Conqueror

by Richard Tongue

  “Two hours. They let us sleep for two hours,” he muttered. “Everything aches.”

  “I have a feeling that’s the idea,” she replied, tugging on her boots, quickly looking at herself in the wall mirror to make sure she hadn’t embarrassed herself too much by sleeping in half of her uniform. “Come on, sleepy head, they said on the double, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” the weary cadet replied, struggling to his feet. Bradley reached for a half-drunk cup of coffee, taking the bitter dregs in a single gulp, as grateful for the brief boost of energy as she was resentful of the foul taste on her tongue. Still waiting for her comrade, she called up the deckplan, going over the fastest route to the hangar deck, then stepping out into the corridor.

  “Hurry up, damn it, I don’t want a black mark on my first full day on board.”

  “One second,” Gordon replied, struggling with his boots. Shaking her head, Bradley left without him, setting a brisk pace as she walked through the corridors, trying to remember her hastily-scanned instructions. They’d spent the bulk of the first day wandering around the ship on a series of obviously manufactured errands, getting to know their way around, the internal layout of the vessel, followed by a safety briefing that had obviously been as tedious to the officer in charge as it had been to those in the audience. Finally, they’d sat in on the first of the squadron round tables, the pilots and maintenance technicians talking over any problems they expected to face during the course of their mission.

  It had been fascinating, but none of it had been especially surprising. They’d almost been left to themselves for large sections of the day, her father’s prediction that most of the senior staff would be too busy to deal with them turned into unfortunate reality. She hastened down the corridor, Gordon running after her, struggling to catch up as she stepped into a waiting elevator, the doors almost sliding shut on the tardy cadet.

  “That was close,” he said. “You could have held the doors for me.”

  “Sure I could,” she replied with a faint smile, “but I figured you’d probably just about make it in time.”

  “Probably?” he asked, shaking his head. The doors slid open, and they walked out onto the hangar deck, a pair of shuttles sitting proudly in front of the launch tubes with a cluster of technicians working on pre-flight, a frowning officer supervising while another in a white uniform benignly looked on.

  “Six minutes, ten seconds,” the first officer said, shaking her head. “I could have been down here in three.”

  “No excuse, ma’am,” Bradley replied, before Gordon could interrupt.

  “Come on, Teri, be a little kind to them,” the second officer replied. “It’s their first day.”

  “The cadet was quite right, Doctor. There is no excuse.” She turned to them, and said, “I am Sub-Lieutenant Bishop, and your people have kindly lent the two of you to us for the purposes of this exercise.” Nodding at the white uniformed man, she added “This is Doctor Farrell, our Medical Officer. Now, tell me, Cadet Gordon, what is so special about the two shuttles sitting here on the deck?”

  “Both of them are equipped for search and rescue missions, ma’am,” Gordon replied.

  “Part of the answer, but not all of it. How about you, Bradley. Care to take a try?”

  Bradley looked over the ships for a few seconds, then said, “They haven’t been flight-tested, ma’am. Both have just completed a maintenance cycle, and they need to be taken up for a spin before they can be approved for field use.”

  “How…,” Gordon began, forgetting himself for a moment.

  “The paintwork around the engine venturi is fresh. There’s always some wear, no matter how carefully you launch. It’s designed that way, one of the tells a pilot can use to evaluate the suitability of his ship for launch. An old tradition.”

  “Indeed,” Bishop said. “Cadet Gordon, you will provide me with a thousand-word essay on how that tradition originated, to be prepared in twenty-four hours from now. Cadet Bradley, I will expect an essay of the same length on launch control procedures related to search-and-rescue shuttles. They’d better be good.” Standing at parade rest, she added, “Commander Murphy has decided that now is the time to test the shuttles in action. Given that regulations require the presence of a member of the Aerospace Force for such a flight, and given also that most of your squadron is still trying to coax your fighters into some sort of life, the two of you have drawn the assignment.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Gordon said.

  “Don’t get the idea you’re going to be flying anything today, Cadet. Your role will be as an observer, no more.” She looked at Gordon with a smile, and added, “I bet you’ve been hoping that they’ll call you ‘Flash’, right?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Christ, don’t they educate you kids anymore?” Shaking her head, she said, “Bradley, you get the co-pilot’s seat on One. I’ll fly her myself. Doctor Farrell will ride in the back with Gordon. That understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bradley replied.

  “You can swap seats when we test Two. This should be over soon enough, then you can get back to your beauty sleep. And here’s a hint, as well. Best not to crash in your uniform unless we’re actually at war with someone. The Exec sleeps with the Field Service Regulations under his pillow, and both of you are picking a fast way to a bad mark on your Form Thirty-Twos. I suggest you change when we get back.” She turned to the shuttle, then said, “Well, are the two of you waiting for a signed invitation? Hustle!”

  Bradley climbed into the cockpit, stepping over the pilot’s couch to slide into her own position, quickly inserting her biometric key to adapt the console to her physical specifications, the controls moving into her chosen positions for ease of use. She pulled on her restraints with one hand, her other reaching up to fire up the pre-flight sequence, the monitors bursting into life as reports streamed all around her.

  “A little cavalier, aren’t you, cadet?” Bishop asked, frowning as she moved to take the helm. “Just how many hours have you got on Wayfarer-class shuttles?”

  “Just over a thousand, ma’am,” she replied, enjoying the brief flash of surprise on her face. “I did my first solo on this design, and I had a weekend job flying orbital payloads for one of my aunt’s friends.”

  “You’re eighteen, right?”

  “I got my license the day after my sixteenth birthday, ma’am. I logged as many hours as I could, weekends and holidays. I’ve only gone beyond LCO a few times, though, and not as pilot-in-command. He mostly did orbital salvaging. I’ve got about as much EVA time as well.” She reached down to the sensor controls, nodding in satisfaction, and said, “Pre-flight checks complete, board green.”

  “I suppose you think this is my cue to let you take the helm, show what you can do, then?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m here to learn, and I’ve only ever hauled freight before. I’ve never flown search and rescue operations for real, and I’m aware that it takes more than raw skill to make it as a pilot.”

  Frowning, Bishop asked, “Let me guess. Your father’s in the service.”

  She paused, nodded, and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And his name is a secret, presumably. I didn’t recognize your last name….”

  “Squadron Leader Jack Winter, ma’am.”

  “Winter?” Bishop replied, raising an eyebrow. “Now that is a rather more familiar name. Six generations, right?”

  Bradley took her hands of the controls, turned to the officer, and said, “May I speak freely, ma’am?”

  “I suppose I don’t have a choice but to grant permission.”

  With a thin smile, the cadet replied, “My father and I aren’t as close as either of us would like, and while I am fully aware of the deeds of my ancestors and am suitably proud of their accomplishments, I am my own person. I took my mother’s name when my parents divorced, largely because even then I wanted a career in the Aerospace Force, and because I knew that my surname would have repercus
sions. My father suffered badly in his first few years because some of his mother’s friends were too protective, too overtly helpful, and I had no wish to experience the same problems.”

  “I see.”

  “Further, ma’am, if I may, I spent enough time with both of my parents and a pretty good psychiatrist when I was a kid, and I’ve managed to work out most of the emotional problems, at least to my satisfaction. I’m afraid you’re going to have to find some other way to see how I react under pressure. This isn’t going to work.” She looked at Bishop for a moment, nervous that she might have pushed the officer too far, but her risk was rewarded with a smile and a deep laugh, the young officer clapping Bradley on the back with a shake of her head.

  “I think you already passed that particular test, Cadet. I wouldn’t recommend pulling something like this with Lieutenant Abbott, but not all of us are made of quite such rigid stuff.” She turned to the controls, then said, “I knew who your father was before you reported on board, and I had a look at your public flight log as well. Pretty impressive for someone your age, though I’m glad at least that you admit you don’t know it all.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “One of our objectives during this cruise is to run some SAR simulations. We’re meeting up with a transport in ten days, and we’ll be using her to run maneuvers. If you perform well enough, I’ll let you take one of the shuttles out as a part of it. That’s the carrot. The stick is that I’m going to work you ten times harder than I otherwise might. I want you to get something worthwhile out of this flight, whatever it takes. I hope you aren’t afraid of hard work.”

  “And Cadet Gordon, ma’am?”

  “He’ll get the same chance as you. I’d appreciate if you didn’t warn him about my little psychological trick beforehand. Just so you know, I tossed a coin to decide which of you rode up here first. His record’s good as well. Though I’d expect nothing less from the top two candidates of the year.” She threw a control, and said, “We have launch clearance. Keep an eye on the starboard thrusters. I had to put her into the maintenance cycle early, they kept throwing up cautionary warnings. Lieutenant Weber’s crews claim that they’ve fixed them, but I’ll be a lot happier after a clean flight test.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bradley replied, calling up the relevant monitor screens. She tapped the controls, showing the fuel feed as power surged to the systems, running a series of quick diagnostics as Bishop guided the shuttle carefully out into space, not using the magnetic catapult but simply letting her ship gently drift free, firing a few quick bursts from the throttles to build up enough speed to clear the hull.

  “I’m taking her out a thousand miles before we start, give us some good distance in case we get any misfires. I was on Theseus when a rookie officer tried something like this. The ship ended up in orbital dock for a week repairing the hull, and last I heard that officer was working for Public Relations. The guy who wears the goat costume and tours schools? Not how I’d like my career to end up.”

  “I figured that was an actor,” Bradley replied.

  “Passed-over Sub-Lieutenants are a lot cheaper.”

  The shuttle’s engines fired in a series of short bursts, and Bradley looked up at the sensor display, spotting a trio of contacts appearing on the trajectory plot. Her hands quickly danced across the controls, and she quickly identified them as three Scimitar fighters from the squadron she was meant to be shadowing, engaging in formation flying.

  “They’re doing their shakedown tests as well,” Bishop said. “Though they ought to have been back by now.” Frowning, she said, “This is SAR One to Red Flight. Request status.” She paused, then repeated, “SAR One to Red Flight. Request status. Reply at once. Reply at once.”

  “Red Flight Leader to SAR One. All systems nominal. Just running a little behind. No problems here. Out.”

  “Flight Officer Haynes is a little snippy today,” Doctor Farrell said, climbing into the cramped cockpit. “She’s up for a promotion if this mission goes well. Way I heard it, she’s going to make damn certain it does.”

  “Ma’am?” Bradley said, “I might be reading this wrong, but it looks to me as though Red Two is pushing her engines pretty hard. Above specifications. There could be some sort of problem with the fuel feed.”

  “Yeah, I see it too,” Bishop replied. “SAR One to Red Two. Any problems?”

  “Red Flight Leader breaking in. Any communications with my formation should properly come through me.”

  “Heat buildup, ma’am,” Bradley warned. “Rising rapidly, already above safe limits. I think she’s trying to ride the throttle to keep up, but she’s going to lose the battle any time now if she doesn’t ease up a little.”

  “SAR One to Red Flight Leader. Take a look at the telemetry from Red Two. If you don’t order her to reduce speed and prepare to accept a tow back to the barn, I’m going to declare an emergency and give that order myself. Do I make myself understood, Flight Officer?”

  There was a brief pause, and the harsh voice replied, “Vasquez, can you get your beast back to the barn?”

  “I think so, ma’am. Feed’s running hot, but…”

  “She might think she can, but I don’t,” Bishop interjected. “Nor would I clear her for a landing in her ship’s current condition. She needs to proceed into a holding pattern, kill her engines, and let me bring her in. After which our maintenance teams are going to go over every inch of that fighter with a microscope to make sure there’s nothing else wrong. You’re doing these shakedown checks for a reason. Indicate your compliance.”

  “Understood, SAR One, will comply. Vasquez, kill your engines and prepare to be towed back to the ship. Send all of your reports and readings to Squadron Leader Baxter on the double, and let me know immediately if anything else goes wrong. Sokolov, you and I will head back right away. I’m sure we can leave our wayward bird in the safe hands of Sub-Lieutenant Bishop. Red Flight Leader out.”

  “There goes one promotion,” Farrell said, shaking his head. “I presume you’re going to report this.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re damn right I’m going to report this. I’m getting sick and tired of these flyboys thinking that the rulebooks are filled with suggestions rather than instructions. If one of my shuttle pilots behaved like that, I’d have them grounded in a cold second.” She paused, turned to Bradley, and added, “Present company provisionally excepted.”

  “Thank you for that, ma’am. One thing my Aunt told me was that it was better to be an old pilot than a bold pilot.”

  “Now just who are you calling old, Cadet?” Bishop replied with a smile. “I suppose I owe both you and Gordon an apology. Not only are we going to have to cut this little outing short, but Flight Officer Haynes is going to work out that the two of you were on board, and I wouldn’t put it past her to work out just who was at the sensors when Red Two’s malfunction was spotted. I have a horrible feeling that you just made an enemy.”

  “Don’t sweat it too much, though,” Farrell added. “You made a couple of friends as well. I’d call that a win.”

  Chapter 5

  “Who the hell were they?” the red-faced Station Administrator, Kenneth Ballard, barked. “I blame you for this, Squadron Leader. We had a nice, peaceful station until you showed up. I am responsible for the lives of eight hundred people on a near-defenseless outpost, and I will not put them at jeopardy so that you can play some sort of crazy war games.” He paused, turned to Drake, and added, “I thought you were in charge of security?”

  “I am, sir, and I dealt with the problem as rapidly as possible.” Pulling out a datapad, he added, “As to the identity of the dead men, all of them matched records we’ve got of active members of the CFA. Several of them have already served time in detention back on Tartarus, and one of them was under surveillance by Extrasolar Intelligence before he managed to slip off-world last month.” He slid his datapad across the table, tapping a control to play a video, the soundtrack garish, old-fashioned music. “They we
re going to release that, to take responsibility for this act against their oppressors. I guess they never had a chance to upload it. We got there first.”

  “Oppressors?” Ballard asked. “What the hell are they talking about? Why would the Colonial Freedom Army strike this station? I can’t remember the last time we even had a ship in from Tartarus.”

  “That might be precisely the reason,” Winter replied. “This station represented a soft target. My suspicion is that the video was a backup plan, in case something went wrong. They were probably more interested in stealing military-grade hardware. My Flight Engineer has completed an inventory, and there is a lot of missing equipment. There was a full status check just two months ago, and I’ve already spoken to the officer involved who confirmed that all of it was in place at that time.” He paused, then added, “I would reluctantly recommend that you undertake a full identity verification sweep of all personnel on this station, as rapidly as possible.”

  “Do you have any idea what that would involve?” Ballard said, shaking his head. “We don’t have anything like the money in the contingency budget for a sweep like that, not to mention the effect on this station’s public image. We’re trying to attract investment for new enterprises, and something like this…”

  “I would have thought,” Drake interrupted, “that you could use it as a selling point, based on the rapid response to the crisis and the through security measures implemented as a result. Besides, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

  Frowning, Ballard asked, “You’re a reserve officer, right?”

  “At the moment, but I was on the active list for five years. I only went reserve six months ago.”