Rumors of War

by Jake Elwood

  For a long moment the two men locked gazes. Finally Hanson looked away and muttered, "Fine."

  "Sir," said Tom

  Hanson looked at him.

  "I'm an officer, Hanson. You'll address me as 'Sir'."

  The moment stretched out until Hanson said, "Fine. Sir."

  "Now explain to me how you would move ten thousand shells to the forward magazine."

  Heavy cargo was apparently brought onto the Kestrel by stevedore bots, or by dockside crew with their own methods and machinery. It was an aspect of ship operations that had been entirely neglected in Tom's education so far.

  When cargo needed to be shifted or moved there was surprisingly little equipment to work with. The ship had a few wheeled dollies powered by nothing more sophisticated than human muscle. Sawyer's engineering crews had a couple of robots, ponderous slow-moving things for shifting multi-tonne pieces of machinery.

  And then there was the grav sled.

  Operating on the same principle as personal anti-grav units, the grav sled had to be loaded manually, but it could hold ten cases of cannon shells. The sled would float above the floor, and it had a steering mechanism, a force field generator that could push in whatever direction it was pointed. That meant that, once the weight of so much ammunition was counteracted, the sled could still overcome its inertia. It would be possible to move the sled down the corridors fairly quickly, and still be able to stop it quickly, or turn corners.

  The best part was, the sled's primary purpose was moving ammunition in an emergency. It was stored in the aft magazine.

  Tom led them to the magazine and persuaded the door to open, and they found the sled. It was an unremarkable black rectangle perhaps one meter by two, magnetically locked to the ceiling. Tom spent five minutes struggling to release it before giving up. "It must release during Battle Stations. We'll come back then."

  Hanson rolled his eyes. The others seemed to accept the situation. Tom let them return to their other duties while he waited in front of the magazine, reading about ammunition transfer policies on his bracer.

  At the top of the hour the familiar alarm sounded, the magazine hatch slid open, and Tom entered.

  The sled remained frustratingly attached to the ceiling.

  He was standing under the sled, poking futilely at the sled controls, when a crisp voice said, "Clear the room, please." Tom saw a young woman with the full stripe of a lieutenant, and had no choice but to step outside. The lieutenant hustled in, accompanied by a pair of spacers. She tapped her bracer and the sled drifted toward the floor. The spacers began loading it with cases of ammunition.

  Two more spacers joined them soon after, and among them they soon had the sled loaded. A couple of handles swung up from the sides of the grav sled and a pair of spacers guided it into the corridor. By this time most of Tom's team was gathered behind him. Swanson came hurrying around the corner in time to almost bark her shins on the sled. She moved, panting, to join the others behind Tom.

  The lieutenant swept her gaze over the group, then looked at Tom. "Are you loading Bravo Gun?"

  He nodded.

  "Better keep up, then. You can have the sled when we unload."

  Tom and his team trouped along behind the others as they guided the sled to the spine, then jogged the length of the spine with the sled whirring along beside them. Gun Station Alpha had its own magazine, a mirror image of Bravo's. A couple of spacers popped open the top of an ammo case, then lifted it and fit the open top into a slot in the magazine's forward bulkhead. The others quickly unloaded the sled.

  "It's all yours," the lieutenant said. Tom nodded, then hurried to keep up with Swanson and Haskell as they steered the sled aft.

  The team was unloading the sled at Bravo Gun's magazine when Boudreau arrived. He watched them work for a moment, then said, "You may as well stop. You'll just have to take all that ammunition back to the aft magazine."

  Swanson and Nguyen froze with a case in their hands, glanced at Tom, then set the case back on the sled.

  "There's not much point in continuing," Boudreau went on. "The drill is over. It's been over for several minutes, in fact." He looked at his bracer. "According to the ship's AI, Alpha Team had the first ammo case in place in nine minutes, seventeen seconds. It took you over twenty-two minutes." His lip curled. "And here you are, still loading the magazine. Disgraceful."

  Tom said, "But, Sir, the sled is keyed to-"

  "I'm not interested in your excuses." The look Boudreau gave Tom silenced him immediately. "Only results." His gaze swept across the team. "This won't look good on any of your records. Ultimately the responsibility lies with your supervising officer, but still, this is very disappointing. If your performance doesn't improve, I'm afraid I'll have to take disciplinary action."

  He strode away, leaving a dismayed silence behind him. Tom stared at Boudreau's retreating shoulders, seething. He wanted to argue, to protest. To call the First Officer a shit rat and a buffoon. But the ugly truth was, the injustice of it truly didn’t matter. A shit rat Boudreau might be, but he was no buffoon. He knew perfectly well how the drill was structured. Arguing would be a waste of breath, and as for telling him off? It would delight Boudreau. A nice charge of insubordination would be just what he needed to sink Tom's career.

  "We still have to take back our shells." It was the lieutenant from Alpha Team, standing in the short corridor between the guns, the corners of her mouth quirking up in a smirk. "Would you mind picking up the pace?"

  Chapter 12

  "I want you to go to Operations," Brady said, "and supervise the replacement of the scanner relay system. The team has to be ready to change it out quickly in case it ever takes damage during battle. But you're going to do it slowly. It's delicate equipment, and it's expensive as hell."

  Tom nodded, clearing the tabletop in the corner of the wardroom where he'd been studying fuel consumption and distribution. He hadn't learned much. His thoughts kept wandering to the gun drill and the utter impossibility of meeting Boudreau's target. "I'm on it, Ma'am."

  He found Operations nearly empty. The room was only really manned during drills and combat, providing redundancy in case of a strike to the bridge.

  O'Reilly sat with his elbows resting on the helm station, which was deactivated. A young woman stood beside him, chatting. Both of them straightened up when Tom entered. O'Reilly said, "Lieutenant Thrush, Spacer Chan."

  "Hello, Sir," said Chan. Tom nodded.

  "Lieutenant Brady says we're changing the scanner relays," O'Reilly said. With one foot he nudged a toolbox on the deck by his chair. "It doesn't take very many tools, but I brought a few things."

  Over the next ten minutes they took apart a console along the forward bulkhead. O'Reilly, who had clearly done it before, took the lead without seeming to, delicately allowing Tom to pretend he was in charge. Tom watched everything he did and helped when he could.

  Chan asked endless questions, which Tom appreciated because it allowed him to listen to the answers without having to ask himself. Among the three of them they disassembled a console and exposed a confusing welter of electronic components.

  It crossed Tom's mind as he unscrewed a protective plate and lifted it out that perhaps he shouldn't be doing manual labor with the crew. Wouldn't a real officer stand back and supervise, letting the enlisted crew do the work? It seemed disrespectful, though – even rude – to stand back and do nothing when he could help. So he pitched in, followed O'Reilly's tactful suggestions, and helped expose the scanner relays.

  "This is the tricky part," said O'Reilly, pointing at the inside of the console. "We need to get all four crystals out at once, and we need to do it without bending the filaments that connect them."

  Four fist-sized crystals lay nestled in a framework inside the console, each connected to the others by a hair-thick strand of wire a couple of centimeters long.

  "Chan, could you hold the case?" O'Reilly said. "The lieutenant and I will lift out the crystals, and you can slide the ca
se underneath."

  "Right," Tom said, and grabbed the first crystal.

  "Don't-"

  Tom snatched his hand back.

  O'Reilly said, "You can't – that is, it's not a good idea to touch the crystals with bare skin."

  Tom looked at his fingertips, suddenly worried. Had he touched something corrosive?

  "They're incredibly delicate," O'Reilly said. "Skin oils will damage them. A fingerprint on the side of the crystal can be enough to make it unusable." He knelt and drew two pairs of thin gloves from the toolbox. "We should wear these."

  Tom, embarrassed, took a pair of gloves from him and pulled them on. "Is the crystal damaged?"

  "It's probably fine." O'Reilly pulled on his own gloves. "Are you ready, Chan?"

  She lifted a wide plastic case with indentations for all four crystals and nodded.

  This time, Tom didn't touch anything until O'Reilly had taken hold of two crystals. Mimicking him, Tom took hold of the remaining two crystals. Slowly, delicately, they lifted all four crystals out and raised them straight up. Chan slid the case beneath their hands, and they lowered the crystals into the case.

  "Great," O'Reilly said. "Now we'll install the replacements." He held his hands up in front of him. "You'll have to open the other case, Chan. Lieutenant Thrush and I can't touch anything while we have the gloves on."

  Tom, who'd been about to scratch his jaw, froze, then copied O'Reilly's pose, standing still with his hands in the air. Chan switched cases, then held the tray of replacement crystals over the exposed console. O'Reilly and Tom lifted out the four crystals, waited while Chan moved the case out of the way, then lowered the crystals into position.

  "There." O'Reilly sighed and tugged at the fingertips of his gloves. "That's the tricky part over with."

  Tom removed his own gloves, and watched as O'Reilly packed them in a sanitizing case.

  They were reassembling the console when Chan said, "Hello, Lieutenant." Tom glanced over his shoulder and saw Brady in the doorway.

  "Carry on," Brady said. "Don't let me interrupt you."

  It took a minute or so to put the console covers in place. Then the three of them turned to face Brady.

  "Let's test the new relay," she said, and moved to another console. Tom activated the nav console and breathed a quiet sigh of relief when it came to life. "Chan," said Brady. "Please launch a Type II probe."

  Chan moved to yet another station, where she tapped away at a console. "Probe is away."

  "Good," said Brady. "Mr. Thrush, see if you can detect it."

  Tom nodded, took a deep breath, and looked at his console, hoping there wasn't some special technique required to detect something as small as a probe. He scanned for ships, and felt a knot of tension between his shoulder blades release when a yellow circle appeared alongside the Kestrel's hull.

  Brady looked over his shoulder and nodded in satisfaction. "Retrieve the probe," she said to Chan. Then she knelt, picked up the case containing the scanner array they had removed, and carried it to a small counter against the starboard bulkhead. She prodded the top of the case, and half a dozen lights appeared, most of them yellow. She tapped the case one more time, then waited.

  One by one, the lights turned green. When only one light remained yellow, it began to flash, and Tom held his breath.

  The light turned red.

  Brady leaned closer, peering at the top of the case. "It seems one crystal is malfunctioning."

  "I thought the color seemed a bit dark," O'Reilly said smoothly. "I didn't have a chance to log it yet."

  Brady gave him a searching glance. "I see." She looked at Chan. "Is the probe aboard?"

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "Good." Her eyes, dark and inscrutable, came to rest on Tom. "Your performance with the navigation console has improved. You've been practising?"

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "It shows." She looked around the room. "Make sure you stow the tools properly."

  She walked out.

  Tom looked at O'Reilly, unsure what to say. O'Reilly gave him a tiny shrug, then said, "We can take care of the tools, Sir."

  "Very well." Tom hesitated. "Thank you."

  "No problem, Sir." He knelt and began stacking tools in the toolbox. Tom watched him for a moment, then slipped out.

  He found Brady in the boardroom, tapping a data pad. She glanced up at him, returned to her tapping, then set the pad down. She laced her fingers together, met his gaze, and said, "Bee in your bonnet, Lieutenant?"

  "I touched the crystal," he said. "The one that failed. I think I damaged it."

  She nodded. "I thought it was something like that."

  "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I didn't know. I certainly won't do it again."

  Brady shook her head, pursing her lips in a way that suggested she might just be hiding a smile. "It's a bit late for me to yell at you, isn't it? It's been a learning experience for both of us. You learned how to handle scanner crystals, and I learned something about you."

  "You mean, you learned I'm a screwup?" he said bitterly.

  She cocked an eyebrow. "No. I already knew you were a half-bar with no experience. Now I know you're willing to own up to your mistakes, but you're apt to whine about it later."

  Tom flushed.

  Her voice softened. "I also know that the people under you are willing to cover for you when you drop the ball. And that tells me a lot about what kind of officer you're going to be."

  Tom stared at her.

  "We all mess up, Mr. Thrush. Less and less as time goes by, but it will keep happening. Mark my words." She smiled. "Bad officers, and the truly incompetent, usually end up being subtly sabotaged by their subordinates. Run-of-the-mill officers get neutral cooperation. But if they cover for you when you make mistakes? Then I know you're doing something right." Her gaze returned to her data pad. "Take some down time. And when I say 'down time', what I mean is, go study something. Make sure you can find the nearest life pod from anywhere on the ship. I'll test you on it later."

  She ignored him as he quietly let himself out.

  Chapter 13

  The next time General Quarters sounded, Tom had no advance warning. He was in the spine, running toward the aft section, when his bracer chimed. He glanced at the displayed message, unsurprised to read that his team was once again simulating a damaged loading chain. He kept running, but instead of heading for Operations he went to a storage bay on Deck One. He arrived to find Swanson already pulling dollies loose from a rack. They took a dolly each and hurried toward the aft magazine.

  One ammo case would have made a reasonable load for one dolly. They didn't have ten dollies, though, or ten people to move them. So they laid the first dolly flat, stacked three cases on top and strapped them in place.

  It took all six of them to heave the dolly upright. The wheels groaned in protest, and when Tom pushed on the handles, the dolly refused to move. He cursed. "We'll have to do one case at a time." He removed the strap. "Unload it."

  The Alpha Gun team hurried in while Tom's crew was unloading the dolly. He set off with one case on the dolly, watching in mute frustration as the other lieutenant unlocked the grav sled. There was nothing for it but to keep on going.

  He was in the spine, lumbering along with every muscle straining, when the grav sled passed him on the right, whisked along by the vator. The Alpha Gun team passed him on the left, jogging to keep up with the sled. Tom, moving at a slow walking pace, ground his teeth together and kept on going.

  Swanson was a dozen meters behind him, face contorted with strain as she pushed a dolly of her own. Hanson followed her with another dolly. The grav sled and the Alpha Gun team were gone from sight by the time Tom reached the end of the spine, where he found he no longer had the strength to haul his dolly up half a flight of stairs. He waited for Swanson and together they got his dolly up to the next deck, then hers. They went back for Hanson's dolly, then continued on to the forward magazine.

  "Hanson, you take the dollies back. Swanson, help m
e with this." Tom popped open the top of an ammo case and, with Swanson's help, clicked it into place in the loading mechanism.

  The rest of the team was just arriving, each with another case on a dolly, when Boudreau made his appearance. The smile he gave them might have seemed sincere if you didn't look too closely. "Sixteen minutes, six seconds," he said, looking ostentatiously at his bracer. "That's quite an improvement. The other team was finished in just under ten minutes, however." He clicked his tongue. "I'm afraid that's the time you would have had to beat to avoid an official reprimand."

  Boudreau looked at each of them in turn. "The task seems simple enough, and yet you continue to fail to meet simple requirements. Perhaps I haven't been clear." He spent a moment tapping at his bracer. "I'm sending you all a formal written notification. You will have one more drill in two days' time. I expect you to have the magazine loaded in less than ten minutes from the first alarm."

  His eyes hardened. "If you should fail, you will each receive a Class Three reprimand." His lip curled. "That's one of the new designations created for us by the United Worlds Armed Forces. It means the reprimand will remain on your record for twelve months." He shook his head, as if disgusted to be using United Worlds protocols. "In addition, since you clearly need further training, you'll forfeit your shore leave when we reach Garnet, and spend the duration repeating this drill."

  Boudreau left, and Tom stared after him, feeling hollow. His anger and frustration were gone, replaced by a strange emptiness. He was exhausted and aching from the labor of moving so much ammunition by hand, and utterly discouraged by the pointless futility of it all.

  "Well, that's great," Haskell said. "No shore leave." He glanced at Tom, his expression blank. It didn't take much imagination to fill in the accusation that had to be there. This is your fault. No one spoke the words aloud, but they had to be thinking it. Boudreau is after you, and we all get to suffer as a result.

  I'm sorry. The apology, impossible to say aloud, seemed to lodge itself in Tom's throat where it threatened to choke him. He opened his mouth a couple of times. When he finally spoke he said, "Take five. We'll wait for the grav sled before we take all the ammunition back."