by Brian Smith
The two men met on the pier, grinning broadly, and exchanged a heartfelt embrace, slapping one another on the back. This was the first time they’d seen each other in person since Ashburn had shipped out in HMS Vanguard as the VXS-1 detachment’s officer-in-charge.
Kusaka looked fit and strong, not at all bowed or weak—he’d fully acclimated to Terran gravity, both on Terra and in the artificially produced Terran gravity at Ross Station. He introduced his female companion as Tottori Miko, the daughter of one of Japan’s most successful billionaire technologists and venture capitalists. Miko’s father was Kusaka’s principal financial partner in Federov-Kusaka Technologies. From the animated, awestruck way Kusaka had talked up Miko to his best friend over the past several months, Ashburn knew the partnership was destined to become a familial one soon.
Leaving the luggage to paid porters, the three of them retired quickly to the nearby resort, which Ashburn had been enjoying for the past week and a half. Both men had worked tirelessly and almost nonstop since the war had begun; this was their first real breather in months. Ashburn was still assigned to VXS-1 on Luna but had some decisions to make about his future. The Dogstar detachment was back at Ross, where engineers were poring over the performance put in by the craft in the Saturnian system and wondering how soon it would be before Kusaka’s company rendered it obsolete.
The two friends had a lot to catch up on. They got started in one of the resort’s pools, shaded from an oppressive midday sun in a covered area adjacent to one of the tiki bars. Although well adjusted to Terran gravity now, Kusaka very much enjoyed the g-relieving buoyancy the water offered.
The three of them nursed fruity drinks while Kusaka outlined a slew of future plans that seemed to encompass more than any one person could possibly achieve in a lifetime. When Ashburn said as much, Kusaka just grinned and explained that he was going to have a lot of help along the way.
The patents on just the technology he’d already produced were going to make Kusaka the richest man in the solar system, but he had every intention of paying it forward for the overall benefit of mankind, and then some. As a trustee of the Crandall Foundation, he regarded the matter of sharing his good fortune as an obligation that he owed—a matter of giri.
Trispectrum technology, specifically gravity control and manipulation, would be at the heart of most of the forthcoming technologies. The fusion torch had enjoyed its brief era of predominance in the field of human propulsion and spaceflight, but its time was coming to an end.
Kusaka had plans to license his patents to private firms throughout the solar system in order to prevent damage-producing economic disruptions—the potential was there to collapse entire sectors of various transplanetary economies if the process was poorly handled. Kusaka intended to hire teams of the best experts he could find, in order to ensure that his achievements wrought progress and prosperity rather than ruin. His intentions were so ethically rooted that Ashburn found himself hoping that his friend wouldn’t be too disappointed when the inevitable disruptions occurred anyway.
One of the projects Kusaka was keen on was the introduction of artificial gravity to Martian settlements—at least those that wanted it—as well as settlements in the asteroid belt and on the moons of the Jovian and Saturnian systems. Once trispectrum technology went mainstream, spin-ring habitats were no longer necessary to maintaining long-term human health in space.
Kusaka had already drawn preliminary plans for his sister Mariko, the medical gravity-therapist, to partner with the Chryse Planitia University on Mars. The goal was a program aimed at adapting humans born in low-g environments to gradually transition to life in terrestrial gravity fields. Carter Drayson had suggested that maybe this represented the next major goal the Crandall Foundation was looking for in the fields of medicine and biomedical engineering. Although nobody else had been named to the board of trustees yet, Drayson had hinted strongly that the next candidate would be someone from the medical field. Of course, the idea of filling the shoes of Maria Vasquez was intimidating to say the least.
Kusaka was full of other ideas as well. There was much to be done, based on the technical data to which he had access. He wanted to develop and then commercialize matter/antimatter power generation. Research zero-point energy. Develop force fields like the one OURANIA had placed over Titan. Engineer nonentangled FTL communications based on trispectrum physics. And, finally, the grand prize: FTL propulsion. He still believed it was possible—he was convinced of it, and it was the one thing to which he intended to devote his personal attention while other gifted engineers and scientists headed up his other projects.
In part, that was where Tottori Miko would come in. She had Level-Three credentials in systems engineering, and Level-Four credentials in business administration. She’d learned at her father’s knee, and it was their intent that she would handle most of the “business” side of Federov-Kusaka Technologies, leaving her future husband to actually research and develop the technologies he knew were possible. Her father’s job was to make sure that the funding kept rolling in until the company’s ventures became self-sustaining and, ultimately, profitable.
As if that wasn’t enough, Kusaka also claimed that he eventually wanted to lead an expedition to establish an offworld colony on a viable planet in another star system, achieving the ultimate goal of the Crandall Foundation.
Eventually the conversation came naturally around to Mike Ashburn’s plans. More so than his friend, Mike found himself at something of a crossroads. He’d been in contact with Barsoom Traders—the company would survive long term, and, tentatively speaking, they eventually wanted him back. The problem was that there was no ship to give him. Aside from Gina Jackson, he was the company’s most junior captain. Jackson was firmly established now as Thuvia’s captain and doing a fine job—it wouldn’t have been right for him to try to barge back in and take the ship from her, and in any case that option wasn’t being offered.
Besides, for all that he loved Thuvia, she was a torchship. The future would be in trispectrum vessels, and time logged in torchships wouldn’t count for much when it was time to pick the first crew to go to Alpha Centauri. That dream was still very much alive for all of them; Kusaka and Drayson were adamant about pursuing it, but details as to how and when it was going to happen were all very much in flux.
Even so, Ashburn wasn’t in a hurry to sever that link to his old life: he’d asked the company to consider him to be on an unpaid leave of absence for the time being. When he made his final decision, he’d still have the option of asking the company to buy out his contract and could cut ties.
He’d also learned that the Crandall Academy had been largely destroyed during the war. The PEA had attacked it as a Martian facility with the potential to be converted for military use, despite its proximity to Oasis Habitat. Crandall Field was wiped out, with both the academy itself and the Foundation Annex suffering serious damage and extensive loss of life. The academy was currently a ruin and nonoperational. Most of the facilities (and the entire spaceport complex) needed to be rebuilt, a new staff and student body recruited, and new curriculums developed to teach Tsong-Hyman astrophysics as well as operations and engineering involving Federov-drive-equipped space vessels. Drayson wanted Ashburn for that effort and was offering top dollar to get him on board with the project. As a Crandall alumnus, Ashburn was sorely tempted: it would get him back to Mars, and the Crandall Academy’s mission and the role it filled for the foundation and the commercial spaceflight industry would be even more critical during the coming technological revolution.
It seemed that the navy wanted to keep him as well, at least for a while. Between the fleet’s losses, his work and relationship with Kusaka, and his combat record, he found that his gapped service wasn’t the impediment it might have been otherwise. The CO of VXS-1 wanted to send him through the test-pilot program and then put him up to screen for command of a VX squadron. The general idea was that in time he’d be line to command the entire effort on Ross St
ation. Also tempting, but the same forces in his life that originally lured him away from the naval service were still present, as strong as ever.
The bottom line was that it was nice to have options. He also understood that Kusaka could make use of Ashburn’s talents any number of ways. The idea sort of hung there between them, unspoken, and for good reason: Kusaka was already a foundation trustee, on track to be a captain of industry more powerful and influential than Fedorov, Campbell, and Forester put together. If Ashburn went to work for Kusaka, it would be at a far lower tier—ridiculously lower, in fact. The two men were best friends; neither one wanted that to change, but if Ashburn became a cog in the transplanetary Kusaka-Tottori keiretsu, there didn’t seem to be any way around that fact. After laying out his options, Ashburn asked his friend’s opinion on which of his choices he should pursue.
“All of them,” Miko answered while Kusaka was weighing his response.
“All of them? All at once?” Ashburn joked with a grin.
“No, I’m serious!” Miko explained. “You owe time to your navy, right? So take that test-pilot assignment—it looks great, stacked up next to everything else on your résumé. Then take up Drayson’s offer to head up the Crandall Academy. It’s going to take a year or two to rebuild anyway—the things they need you for don’t come into play until after the infrastructure is in place. Speaking from our perspective, we’re going to need someone at the academy we have close ties to, if it’s going to keep pace with technology and maintain relevance regarding its coursework. That also leaves you free to do some contract work on the side—with us. Federov-Kusaka is a technology company, yes, but at its heart it’s still very much Federov Propulsion Associates. We’re going to be building new craft and new drive systems. We’re going to need test pilots and lage-vessel deck officers with experience. By that time, you’ll be both.”
“She’s right, Mike-san,” Kusaka added, placing his arm around her shoulders with a pleased, affectionate smile. “Such a path would keep you on the leading edge of things. In time, we’ll build the first interstellar ship and go see what’s waiting for us at Rigil Kentaurus. At this point I can’t even imagine your not being a big part of that.”
“Well, it’s a lot to think about,” Ashburn reflected. He grinned again. “I don’t know; after all this sun, sand, ocean, and fresh air, I don’t know if I want to go back to Mars. What about rebuilding the Crandall Academy on Terra?”
“In a few years you could probably commute back and forth if you wanted,” Kusaka said.
“That’s a helluva thing to even consider, isn’t it?” Ashburn said, raising his glass to his friends. “Here’s to the future!”
“To the future!” they echoed.
November 2094 (Terran Calendar)
USS Reuben James
Armstrong Station, Lunar L1 Point
In front of the honored guests and the assembled crew of USS Reuben James, LCDR Dora Purcell, USN, read aloud her orders: “From: Deputy Chief of Naval Personnel. Subject: BUPERS orders. When directed by your reporting senior, you will detach from your current assignment and report to the commanding officer, USS Reuben James, for duty as his relief.”
Purcell stepped away from the podium, faced LCDR James Ford, captain of Reuben James, and saluted smartly. “I relieve you, sir.”
“I stand relieved,” Ford replied, returning her salute.
Just like that, it was over. He was no longer the James’s captain, no longer entitled to be called “skipper” or be the recipient of the dozens of other small perks and conceits that went hand in hand with the ultimate responsibility for command of a U.S. warship. He was just LCDR James Ford again: the most decorated naval officer since the end of the Western Pacific War, with a battle record that historians would be writing about for years to come.
One after the other, both officers turned to their squadron commander. Captain Purcell reported that she had assumed command, and Ford formally reported his relief. He stood off to one side while Purcell stepped back to the podium to make her brief closing remarks, announce that all standing orders would remain in effect, and dismiss the crew from quarters.
Ford used the brief interval to look at his assembled crew one last time. When he’d reported aboard more than two years before as the executive officer, nobody had had any idea what was coming at them. Fewer than half of the original ship’s crew had survived the war, and he felt equal pride for everyone who had finished this journey with him. He had mixed feelings about turning over his command; bigger and better things awaited him, but he felt like he was leaving the best part of himself right here, in the alloy bulkheads of the James and among the spirits of those who had served and died in her. Someone once wrote that there were few who could understand the bond between ships and men; for the first time, Ford felt like he finally understood that.
The change-of-command ceremony ended all too soon. The senior officers departed first, and then Ford. He followed them out with only the slightest hesitation in his step. He’d already held his departing-captain’s inspection: a chance to face every member of his crew one final time, thank them, shake their hands, and wish them well. Until today, he’d rated four side boys, four bells, and was identified as “Reuben James” when he arrived on board or departed the ship: he had been the human embodiment of his command. That prerogative now belonged to Dora Purcell.
Ford formally saluted the in-port OOD, LTJG Amy Tanner, who returned his salute with tears brimming in her eyes.
“Request permission to go ashore,” he said.
“Permission granted, sir,” she replied.
The BMOW rang off two bells, and the announcement was made: “Lieutenant commander, United States Navy, departing.”
***
Guests departed the ship after the official party; Ford loitered around and was eventually joined by Cheryl Ayers and Diane Hutton.
Hutton was looking more like herself again. Not long after Terran forces landed on Mars, she’d been briefly hospitalized, treated for cancer and radiation poisoning, and placed on a regular, healthy diet. She still hadn’t put back on all the weight she’d lost, but her hair was growing out nicely and she looked good. Something broken inside Ford had healed when he’d learned, finally, that she was in fact alive—he was himself again, no longer cold, distant, and dour, as he had been even to his friends. Right now, her smile was all the tonic he needed as she strolled up and folded herself into his embrace.
“Look at you!” she teased him, referring to the ribbons and medals decorating his service dress uniform. “You look like the ruler of a banana republic!”
After 2047, almost every non-combat-related medal had been stricken from the awards list. At the time of the Western Pacific War, the proliferation of military medals and ribbons for “everything under the sun” had grown to the point of public and media ridicule. In modern times, personnel who’d served a full career and seen combat might boast only a ribbon or two on their uniforms.
Ford’s chest now sported a Navy Cross; the Silver Star with a gold star for the second award; a Purple Heart; a Combat Action Ribbon; and a Presidential Unit Citation with a bronze star for the second award. He also wore the First Interplanetary War Medal, with campaign stars awarded for his action at Titan and in connection with the Martian Emancipation. In regular service dress, his “salad bar” would fill two complete rows, a rare sight indeed in this day and age.
The next time he donned this uniform he’d have to move the small gold command pin from the right side of his chest to the left, under the ribbons. To a civilian this distinction would likely be meaningless; to those in the navy it denoted that he no longer held an active command. While he understood that Reuben James was merely his first command, and that he would eventually command other ships, it would never be the same. How could it be?
“How do you feel, sir?” Ayers asked, looking at him curiously.
Ford grinned. “I feel good,” he admitted, and it was true.
“Wait unt
il you get to that Pentagon job—you’ll change your tune quick,” she ribbed him.
“The job won’t be much fun, but everyone’s got to serve their time in hell, I suppose. A little shore duty will be good, though,” he added with a glance at Hutton.
“I finagled a transfer to the D.C. office,” Hutton said. “I’m going to chase fugitives on Terra for a while” She looked up at Ford with shining eyes. “Maybe even breed a few little fugitives of our own,” she added, holding out her left hand for Ayers to see.
Ayers almost squealed with delight. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “That diamond is the size of a friggin’ asteroid! Congratulations! When’s the big day?”
Now it was Ford’s turn to tease Ayers. “You mean you don’t know? Some intelligence officer you are!”
“Hey— No fair! It’s still cyber warfare. Well, mostly,” she amended. “Big changes coming down the line for all of us, I suppose. C’mon, when’s the big day?”
“Details are TBD, but your invitation will be in the first stack to go out,” Ford promised.
“What are you planning, Cheryl?” Hutton asked.
Ayers grinned. “Well, once I can tear you away from this lug for a few days, you and I are going to go somewhere tropical and get really hammered, like we said back on Mars. After that— I figure I’ve got at least thirty years of service in me, so I’ll keep at it for a bit. There’s a lot of post-OURANIA analysis to wade through, procedures and policies to be revised, new technologies, and so on. And after that I plan to retire and do what retirees do best: teach, and write a big, bestselling book about all this. Between that and my retirement pay, I ought to be fairly comfortable when the time comes.”
“Until you decide you’re good for forty. ‘All navy and nothin’ but navy,’ eh?” Ford grinned.
“Pot, meet kettle. Sir,” she added with mock sarcasm. “You two headed dirtside right away?”
Hutton exchanged looks with Ford. “Not necessarily. Have any ideas?”