Rumors of War

by Jake Elwood

  Chapter 9

  Tom had been looking forward to exploring the Eyrie, one of the galaxy's technological marvels. His feet had barely touched the deck plates of the shuttle bay, though, when a chime drew his attention to his bracer. The station AI had recorded his arrival; now it had instructions for him. He was to report immediately to Shuttle B7 in Shuttle Bay Five for transport to the Kestrel.

  Excited, nervous, and disappointed all at once, he fiddled with the bracer, bringing up a map of the Eyrie. His brief hope that Bay Five might be on the far side of the station was quickly dashed. He was in Bay Four, and Bay Five was right next door. His sight-seeing tour would consist of a two-minute walk.

  He took a couple of steps away from the shuttle, realized he'd forgotten his duffel, and darted back aboard to retrieve it. The other passengers were long gone, the soldiers marching in a crisp formation toward the closest exit, the cavalry officer already lost in the bustle of a crowded bay. He hadn't even learned her name. He wondered if he'd ever see her again, and decided it wasn't likely.

  Uniforms of every color filled the bay. He saw the light blue of Navy uniforms, and here and there the darker blue of officers like himself. The grunts from his shuttle were changing color to match every ship or cargo mover they passed. They drew up in front of an army officer in dark green, then followed him out of the bay.

  A lone marine in black guarded the exit doors, watching as a couple of cavalry pilots strutted past. Mixed in with all the military personnel were civilian staff in beige jumpsuits and cargo-moving robots on treads or metallic legs. The bay contained a dozen or so shuttles of half a dozen different designs, and Tom wished he could stay and just watch all the hustle and bustle.

  Duty, however, called. He headed for the exit, eyeing the marine sentry uncertainly. The marine ignored him, and Tom emerged into a broad corridor. A yellow stripe along one bulkhead marked a lane for pedestrian traffic. The broad red lane down the middle was for robots, and they made the best of it, dashing back and forth at speeds that made Tom squeeze himself close to the bulkhead for safety.

  A fifty-meter walk brought him to Bay Five. He expected it to be a copy of Bay Four, but it was smaller, and contained only passenger shuttles and no robots. He passed a couple of shuttles quite similar to the one he'd arrived in, circled around a massive thirty-passenger craft, and came at last to Shuttle B7.

  For a moment he stood, nonplussed, staring at something that barely qualified as a boat. The shuttle was tiny, smaller than most ground cars, a windowless rectangle with an open hatch on one side. It barely looked big enough for him and his duffel. He shook his head, stooped, and worked his way inside. A bench seat ran along the starboard bulkhead, and it might have accommodated two people if both of them were skinny and neither had luggage. He sat with the top of his head brushing the ceiling and his toes touching the opposite bulkhead, his duffel filling the seat beside him. The hatch slid shut and the shuttle immediately rose.

  For a moment he sat in darkness. Then the inside of the shuttle lit up, and he smiled in spite of himself. Every inside surface was done in smart panelling. Exterior cameras gave a view in every direction, projected onto the panels inside, making the shuttle seem invisible. The illusion was almost perfect, and Tom laughed out loud as he seemed to fly magically across the bay.

  The force field keeping the bay pressurized flashed momentarily as the shuttle passed through. Hard vacuum surrounded him now, and he reached an elbow back, bumping it against the bulkhead, reassuring himself that it was real.

  The shuttle floated up behind an enormous white cylinder with the sunburst of the UW Navy painted on the side. Tiny robot tugs pushed the cylinder along, guiding it toward the spindly framework of the Kestrel. It was a cargo pod, he realized. A glance over his shoulder showed another pod on its way from the underside of the Eyrie.

  Did that mean the ship would be leaving soon? He decided it didn't matter. The ship was his home now, and there was no going back.

  The nose of the Kestrel loomed before him, tiny in comparison to the Eyrie. The entrance to the shuttle bay glittered on the bottom edge of the hull, a rectangle that hardly seemed bigger than Tom's tiny shuttle. He wondered how a full-size shuttle could possibly make it through such a small opening, and fought the urge to close his eyes as he passed through the force field.

  The shuttle touched down with a faint bump, the bulkheads went dark, and the hatch across from him slid open. Tom grabbed his duffel, took a deep breath, and clambered through the narrow opening to stand at last on the deck of his new ship.

  A full-sized shuttle sat off to one side, taking up nearly half the space in the bay. Tom eyed the narrow gap between the top of the shuttle and the ceiling of the bay and shook his head, hoping he'd never have to be the pilot for a landing like that.

  A whirring sound made him turn. The tiny shuttle he'd arrived in rose and moved toward the glowing wall of the force field, and Tom had a moment of panic, thinking he'd forgotten his duffel again. The bag was on the deck by his feet, though, and he shook his head at his own reaction while he watched the little craft exit the bay and race back to the Eyrie.

  Silence descended. He stood there, alone except for the shuttle, wondering what exactly to do next. He'd assumed someone would meet him on arrival. A glance at his bracer showed no messages. He glanced at the shuttle bay's inside hatch, wondering if he should go in search of … what, exactly?

  I'll wait, he decided. There's probably someone on their way.

  Seconds crawled past, painfully slow, and he stood there, feeling more foolish every moment. How long do I stand here like an idiot?

  But what do I do instead? Wander the corridors like an idiot?

  Not much of his training had been specifically about shipboard life. One scrap rose to the surface of his memory, though. Aboard ship, the captain ruled supreme, but the First Officer was the one who dealt with the crew. The First Officer, traditionally addressed as "First", was probably who he should report to.

  When he activated his bracer he found it was already synchronized to the ship's internal network. The ship's time was apparently ten minutes short of noon. He had maps of the ship, personnel rosters, and a tracking option.

  The Captain's name, he already knew, was Nishida. He'd scanned the list of officers earlier. Now he refreshed his memory. The First Officer was Overcommander Hiram Boudreau. The photo in the database showed a cheerful black man in the orange uniform of the New Haven Navy.

  They won't like you at all. Tom pushed the cavalry officer's warning to the back of his mind. Boudreau could hardly blame him for being from Earth. After all, it wasn't Tom's fault. Boudreau was in his forties, too old to hold foolish grudges. He wouldn't resent a sublieutenant for decisions made by politicians and admirals.

  Would he?

  According to the Kestrel's AI, Boudreau was on the bridge, two decks up. Tom gulped. He'd prefer something more low-key for his first introduction to the officers he'd be serving under. But, if it had to be …. He squared his shoulders and picked up his duffel.

  The hatch slid open as he neared it, and a woman in an officer's uniform started to enter. Both of them pulled up short, almost colliding. Tom glanced at her uniform, saw the thick bar of a full lieutenant plus the narrow extra bar marking her as an overlieutenant, and saluted.

  She looked him up and down with cool blue eyes. "Lieutenant Thrush, I presume."

  "Yes, Ma'am. I, uh, just arrived." He glanced over his shoulder. "Ah, the shuttle already left."

  "That's fine, Mr. Thrush." There might have been a hint of amusement in her voice. "Welcome aboard the Kestrel."

  "Thank you, Ma'am."

  "The First Officer usually welcomes new arrivals." Her lips thinned. "It seems he was unable to make it." She stepped back into the corridor. "Come with me."

  He followed her into a well-lit corridor, a bit narrow but still wide enough for two people to pass each other without quite brushing elbows. "Deck One Forward," she said, gesturing around.
"It contains the shuttle bay and Forward Storage, plus Forward Electronics." She indicated a hatch on her right with 'ELECTRONICS' stencilled on it. "Stay out of there unless you have a good reason. It's delicate equipment." She pointed down a side corridor. "Gun Station Charlie is that way."

  This was not the layout of the frigate he'd visited on his OPT runs, and he felt his reserves of confidence, already depleted, shrink even further.

  They climbed a narrow staircase. She pointed forward. "Deck Two Forward. Wardroom." She pointed aft. "Surgery." She pointed to another flight of stairs leading to the deck above. "The bridge is up there." She stopped. "This is the Boardroom." She tapped a hatch with 'Meeting One' stencilled on it. "You'll report to me here in fifteen minutes. Understand?"

  He nodded, and she led him aft. They descended a half-flight of stairs and reached a long, straight corridor stretching aft.

  "This is the spine," she said. "Deck One is officers' quarters, the brig, and auxiliary storage. Deck Two is crew quarters." They passed one hatch after another, the close spacing telling Tom the cabins within had to be quite small. "This is you." She halted, tapped at a control panel beside the hatch, then said, "Put your bracer by the screen."

  Tom held his wrist next to the control panel and the hatch slid open.

  "Stow your gear and get settled in," she said. "Come and see me in the Boardroom in –" she glanced at her bracer – "eleven minutes." He nodded and she walked away.

  The cabin was small – he could have touched the bulkheads on either side with outstretched fingers – but it could have been worse. Above his bunk was another bunk, folded into the bulkhead. He could have had a roommate.

  Stowing his gear didn't take long. He had very little. A spare uniform, a dress uniform, and his sword took up most of the space in his duffel. He put the sword under his bunk with his one civilian suit and a handheld computer.

  In the cabin's tiny head he washed his face, checked that his hair and uniform were both straight, and spent a moment staring at his reflection in the mirror. "You better get used to it," he told his reflected self. "This is your life now."

  "During Battle Stations your post will be Operations," Brady said. "That's in the aft section. There are signs; you'll find it." She led him starboard. "Food storage." She tapped on the forward bulkhead with a knuckle. "Water storage." She tapped on the aft bulkhead. "And this is General Storage Three." She stopped in front of a double-wide hatch. "We've taken on quite a lot of supplies. They need to be properly stowed."

  The hatch slid open and the two of them entered a long, narrow compartment. Bins and blockers lined the bulkheads, along with shelves hung with cargo netting. At the aft end of the room, a small mountain of crates and parcels filled the floor and crowded nearby shelving. A pair of spacers, a man and a woman, took parcels from the heap and stored them in bins.

  "This is Hanson and Nguyen," Brady said as the two spacers straightened up. It wasn't difficult to figure out which was which. The man was white, the woman Asian. "You'll be supervising them." To the two spacers she said, "This is Mr. Thrush. He's just joined the ship's company."

  "Hello, sir," said Nguyen. Hanson didn't speak, just stared at Tom, his face cold.

  "You need to know what's on board, and you need to know where it's stored. This will be an excellent introduction." Brady turned away. "Call me if you have a problem." She paused in the doorway. "I'm busy, though. I'd rather you solved your problems yourself."

  The hatch slid shut, and she was gone.

  Hanson and Nguyen looked at Tom.

  "Um, carry on," he said. He felt his cheeks reddening. "Let me know if you have questions."

  There might have been a hint of a smirk on Hanson's face as the two of them turned back to their work. Tom sighed quietly, then looked around the room. He found smart panels beside almost every bin and shelf, each with two lists: the items stored there, and the items that were supposed to be there. He spent several minutes exploring, getting a sense of how the room was laid out.

  Storage Three, he discovered, was home to a bewildering hodgepodge of matériel. There were electronic components for every system on the ship, seldom-used tools, and an incredible number of data chips. There was paint, and paint remover, and fusing panels for emergency repairs. Oxygen filters sat beside lighting relays, all of it mixed together with no pattern that he could see.

  And then there was the stuff he couldn't even begin to identify. Many of the supplies were identified only by serial number. He wondered how he would ever find the correct storage spot for anything.

  When he watched the two spacers, though, he quickly saw how it was done. Nguyen lifted a carton from the stack at the end of the room, held it up to the nearest smart panel, then peered at the screen. A moment later, she confidently carried the box to the far end of the room and stowed it in a bin.

  Hanson, meanwhile, unsealed a soft bag and began lifting out electronic components. He held each device up to a smart panel, then carried it to whatever shelf or drawer it belonged in. Tom made a brief attempt to help them, moving to the stack of cargo and lugging a box to the nearest screen. He quickly saw, however, that there simply wasn't room for three people to work. Hanson and Nguyen began to spend much of their time waiting for him or each other to get out of the way. They didn't complain, but he read impatience in their body language, especially Hanson.

  Taking a hint, he moved to the forward end of the compartment and began verifying inventory. It was dull work, but he could see how, at least in theory, it would be handy to know how the ship's supply system worked.

  When, twenty minutes later, he discovered that a box of protein powder contained eleven packets instead of the twelve it was supposed to hold, he reported it to the ship's computer with a real sense of satisfaction.

  "Lieutenant? Do you mind if we take a short break?"

  Tom, kneeling in front of the bottom drawer of the cabinet, glanced up at Nguyen. A quick glance at his bracer told him they'd been working for more than an hour. Tom had, at any rate; he didn't know how long the other two had been at it before he arrived.

  "I don't know," Tom said. "We should probably try to verify as much of the inventory as possible before we get underway."

  Hanson and Nguyen exchanged glances.

  Tom said, "What?"

  "We made the transition fifteen minutes ago," Hanson said. "Didn't you feel it?"

  Flushing, Tom tapped his bracer and brought up the ship's status.

  Sure enough. The Kestrel was in seventh-dimensional space. Phoenix Station, Korus, and Tom's old life were hundreds of thousands of kilometers away and receding rapidly.

  Chapter 10

  The wardroom was a small cozy space clearly designed to be a haven for officers from the constant stress of command. Tom paused in the doorway, examining the room with an architect's eyes. From real wood paneling to rounded corners to soft indirect lighting the wardroom was masterfully constructed to put a lieutenant like him at ease.

  Two discordant notes spoiled the effect. First, the furnishings, from the plush armchairs to the long counter that ran along one bulkhead, were the distinctive orange of New Haven.

  Second, a pair of lieutenants sat at a table near the entrance. They looked up long enough to give Tom a hard, unfriendly look, then pointedly ignored him.

  Tom grabbed a plate and served himself a mix of rice and vegetables from a heated dish on the counter. He carried the plate to an empty table and sat, then looked around. The most impressive feature in the room was a window in the forward bulkhead, giving a view of shifting red and orange energy as the ship pushed its way through a hyperspace storm. He drank in the view, then turned reluctantly as the wardroom door slid open.

  A young man with the stripe of a full lieutenant swept in. His straight red hair was cut regulation-short, but it bristled around his skull like a rusty corona. Freckles decorated a nose that crinkled as he smiled. He filled a plate, dropped into the chair across from Tom and said, "Fresh meat. Excellent!"
/>   Tom spent a moment staring at the plate before figuring out the lieutenant meant him. The man stuck out a freckled hand. "Carstairs."

  "Thrush." They shook hands.

  "You're fresh out of Basic," Carstairs said cheerfully. "I can tell by the way you eat."

  Tom stared at him blankly.

  "You actually get time to finish your meals here," Carstairs said. "You don't have to eat like someone's about to take it away from you."

  "Oh." Tom looked at his plate, embarrassed.

  "I was the same way when I started," Carstairs assured him. "Basic Training's pretty much the same in any military, I think. Run your tail off and never enough time to do anything. You don't waste your time when there's chow on the table." Carstairs grinned. "Took me almost a year to break the habit."

  "Right," said Tom, and made himself hesitate before taking another bite.

  "Don’t mind the snobs," Carstairs said, jerking his head at the two lieutenants at the other table. "They think joining the United Worlds and renaming the ship was your idea. They think if they snub you for long enough you'll change your mind and everything will go back to the way it was."

  One lieutenant gave him a dirty look. Carstairs laughed.

  The door hissed open and Brady came in. She took a plate and sat beside Carstairs. "Are you hazing the new kid?"

  "Mercilessly," Carstairs assured her.

  Tom nodded. "It's awful. You got here just in time."

  Brady grinned momentarily, then became businesslike. "Tell me about our mission, Mr. Thrush."

  It was a test, Tom knew, and he took a deep breath before replying. "The Kestrel is on its way to Garnet. We'll take on supplies and get any servicing the ship needs. We won't join the fleet, however."

  Brady nodded. Carstairs smirked and turned his attention to his rice.

  "After we leave Garnet, the mission parameters are not specific. We'll visit isolated systems and outposts, delivering cargo and showing the flag." He closed his eyes, trying to remember the exact wording of the posted orders. "We've been instructed to make a show of force, and to assure our allies we haven't forgotten them."