp bones—take form. Old Skull Face never changes, he thought. And Damien could see him in his own screen, standing behind the girl. There was a flicker of recognition in the cold, gray eyes.

“Admiral, sir,” said the girl, “there is a …”

“I know, Ms. Pemberthy. There is a Captain Grimes to see me. Or a Commodore Grimes. Or His ex-Excellency ex-Governor Grimes … All right, Grimes. I was wondering when you would condescend to come and see me. You know where I live. I’m still in the office where you were debriefed after you came in from New Sparta—when was it, now? three months ago?—and now you’re back from New Sparta again. But you won’t be going back there for quite a while, if ever … As you know full well I always keep my finger on the pulse of things.” Then, to the girl, “That’s all, Ms. Pemberthy. Captain Grimes can find his own way up. He has only to follow the signs. Even Blind Freddy and his dog could do that much.”

The screen went blank.

The girl turned to stare at Grimes.

“The admiral seems to know you, sir. But what is your rank, captain or commodore? And are you an Excellency?”

“I was,” Grimes told her. “And I was, at one time, commodore of a squadron of privateers …”

“Privateers, sir? Aren’t they some sort of pirates?”

“No,” Grimes told her firmly.

Damien did Grimes the honor of getting up from behind his huge desk, walking around the massive piece of furniture and advancing on Grimes with bony right hand outstretched. Grimes did Damien the honor of saluting quite smartly before shaking hands with the rear admiral. Damien motioned Grimes to a quite comfortable armchair before resuming his own seat. He put his elbows on the surface of the desk, made a steeple of the skeletal fingers of both hands and resting his chin upon the apex, looked intently at the younger man.

“Well, young Grimes,” he said at last, “what can I do you for?”

“I do not think,” replied Grimes, “that that was an unintentional slip of the tongue.”

“Too right it wasn’t. Nonetheless I may be in a position to do something for you.”

“At a price, no doubt. Sir. How many pounds of flesh, or is it just my soul you’re after?”

“Grimes, Grimes … This uppity attitude does not become you. And I would remind you that you hold a Survey Service commission, albeit on the Reserve List. You are subject to Service discipline—and, when you are recalled to active duty, are entitled to the full pay and allowances for your rank in addition to the quite—indeed overly—generous retaining fee of which you are already in receipt.”

Grimes’ prominent ears reddened but he kept his temper. After all he had the services of himself and his ship to sell—and this was a buyer’s market. He could not afford to antagonize Damien.

“And now, Grimes, what exactly are your current troubles?”

“Well, sir, I was hoping that the Interstellar Transport Commission would renew or extend my time charter on the Earth/New Sparta run. After all, my ship has given very good service on that trade …”

“But not with you in command of her, Grimes, until recently. As far as New Sparta is concerned you’re too much of a catalyst. Things have a habit of happening around you rather than to you …”

“Mphm!” grunted Grimes indignantly.

“I wish that you’d break yourself of that disgusting habit,” said Damien. “I’ve told you before that I do not expect naval officers to make noises like refugees from a pig sty. But, to revert to New Sparta, it will be better for all concerned if things are allowed to settle down. Your boozing pal Brasidus is doing quite well now that he no longer has Queen Elena to stick her tits into everything. Our Commander Lazenby is maintaining a watching brief, as I am sure that you know. You and she are old friends, aren’t you? And that obnoxious news hen Fenella Pruin has taken flight to some other planet to do her muckraking …”

“So you persuaded the Commission not to renew the charter,” said Grimes.

“Hinted, just hinted. And I also hinted that there was no need to bust a gut to get your inward cargo discharged. Until it’s out you’re still on hire. And money, I need hardly remind you, is money …”

“Thank you, sir. And I wonder if you’d mind hinting to the Astronauts’ Guild that I have a vacancy for a chief officer, one with some experience and with a master’s ticket. Come to that, I also want a new catering officer …”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Grimes. You’ll be getting your new chief officer shortly. One of our people, needless to say. And a very good catering officer. And …” A sardonic grin appeared briefly on Damien’s face.

“And what? Or whom?”

“You remember Shirl and Darleen, the two young ladies whom you brought to Earth, as passengers, from New Sparta …”

“How could I forget them?”

“Like that, was it?”

Again Grimes’ prominent ears flushed angrily.

He said, “So it was you who arranged for their passage, in my ship, from New Sparta to Earth. Oh, well, as long as you pay their fares again I’ll carry them to anywhere else you wish.”

“You’re a mercenary bastard, Grimes, aren’t you? But we shall not be paying their fares. They will not be paying their fares. On the contrary, you’ll be paying them. Wages, at the Award rate.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Grimes. After all, merchant vessels quite often carry officer cadets.”

“Who have had the required pre-Space training at some recognized academy. And I’m sure that there’s no such an academy on New Alice.”

“There’s not. But there are such things as STS—Straight To Space—cadets.”

Grimes, who since he had become a merchant spaceman had made a study of all the regulations that could possibly affect him, ransacked his memory.

He said, “But Shirl and Darleen just aren’t qualified in any possible way. Aboard a spaceship they’d be completely unskilled personnel.”

“But with qualifications, Grimes.” He opened one of the folders on his desk, began to read from it. “‘Any person who has held commissioned rank in the armed forces of any federated planet, wishing to embark upon a new career in the Merchant Service, may serve the qualifying time for the lowest grade of certificate of competency in any merchant vessels, with the rank and pay of officer cadet.’”

“But … Commissioned rank?” asked Grimes.

Then he realized that Damien was right. New Sparta was a federated planet. Elena’s Amazon Guard had been part of the armed forces of that planet. Shirl and Darleen had held commissions—as officer instructors, but commissions nonetheless—in that body.

“Too,” said Damien, grinning again, “both young ladies are now Probationary Ensigns, Special Branch, in the Federation Survey Service Reserve. Of course, their reserve commissions are as s. . .