Rumors of War

by Jake Elwood

Unger shook his head slowly, his expression full of doubt.

  "I promise you," Tom said, "if he gets out of line, you can shoot him. In the meantime, I want you to take him at his word."

  "All right, Sir."

  "Stand down for now," Tom said. "The drill is pretty much over." He gestured to O'Reilly and they continued their tour.

  They reached the Engineering section, where they found Sawyer standing by with a squad of technicians. Four marines in firefighting gear waited to one side, and half a dozen spacers lined the starboard bulkhead.

  "We're ready for anything, Sir," Sawyer announced. "I'm used to having twice the crew during Battle Stations, but we can handle anything less than a full-blown catastrophe."

  "Good." Tom indicated the six spacers along the bulkhead. "What's their role?"

  "Grunt labor," she replied. "They're here to pitch in if we take casualties or if we need help hauling equipment, removing wounded, that sort of thing."

  Tom examined the row of spacers. He recognized one of them from the kitchen staff. Another had served as a steward in the wardroom. "Are they trained?"

  She shook her head. "I'd train them if I had the time."

  Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, she didn't have the time for the things she was already doing. "I understand," he said. "All right, I think everyone can stand down."

  As they walked back along the spine O'Reilly said, "I'm sorry, Captain."

  He sounded utterly miserable, and Tom turned to him in surprise. "For what, O'Reilly?"

  "I've never been a First Officer before." He lifted his hands helplessly. "I thought I knew what I was doing. But I never noticed we didn't have enough gun crews. I didn't realize nobody knew what to do."

  A handful of tired spacers went by, returning to their bunks after the drill. Tom waited until they were past, then said, "I dropped you in the soup with no warning. The same thing happened to me." He gestured ahead of them at more crew, trudging down the corridor. "It happened to them. It happened to all of us."

  The spacers straightened up as they went by, nodding respectfully when Tom glanced at them. They looked exhausted, and he wished he could spare them drills that got them up in the middle of their sleep cycle. It was necessary, though, and he would be doing it again.

  "You made mistakes," he said. "I made mistakes. It's been a rich crop of blunders all around." He chuckled. "I'll tell you what. I'll be sure to get angry with you when you're the only one dropping the ball."

  "Fair enough," O'Reilly said, and gave him a tired smile.

  "Let somebody else take the helm for a while," Tom said. "Clean up the duty roster and assignments. Oh, and see if some of the marines can train Sawyer's grunt laborers. The marines all have training in dealing with shipboard emergencies. But they're not as busy as Sawyer and her people are."

  O'Reilly nodded and made a note.

  "Try to get in a nap, too. I need you alert. We're doing another battle stations drill in six hours."

  By the third day the bulk of the repairs were done and tension levels across the whole ship began to drop. Tom left the bridge and took a stroll through the corridors of the forward section, passing a couple of spacers who looked downright relaxed. They don't even have racoon eyes, he thought. That's good. I don't want to reach Argo with a frazzled crew already at the end of their ropes.

  He was starting to relax himself, imagining the blissful state of his crew, when the sound of raised voices brought all his stress flooding back. Someone was shouting in the mess hall. He hurried forward, looked inside, and saw a pair of marines eating quietly at a corner table. The shouting came from farther aft. It had to be even louder than he'd thought.

  When he opened the doors to the kitchen a wave of sound hit him, a man and a woman shouting at the tops of their lungs. A handful of kitchen staff stood near the coolers, watching something deeper in the kitchen. Tom pushed past them and stepped around the first cooler.

  A man and a woman stood nose to nose, screaming into each other's faces. The man was a pirate, short and wiry, barely half the mass of the woman in front of him. She wore an apron and hair net, a smear of flour on her nose startlingly white against the deep red of her face. Her arms waved as she shouted, a spatula in one hand occasionally clanking on the oven beside her.

  Tom thought about trying to out-shout them and quickly realized neither one of them would hear a word. He looked at the watching kitchen staff. One man had a ladle in his hand. Tom plucked it from him and thumped the woman on the side of the head.

  She spun, outraged, lifted her spatula like a sword – then went comically slack-jawed as she recognized him. She stepped back and he advanced on the wiry pirate, lifting the ladle for another blow.

  The pirate's shouting voice trailed off. The man backed away a step, his eyes on the ladle.

  Tom tossed the ladle to the man he'd taken it from, then positioned himself between the two combatants. Both of them panted for breath. The woman looked a bit shamefaced. The man just looked wary.

  "The next person to raise their voice goes to the brig," Tom said. Is that clear?"

  The woman said, "Yes, Sir." The pirate stared at Tom for a moment, then nodded.

  "Now." He turned to the woman. "What's this about?"

  Her face collapsed into surly lines, her embarrassment vanishing. "This ill-mannered goat came in here and said we were trying to poison him!" She gestured around the kitchen. "We've lost most of the kitchen staff. I'm the only one left from before the nuke. And I wasn't even a cook. I sliced vegetables and did cleanup." She indicated the other three. "They were stewards and laundry staff. No kitchen experience. They're slow." She made a frustrated gesture, almost hit Tom with the spatula, and hastily set it down. "We're all slow. We barely know how the ovens work. And we're cooking for all these people."

  One hand came up, her palm pressing briefly against her forehead. "There's only four of us for the whole ship. We're working around the clock. We barely sleep." She turned her head, giving the pirate a look that should have scorched his shirt. "And this … this knuckle-dragging oaf comes slinking in here and tells me the food isn't good enough for his delicate palate!"

  Tom turned to the pirate, who looked abashed. He drooped under Tom's scrutiny. "Sorry, Captain," he mumbled. "But the food is pretty bad. They gave me this plate of … I don't even know what it was. But it was burned around the outside, and all pink in the middle, and I think it might have been chicken." He glanced at the woman, his expression hardening. "You can't serve under-cooked chicken, or you'll have half the crew down with food poisoning."

  She bristled. "I'd like to see you try running a kitchen, you smug know-it-all!"

  "I do run a kitchen," he snapped, his voice beginning to rise. "I cook on the Free Bird, and I serve decent food, too!"

  Her chest expanded as she took a deep breath. Before she could start her tirade Tom put his hand, palm-out, a couple of centimeters in front of her nose. That startled her into silence.

  "Don't make me send you to the brig," he said. "Not when the kitchen is under-staffed." He turned to the pirate. "What's your name?"

  "Bridger," the man said. "Captain, I just wanted to-"

  "You're right, Bridger," Tom said. "A ship-wide case of food poisoning would be a catastrophe." He turned as the woman opened her mouth. "And you're right, too. The kitchen is badly under-staffed. And none of you have the training you need." She gave him a hurt look, and he hastened to add, "That isn't your fault. You've been doing your best."

  Tom looked past her at the rest of the kitchen staff. All four of them looked frazzled and spent. "All of you have been doing your best. I put you in an impossible situation and you rose to the occasion magnificently."

  The kitchen crew looked at one another, then back at Tom.

  "However, it's time you had some help. Experienced help." He turned to face Bridger, whose face drooped in dismay and dawning realization. "That's where you come in, Bridger."

  "Now, hold on!" Tom waited while th
e man thought for a moment, some of the dismay leaving his face. "Actually," Bridger said at last, "that might not be so bad."

  "I'm glad you think so," Tom said dryly, "because I'm not offering you a choice." He looked at the woman in the apron. "He's got skill and knowledge. And he'll work hard. You'll be able to get more sleep."

  She nodded dubiously.

  Tom turned to Bridger. "These people have been working harder than you ever worked in a kitchen in your life. They deserve your respect. And they'll benefit from your leadership."

  Bridger nodded.

  "Then it's settled. Bridger, you're in the kitchen from now on. The rest of you will assist him. But first, I think some apologies are in order."

  "I shouldn't have screamed at you," Bridger said immediately. "I thought you didn't care." He squirmed a little. "I was wrong."

  "I … overreacted," the woman said. "I'm really short of sleep. And I'm used to working with my friends." Her face began to crumple as she said, "But they're all dead."

  "All right, take a break," Tom said. He gestured at the woman and her three companions. "All four of you. Take a few hours." He glanced at his bracer, checking the time. "Come back at fourteen hundred. Get some rest." He looked at Bridger. "In the meantime, you can familiarize yourself with the kitchen."

  "Right." Bridger's attention was already drifting toward the ovens. Tom slipped out of the kitchen and continued on his way.

  Chapter 25

  By the time they ran their fifth Battle Stations drill, every member of the crew knew their duty station and reached it quickly. Tom ran some gunnery drills, and the marines outperformed the Navy gunners so thoroughly that he assigned a marine to every gun battery. He ran some disaster simulation drills, and after a few hiccups the crew learned to handle every mock crisis he could throw at them. As far as he could tell, they were as ready as they would ever be.

  It was his fourth day as captain.

  Early on the fifth day, just after midnight by the ship's clock, the Kestrel slid out of hyperspace on the fringe of the Argo system. A quick scan showed no other ships, but Onda looked up from the Communications console and said, "Incoming message from the Free Bird."

  "This is Lambert," said a woman's voice. "We've been scanning the system for just over nine hours now. There's no sign of any ship traffic."

  "Have you been in touch with Sunshine Base?"

  "No, Captain. We thought it would be best to wait for you."

  "Stand by," said Tom. He glanced at the Tactical console. Harris had his eyes glued to the screens, his fingers tapping at the console as he ran scans. There was no need to ask if he'd seen anything; he would certainly speak up.

  "Onda. Contact Sunshine. Tell them we need to talk to whoever's in charge."

  The man nodded, tapped his console, and murmured into a microphone. "I've got an Administrator Pelletier."

  Tom introduced himself, then said, "Have you seen any sign of Dawn Alliance activity here, Administrator?"

  "No, Captain." The man sounded distracted and annoyed. "The DA doesn't come to Argo. Now, if you don't mind, I'm a busy man."

  "You're about to get busier," Tom said grimly. "O'Reilly, bring us in close to Argo." Then he told Pelletier about the outbreak of war. "You need to evacuate Sunshine immediately," he said. "You're lucky the DA isn't here already."

  "That's ridiculous!" The administrator sounded offended by the very suggestion. "We can't evacuate! It's out of the question."

  "Do you know how the Dawn Alliance treats prisoners?" Tom demanded.

  Pelletier scoffed. "We won't be prisoners. Honestly, Captain, you're being alarmist."

  "Half my crew is dead," Tom snapped. "Don't tell me I'm being alarmist."

  "What did you call yourself?" the man said. "Acting Captain? I'd like to talk to your real commanding officer."

  "I'm in command of this ship," Tom said, struggling for calm. "Captain Nishida is dead. Because we're at war. Because the Dawn Alliance is using nukes. Which is why you need to evacuate."

  "They won't nuke us! Don't be preposterous. There are accords!"

  That left Tom sputtering in disbelief, staring in the direction of the approaching planet. "Have you even heard a word I've said?"

  "I've heard quite enough," Pelletier said primly. "I was in a rather important meeting when you interrupted me. Now, I'm very glad your ship is finally here, although it's late. We'll be glad to receive our cargo. I'm sure that whatever is happening with the Dawn Alliance will blow over. These things always do. In the meantime, I'll thank you not to trouble me any further with your reactionary nonsense."

  The connection broke with an audible click.

  Tom spent a moment just staring through the forward window. "Is he for real?"

  "Civilians," O'Reilly said with a shake of his head. "What do we do now, Captain?"

  "We get into orbit, and we go down in a shuttle," said Tom. "We start telling people in person that the clock is ticking and they need to get out of here." He looked at Onda. "Call the Free Bird. Tell them to land at the station. They're to take on as many passengers as they can and leave immediately for Garnet." He rose from his seat. "Mr. O'Reilly, you have the ship. I'm going to the shuttle bay."

  Tom took a pair of marines with him to bolster his authority, and piloted the shuttle himself. In truth the shuttle AI did pretty much everything, but he was ready at the controls in case of problems. They descended through the thin, hazy atmosphere of Argo toward Sunshine Base.

  The planet had very little to recommend it, other than a gravity just over ninety percent of Earth-normal. That would have been enough to make it a candidate for terraforming, but a cycle of lethal solar flares erupting from the local star every decade or so meant that life could never take root. Argo had been passed over during the great wave of terraforming in the Green Zone.

  The atmosphere, mostly inert gases, held little oxygen. Tom expected to wear an air mask as he walked from the shuttle to the station, but when Sunshine Base came into view he saw a couple of large ships parked on concrete landing pads with flexible tunnels connecting them to the domes of the station.

  He recognized one ship immediately. The Spring Sunshine, the freighter targeted by the Free Bird, stood on her tail beside the base.

  The base consisted of six small domes with a larger central dome in the center, all of them connected by covered tunnels. From above it all looked bleak and functional and colorless, and Tom shook his head, glad he'd grown up on a world where you could go outside.

  His console flashed as the shuttle received instructions from the Sunshine AI. Tom's fingers twitched with the urge to take control, but he made himself sit back. It galled him to admit it, but the shuttle could land itself more deftly than he could. You have enough on your plate, he told himself. You don't need to worry about piloting too.

  Those freighters should be lifting off, he thought as the shuttle descended. He wanted to believe that refugees were streaming aboard while the crew warmed up the engines, but he suspected nothing of the sort was happening.

  The shuttle touched down in the middle of a yellow circle just beyond one of the smaller domes. Tom was reaching for the air mask stored under his seat when something moved on the landing pad outside. He watched, startled, as curved sheets of polymer rose from a gap in the concrete. The sides of a small dome rotated upward, a quarter of a sphere coming up on either side, rising and turning until the shuttle was completely enclosed. The shuttle's running lights came on automatically as the dome closed above them, blocking out the sun.

  "Interesting," Tom muttered, and moved to the main hatch. The hatch display showed the pressure rising outside as station air flooded in. When the reading stabilized, the oxygen content was a bit low but still breathable.

  Tom opened the hatch.

  The two marines, Unger and a woman named Lachance, rose and followed as he stepped down onto the landing pad. A hatch set into the concrete slid open, outlined by strip lights, and Tom led the way down a staircase and
into an underground tunnel.

  The tunnel rose a few meters later and they entered the nearest dome of Sunshine Base. They ascended into a broad corridor. A man and a woman strolled past, nodding and saying a polite "Hello" as they went by. These were not panicky people in the middle of an evacuation. These were people with no idea how much danger they were in.

  The corridor ran laser-straight through the dome and into the connecting tunnel to the main central dome. Tom kept walking, noting that the ceiling changed, curving to match the shape of the covered tunnel he had seen from above. The base was a good deal more pleasant on the inside, the walls done in soft pastel colors, the tunnel lined with planters. By Earth standards it wasn't much, but compared to shipboard life it was quite nice.

  Too bad they would have to leave it all behind.

  He estimated the smaller domes to be about twenty meters across. The main dome was more than twice as wide. When he walked through an open hatch into the main dome, he couldn't tell if his estimate was correct. He was in a corridor that could have been part of almost any ship or building. He kept walking, passing more people, all of them calm, unconcerned, oblivious.

  He came at last to the heart of the dome. Now, for the first time, he could see the structure of the dome itself. A pleasant, airy plaza filled the middle of the dome, the ceiling rising to a dizzying height above. He could see the curve of the dome's roof through the obscuring branches of an enormous elm tree planted right in the center of Sunshine Base. Benches and strips of grass surrounded the trunk of the tree, with shops and cafés in a ring around the little park. It was a lovely scene, spoiled only somewhat by a 3D projector showing a burly man with a plasma guitar playing zip-hop.

  "That's Fred Nebula," Lachance said. "These people may be idiots, but you can't fault their taste in music."

  Tom ignored her, looking around the plaza. A couple of dozen people were in sight, loitering on benches or sitting at tables in front of the café. He looked in vain for any sort of authority figure. I guess I'm it.

  Three quick strides brought him to a picnic table under the branches of the tree. Ignoring the man and woman who sat there, he climbed onto the table, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, "Hey!"