Dutch

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

The sight of their voiceless faces will haunt me forever. No amount of Persesian Whiskey will ever cause me to forget, but it won't stop me from trying.

My name is not important, call me Seneca. Captain Seneca. To tell you the truth I have been Captain Seneca longer than anything else, so I guess it is my name now.

Elders teach us, when we fled Earth around a millennium or so ago, all the bad stuff remained when the planet devolved into a maelstrom of destruction. The one thing I have learned as an adult is to never believe what you are taught.

Perhaps some evil got trapped, incinerated into a radioactive oblivion, rendering Earth uninhabitable until the time the Sun expands and consumes the birthplace of the human species. I promise, evil and horror from our godforsaken home is lurking in this galaxy. I try not to think of it spreading to other galaxies.

Many of the stories of our home still echo, kept alive in oral traditions by pockets of orthodox believers who have changed little since the mass exodus before the madness destroyed Earth. Within the children's tales are hints of evil, with some clearly birthed out of ignorance, others perhaps not so fictional.

My experiences as a captain of the MWSS Orion, leaves no doubt this evil did escape, distilled and refined, now atop the proverbial food chain.

Sorry for this rambling, I get cold sweats thinking about the Indorian System.

I need more whiskey. I should ask the lady for more since she offered to pay for my story.

The Indorian System is at the edge of civilization in our corner of the universe. We haul goods to the outposts, scavenge the wrecks floating around the twin stars, and once we are back offload the salvage to the highest bidder. As captain, I receive the largest share of the profits but none of the crew are hurting.

Our trips were always uneventful until the last one. Sure, we all heard the rumors, but we never encountered anything strange on previous trips. Honestly, we thought the outposts circulated the stories to keep visitors away. The high profit combined with few takers should have raised a red flag, but as I said, we never saw any reason for concern.

Screaming in space is futile of course, since space is a vacuum and sound needs a medium to travel. No sound, but the images of their faces are a silent scream of horror and fear.

I don't sleep nights anymore.

The old tales from Earth, past on from generation to generation outside the official sanitized histories in schools, tell a tale of a ghost ship filled with rage sailing the oceans on Earth seeking revenge. A captured ship would be doomed to travel eternity as a ghost ship, the crew forfeiting their souls.

Are these simply Old Wives Tales?Stories told to scare people, especially children, into behaving properly and following the government rules or are they based on a kernel of truth?

In the night when I am not sleeping, the faces of my crew coming back to me in horror and pain. I wonder would things have been different if we had not brought on Dutch as a last-minute addition to our team.

Gina had gone missing two days before we were to head out and Dutch had all the right qualifications and references. No one else wanted anything to do with a trip to the Indorian System limiting our options.

So Dutch replaced Gina on this trip, taking on the role of quartermaster, an old term which now encompasses handling all the supplies, having the merchandise lined up for each outpost and making sure everything is secure prior to the mini-jump.

Jason was the Exec, co-pilot, navigator and would man the top guns if trouble found us.

Sishou was our mechanic and left-wing gunner. She was the best mechanic in this sector, and we were lucky to sign her on.

Gnorg was our muscle, took on the dirtiest and heaviest jobs. He was also the calmest person I knew under stress. Maybe he didn't feel anything or simply did not care. There are people who instead of fleeing from danger, run towards it. Gnorg was such a person.

Last, the oldest friend of mine, Marissa, was our medic and ship comedian. She is also one the most ferocious warrior to ever come out of the Selane System, known for its warriors and providing most of the soldiers for the Galactic Peace Force.

Her only error, being born female.

Every time I try to figure out what was done differently on this disastrous trip, I go back to Dutch replacing Gina.

Dutch said the right things, worked hard, was open to helping anyone who asked, yet my instincts screamed at me something was not right about Dutch. I talked to everyone, one-on-one, about him and everyone thought he was a capable replacement for Gina. So I buried my misgivings, and we went forward with the final preparations for the run.

With the loading of the cargo completed we headed out for our mini-jump. We only did mini-jumps because longer jumps in hyperspace were not yet perfected for older freighters like the Orion. We did smaller jumps to ensure more certainty.

It turns out my gut was right.

Dutch was not who he said he was. His real name, according to the history was Hendrik van der Decken, the captain of the Flying Dutchman.

Our last-minute crew member, Dutch, was the captain of a vessel from over 1,500 years ago, doomed to sail the seas forever never making port.

Now you may be wondering, how I am here to tell the tale.

To Be Continued?

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