“You know, this will reflect badly on you as well,” the admiral said. “A captain’s supposed to train his executive officer, bring him along. This is your failure as much as his.”
“I am aware some will view it that way, sir.”
Stevens shook his head and looked back at his desk. “You have quite a history with this family, don’t you? A lot of people would look at this and say it was personally motivated. What do you think Lieutenant Goldjune’s chances are at his next promotion board with a fitness report like this in his folder?”
Sam considered that for a moment, looking out the window. The rain had eased up and he saw a cargo capsule slide down the needle and disappear into the downstation complex.
“Sir, with any other lieutenant I’d say it virtually ruled promotion out, but with Larry Goldjune I honestly don’t know.”
Stevens raised his head quickly.
“Are you suggesting a promotion board can be influenced?”
“No, sir, I’m saying I honestly don’t know. I hope it can’t. I guess we’ll find out.”
Stevens glared up at him for several long seconds and then shook his head again.
“Oh, sit down. I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you. This is the second time you’ve burned my ass. You know that, don’t you?”
“Sir?” Sam asked as he sat. He’d never met the admiral until a week earlier and as far as he knew they had no previous conflicts.
“You and that good-looking Limey you been banging—yeah, I know about that—what’s her name? Jones, right? You two broke the story on that Varoki jump drive manufacturer having cheat codes that could turn a starship inside out and kill its crew with one radio broadcast. If one manufacturer could have them, they all could, and all of a sudden, all their stocks dropped like meteors. Never seen anything like it. Then all the companies that insure starships took a dive until they pulled their insurance policies, and then every interstellar shipping company tanked. I lost half the value in my retirement account is less than three days! Now my wife’s threatening to walk, and she tells me she’s taking all that’s left in the account. Can you believe it? Her lawyer says I was managing it so what I lost was my half, not hers.”
Sam had heard a lot of stories about long angry rants from admirals behind closed doors, but until now he’d never experienced anything quite like it. After the last three months, though, nothing much surprised him.
Admiral Stevens shook his head and then seemed to remember Sam’s presence.
“So, you’re not exactly on my happy-happy list to start with. Now Admiral Goldjune, the CNO, is on my ass to make this go away.” He tapped the fitness report. “Come on, Bitka, give me a break. You already fucked me over once. Help me out here.”
Sam was surprised to find he felt sorry for Admiral Stevens. He couldn’t say that he found much to like or admire in him, and he doubted his marriage was in trouble solely because of a financial setback, but Stevens had served the Navy for most of his adult life and probably looked forward to a comfortable retirement. Losing a dream you’d worked hard for didn’t always bring out the best in people. Sam knew that from his own experience, and he was in no position to judge anyone, but after a moment he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t help you. I hope you’ll understand this is not a personal vendetta between myself and Lieutenant Goldjune, at least not on my part. This is about the good of the service. Larry Goldjune is a terrible officer.”
“If he’s so terrible, why hasn’t anyone else noticed?” the admiral shot back. “Hell, he finished near the top of his class at Annapolis, got early promotion from ensign and from junior grade, and had great fitness reports up until now. Even you admit in your report that he’s competent and smart. Jesus H. Christ, Bitka, what do you want from the guy?”
“Character,” Sam answered. “Goldjune doesn’t care about his subordinate officers or his crew. He doesn’t care about anyone else’s vessel and he doesn’t care about the service. He cares about himself, period. He’s not just an embarrassment waiting to happen; he’s dangerous.”
Admiral Stevens opened his mouth to respond but then looked at Sam and closed it. He tapped his desk lightly with his fingers, looked down at the open documents, shook his head. Then he turned his swivel chair and looked at the rain lashing the clear composite windowpanes.
“I spent my whole career getting ready for the uBakai War, or something like it, and then I missed it. They pulled you out of the reserves, stuck you in a destroyer, and you were in the middle of everything: four battles, twice as many as any other surviving captain, ship or boat. And I missed it.
“You know, if they’d sent me and the fleet out here just two weeks sooner, like they should have—like I practically begged them to—I’d have pulled your chestnuts out of the fire and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Then we’d both be heroes and we could tell the whole Goldjune clan to go fuck themselves. Just two damned weeks! But I got here too late and you got all the glory.”
“Admiral,” Sam said, “if it was up to me, you could have my whole share, and welcome to it.”
“What I ought to do is ship you back to Earth,” Stevens said, sounding almost as if he were talking to himself, thinking out loud. “First thing they’d do is pull that temporary lieutenant commander field promotion you got, and then probably park you somewhere behind a desk. Maybe they’d put you to work teaching tactics at Annapolis to a bunch of earnest snot-nosed plebes. Sure as hell wouldn’t have you teaching military courtesy, not unless they got a sense of humor that runs to the ironic.”
The admiral’s leather-upholstered swivel chair squeaked as he turned to face Sam again, and he smiled ruefully.
“The gods of war must love their jokes. Good one on me. Well, who am I to argue with the gods of war? I just made up my mind. I got a new command for you, Bitka. How do you feel about alligators?”
“Sir?”
“Alligators, as in the Alligator Navy, assault transports. Just this morning, seven days before one of those fast, new armed transports is due to jump out-system, its captain slips on a wet floor and breaks his hip. The Bay—USS Cam Ranh Bay—has a pretty good XO, almost ready for early promotion to lieutenant commander, and she could probably take over. It’s just a milk run to Eeee’ktaa to deliver half a cohort of Marines. But if I put you in command I get you out of my hair, and Larry Goldjune moves up to command USS Puebla. If I can’t get you to withdraw this fitness report, I can at least let him log some command time before his next promotion review board, get something on paper to counteract this. Maybe his uncle Cedric will accept that as the best of some less-than-perfect options.”
“Jesus, I don’t want my boat under his command,” Sam said.
“Noted,” Stevens said drily, US Navy-speak for Who cares what you want? “Bitka, you either take Cam Ranh Bay or you hop the next transport back to Earth. Either way, Goldjune’s going to get Puebla.”
Stevens chuckled.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll love ferrying jarheads around.”
CHAPTER TWO
The next day, aboard USS Cam Ranh Bay
13 February 2134 (six days before Incident Seventeen)
Lieutenant Mikko Running-Deer wasn’t used to being starstruck. It annoyed and embarrassed her.
She had never been much interested in holovid stars, or the manufactured celebrities on the vidfeed, that sort of thing. Sam Bitka was different—the most experienced deep-space combatant ship captain in Human history, and a bad boy to boot. He’d almost been court-martialed for calling the Chief of Naval Operations—in a public briefing to the whole task force—just “some admiral behind some desk a hundred light-years from here.”
His romance with that British intelligence operative didn’t hurt his reputation, either. Mikko had seen a segment on Navy Today with a short vidfeed of the two of them together, and they made a glamorous couple. One still picture caught him laughing, the British woman looking at him with del
ight, but something else, something Mikko couldn’t identify, something held back.
The woman reminded Mikko of a tall, elegant fox—not just the thick mane of red hair, but also her sharply pointed features, and her sly eyes which swept from side to side and seemed to take everything in at a glance. Mikko wondered if she was a dancer. She moved with the grace and constant sure balance of one—or maybe of a martial artist. Still, she thought the British woman was too old for him. Why, she must be almost forty!
Mikko couldn’t see the harm in indulging a bit of a fantasy crush from a safe distance. It wasn’t as if she was ever going to meet the guy, right? But now a wave of panic flashed through her as she realized that in about ten seconds the main entry lock was going to open and Lieutenant Commander Sam Bitka would walk through. She couldn’t let Chief Duransky and the two bosun’s mates of the side party see her flustered. Or him.
You’re a professional! Discharge this ballast.
And then, as if on cue, the ship’s bell sounded twice through the public address system, the duty commspec announced, “USS Puebla arriving,” the lock slid open, and he appeared in his white uniform shipsuit and attached pressure helmet, visor up. The magnetic tabs on his boots clicked on the deck as he walked, holding him down in the zero gee of Cam Ranh Bay’s main hull, just as her own boots kept her from floating away.
He looked just like he did in his pictures.
“Permission to come aboard,” he said.
“Permission granted. Bosun’s party, salute.”
She snapped a salute at the same time as the two bosun’s mates, one to each side of the airlock, while Chief Bosun’s Mate Duransky piped the new captain aboard.
Bitka returned her salute and then saluted the colors suspended on the aft bulkhead of the receiving bay.
“Sir, the crew is mustered in holospace,” Mikko reported. “I am ready to be relieved as captain.”
Bitka lowered his helmet visor and she did the same. Now the receiving bay seemed to grow in length and the entire ship’s complement was formed in two ranks at attention, stretching fore and aft from them, as her holoconference software kicked in. Of course, none of them but her, Bitka, and the bosun’s party were actually in the docking bay. The rest were at various stations throughout the ship, their holographic images arranged and projected by the software in her helmet. All of them stood with helmets on and in standard Navy-issue shipsuits, a combination working coverall and emergency pressure suit: white for officers, khaki for chiefs and Marines, and blue for other enlisted. Bitka raised a data pad and read.
“Outworld Coalition First Combined Fleet order dated Twelve February, 2134. To Lieutenant Commander Samuel M. Bitka: Surrender command DDR-11 Puebla to your senior line officer and report not later than Thirteen February, 2134, to LAS-17 Cam Ranh Bay. Upon arrival on board report to Lieutenant Mikko Running-Deer, Acting Commanding Officer USS Cam Ranh Bay, for duty as her relief. Signed, Vice Admiral A. K. Stevens, Commander, First Combined Fleet.
“Lieutenant Running-Deer, I relieve you.”
“Sir, I stand relieved.” She took a step back and then to the side, in that instant again becoming executive officer, and she felt herself relax. There had been no serious crises during her brief tenure as acting captain, but she had felt the constant awareness that if one would arise, it would be her exclusive responsibility, and she had not realized how heavy that responsibility had felt until it was suddenly lifted from her.
“All hands,” Captain Bitka said, his voice level and without the hard edge she had expected to hear in it. He didn’t sound like a cold, hardened, killer of ships. He sounded nice. Was that part of his secret of command? A carefully constructed veneer, a face presented to the world to disguise the warrior behind it?
“I had a chance to speak with Captain O’Malley by holoconference,” Bitka continued. “He’s recovering from his injury on the hospital ship Mercy Island. He tells me I am taking over a sound ship with a good crew. I look forward to meeting each of you in the next several days before we make our jump.
“Our mission is to transport two companies of Marines for duty on Eeee’ktaa, the home world of the Buran. We will receiver further orders once on station there.
“I will be going over drills and procedures with the executive officer and tactical department. As you know, a ceasefire has been in effect with the uBakai for the last three weeks, and so far it’s held, but there’s always the chance we’ll run into someone who hasn’t gotten the word, or who doesn’t agree with the word, and so we will continue to operate under the assumption that we are in a war zone. Everyone stay sharp.
“All hands, dismissed.”
Chief Bosun’s Mate Duransky raised his helmet visor and sounded Pipe Down, and the crew began disappearing as they raised their helmet visors, which cut the data feed from the in-helmet holocon systems. Mikko raised her own visor and saw Captain Bitka extending his hand and smiling.
“XO, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Welcome aboard, sir,” she answered, shaking his hand. He had a firm grip but wasn’t one of those assholes who tried to crush your hand to show their dominance. “Sir, the off-watch officers are assembled in the wardroom per your request. Can I show you the way?”
He looked around the receiving bay and grinned. “I’d appreciate that. I’ve been trying to memorize the deck plan in between everything else in the last twenty-four hours. I think I’ve got it down, but I’d feel really stupid wandering into a Marine squad bay by mistake.”
Wow, he was good! That vaguely lost and helpless act—perfect.
“Boats,” Mikko said turning to Chief Duransky, “have your detail deliver the captain’s gear to his quarters.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
Mikko gestured toward the lift which would take them down to the habitat wheel, rotating to provide the equivalent of one gravity. She and her new captain pushed off together to glide the length of the bay in zero gee.
“Sir, I have several revised data files you may want to go over,” she added as they boarded the lift, and she handed him a data pad. “I loaded them in here. In particular you may want to familiarize yourself with the civilian passenger manifest. We have a number of VIPs on board.”
The captain’s head jerked toward her.
“Um, wait . . . we have civilian passengers?”
Either Captain Bitka’s orders had not mentioned civilians or he had overlooked that section. Mikko did not think he had survived four deep space battles by overlooking things, so she wondered why no one had told him.
“I know it sounds crazy, sir,” she explained. “A couple months ago civilian passengers on a military assault transport would have been crazy, but a lot’s changed. When the word of the jump scrambler weapon went public, it caused a big panic and grounded the civilian starships. They’ll sort out all that mess with insurance and shipping companies eventually, but in the meantime interstellar commerce stopped—completely. So, the militaries of all six species of the Cottohazz stepped up and took over the traffic. It’s the only way to prevent a financial collapse.”
“A bunch of people but no bulk cargo?” the captain asked after reading the manifest.
“That’s correct, sir, but since we’re configured as a troop transport anyway, that works out fine. But it puzzled all of us as well until we got a crash course on interstellar commerce. Every inhabited star system has plenty of raw materials, and if they didn’t, starships couldn’t haul enough to make a difference. As far as merchandise goes, fabricators can construct almost anything. Rather than carry manufactured goods around in starships, it’s cheaper to license the fabrication software and just collect royalties. The only things really worth carrying from star to star are key people, data, and devices too cutting-edge to trust to the fabricator software nets. Oh, and unique original art. We’ve carried a bunch of that.”
Captain Bitka shook his head and frowned.
“Maybe someday someone will explain to me how that’s important en
ough to power—or cripple—the finances of the whole Cottohazz. But it doesn’t need to make sense to me in order to work, does it? Okay. XO, we need to keep the VIP passengers happy enough they don’t bother you and me, because we’re going to have real work to do. Have we got someone entertaining and . . . nonessential we can task with that?”
Why hadn’t she thought of something like that? Probably because Captain O’Malley had enjoyed schmoozing with the passengers, so she’d thought of that as the natural role of the captain, but Bitka wasn’t O’Malley, was he?
“Um . . . we’ve got charming and we’ve got nonessential, but not a lot of overlap. I’m sure I can come up with someone. Can I get back to you on that, sir?”
He chuckled. “Sure. Just don’t let any grass grow under it, okay? What we need is something like a chief purser. Or maybe a cruise director. One more thing. I’d like you to get your chief yeoman working on is a meal schedule for me.”
“Meal schedule. Yes, sir,” she answered, trying to act as if that was a routine sort of request.
“Well, I mean a schedule of guests. I need to get to know the officers and crew, and meals are a good way. I want to breakfast with an officer every morning, starting with you tomorrow, then have lunch with a chief, probably starting with our ‘Boats,’ Duransky, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Lunch with Duransky tomorrow. Dinner with an acey-deucy. Have your yeoman set up a rotation so I meet everyone if we stay at it long enough. Officers, I want to start with the department heads and then go to the most junior ensign and work my way back. Same with the chiefs: the bulls first and then the most junior one. For the junior petty officers, just mix it up.”
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