Prelude to a Space Marshal

Prelude to a Space Marshal
Mark S. Wellington

2003 National Novel Writing Month Entry

We have a Winner!

50,128 of 50,000 Words Completed

Beginning Synopsis

A journeyman spacer checks off a freighter at the station. He antagonizes the security staff, runs with the criminal element and is generally enough of a nuisance to bother everyone, but not so that they want to ship him out. He seems to be floating along at the edge of acceptability, rude comments to the women, gambling, and is even friends with the Thermions working at the bar.

Suddenly a few things start to heat up and go weird. Somehow drugs are being smuggled through the space station, but security hasn't been able to pin point the method or responsibility. The underworld heavies try to mess up one of the security force who seems to be getting too close to the answers. The drifter jumps to the rescue, only to end up in a deadly position himself. A hidden asset enables them to escape and eventually turn the tables on the thugs. The drifter is jailed with the others as security attempts to sort things out.

Messages flash between central command and the space station to reveal a number of surprises. The new construction at the station is identified, a new class of fleet ship is delivered, a major drug ring busted and a number of promotions and citations are awarded to the security staff, messengers and . . . the drifter?

Woven into this futuristic tale are the classic story lines. Past relationships of the drifter surface as he ducks and avoids certain people. Suspicions are aroused, romance blossoms, reunions constructed, technology explained and the past is put to rest as peace settles into the sector with new protectors in place.

This novel is the first in a series of three woven together in a common era and common characters.

Excerpt:

Lieutenant Anne Wilkins slid out of her small vessel and moved toward the center of the station. From a messenger vessel it was pretty easy to get to the command center. Drop down five decks and move center. Her vest glowed yellow, indicating the level of importance if the current message. Normally it was a plain blue, with just a touch of luminescence. It cycled up through green, yellow, orange and finally red. She had never had a red message before, and had only seen a couple of her co-messengers out on orange runs. Yellow usually indicated that there was an actual physical delivery to be made. In this case she was to deliver something to the Commanding Officer of the Station, Captain Odell.

She enjoyed being a messenger. It allowed her to spend time alone, shuttling between the various outposts of the United Federation. It was often monotonous, but she took advantage of the time to learn about the various cultures and keep current on all the newest technology. Most messengers spent a lot of time with learning spools, using the multimedia readers to hide the mind numbing blackness of being in the folds of a warp. As a consequence their knowledge was several levels above others of the same rank. It was one of the factors that made messenger duty so sought after. Follow on duty stations always valued ex-messengers.

It was also a benefit in that it reduced the available time for interaction with her fellow officers. The daughter of two of the most decorated members of the USF, not to mention the Silver Star she had earned herself, made it difficult to blend into the normally faceless ranks of the officer corps. The recognition of her name brought mixed reactions, sympathy from some, awe from others and a curiosity from the remaining. It tired her to even think about it. As a messenger she occasionally got a second glance from the individuals that she delivered something to, but comment was usually reserved to a nod of recognition, or in the case of a few, a comment on having known her father or mother.

She dropped the required levels and headed toward the center, ignoring anyone that she encountered. Anyone that saw her moved out of the way quickly so as not to impede her progress. A messenger in a bad mood could sling out citations and fines pretty quickly. The messenger vessels and their pilots had priority over almost every other vessel unless they had a declared emergency onboard.

She was moving well, making good time, until she hit the security checkpoint on the main level. The Fleet Security forces where responsible for safety and security within the station proper. The outer layers were not of primary concern, but weren’t ignored either. Anyone moving into the inhabited area of the station went through one of two security stations that were always manned around the clock. In this case the miner’s on weekend leave were backed up waiting for their turn through the screening station. They were eager to get to the bars and enjoy the items not available at their spartan quarters on the mining planet. Every minute they spent waiting to get through security was one that they could spend gambling and drinking.

The Lieutenant came around the corner and came to a halt. She sighed. She slid her side arm out of its holster and looked around for a good target. Looking up, she grinned. At least there was a sense of humor around here! A large black buffered area was painted on the ceiling and neat black letters on yellow stated, “Messengers, make our job easier, aim here! Thanks, Maintenance.” Setting her blazer on audio, she fired a single blast into the center of the area. The noise immediately silenced the unruly mob in front of her and all eyes looked her way. It was a moment or two before the security station at the far end realized anything was happening. The force field also blanked out sound so that they could deal with the entrance of the individuals one at a time.

“Next one’s set on stun and is going straight down the middle of the passage way.”

They parted and plastered themselves against the bulkheads. She marched quickly down the passage and was waived through security with hardly a glance, though Ensign Zloyt watched her figure moving past with some respect. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, not according to regulations, but not something anyone was going to make a comment about. Messengers were a strange breed of officer in the Fleet. Consisting of junior officers, they were given carte blanc to do what ever had to be done to deliver their messages as quickly and efficiently as possible. Given a high enough priority, they could pretty much shoot someone that tried to slow them down and not suffer any penalty.

He gave a quick glance at the personnel readout as she passed through. The screen showed a couple of surprising awards. A Blue Spot and a Silver Star? There hadn’t been any major actions almost a decade and it had been several years since any type of uprising. She couldn’t have been out of the academy for more than a few years. Where had she been to earn that? He wished he could talk to her for a few minutes. It would be nice to spend some time in the company of a warrior like that! He made a note of her name so that he could conduct some research on his console.

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