Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation

by Michael Z. Williamson

  He used his map projector on the bulkhead, and Lowther and Marchetti matched him in the other rooms.

  CHILREN ARE ALIVE, he flashed. YOU WILL EVAC THROUGH FORWARD LOCK. SHIP WILL DOCK FOR WORST NEED. OTHERS WILL BE TOWED.

  They nodded in worried understanding, but their confidence seemed a bit higher. He wasn’t going to tell them how they’d be towed.

  There was a pregnant woman, two more children, three people with minor but painful injuries—sprains and bruises from the runaway G—and seven people who, in his opinion, were near breaking point.

  The schedule suffered again when Hensley had to spend long segs welding cracks in the airlock. To be fair, they seemed to be recent, but it was all part of the same utter failure. The owner didn’t even deserve a duel. They’d found several patches aboard that were purely cosmetic. He’d known this wreck was subpar.

  Lemke and Bulgov crawled up through the wreckage from below, looking fatigued, but functional.

  With one troop in each room managing the oxygen, and three spare bottles from elsewhere, calm prevailed. That left him and Lemke to push forward.

  The bridge lock was sealed from inside, and he rang the chime. He waited, and rang it again. The purser should be in there. He was about to call Rescue for relay when the latch moved.

  The purser swung it open and the expression on his face was tragic.

  Bowden gripped him and pressed helmets for conduction. “Mr. Doherty, we’re here for you.”

  Doherty maintained some composure. He spoke into his mic, probably to Rescue, then pulled the lead from his helmet. Inside his suit the man shivered. He let himself be led.

  “Bowden, this is Rescue.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Lowther and we came up with a plan. Take the passengers out singly. Stuff them into balls, toss them out. They’ll be immediately available for pickup now that we’re in free flight. All primary vessels are converging.”

  “That works. We can start now.” The pregnant woman was already aboard Auburn. The kids were lined up and ready, and after that it was just a case of moving fast enough with O2 running low. Of course, the lack of lights, gravity and heat was going to be a problem. He welcomed it to the alternative.

  There was an attempt at chivalry, with some men hanging back while the women were moved. A couple of quite cute ones shivered in goosebumps, underdressed for an evacuated ship. He handled them professionally, but it was hard to move someone under these conditions without grabbing their ass and shoving.

  “That’s fifteen,” Lowther said.

  “Balls,” he replied.

  The next woman came up the line, looked at the ball, and clenched in fear. She didn’t resist as they stuffed her in, but she wasn’t helpful.

  Then it became clear that some people were hanging back out of fear, letting others precede them. That meant the end would be interesting.

  It was a good thing the engines were completely down. It took a lot longer than five hundred seconds to transfer everyone. More than half would have died on that schedule.

  They passed people out, stuffed them into balls, and handled them through the wedged-wide lock, where Lowther and Marchetti lashed them to Auburn. The passengers could see out the tiny windows, and they all looked frightened or frozen. It was going to be traumatic for them, but, Bowden observed, not as traumatic as dying. One by one, the medics played out sections of line, looped and lashed them, and occasionally peeked in a window to smile and give someone a thumb’s up.

  The last woman and last man clung to the stanchion next to the O2 supply. He was middle aged, in good shape, even athletic, but shivered like a lapdog. She was completely numb with a thousand meter stare. Both had to have their fingers pried loose, and be towed to the lock.

  And that was that. After the earlier excitement, the ending was somewhat anticlimactic.

  Lowther shook hands, swung back out, clipped and unclipped lines and monkey-crawled around his charges, letting them see that he was outside with them. He would ride that way until another craft matched course to take them off.

  “We’re clear. We’ll mount. Transponders on, awaiting pickup sometime in the next four divs.” He felt an odd mix of elated, satisfied, nervous, frightened and lethargic. They’d done it.

  “Understood, and your sled transponders are still live. Tracking already.”

  “Thanks, Rescue.” It would be divs before they were recovered, days before they filtered from ship to ship and back to their own craft, and then probably down for debriefing. One thing about real world missions; they beat the hell out of exercises for both value and intensity.

  He’d say he never wanted to do it again, but he felt more alive than he ever had. Some people never knew if they mattered. Blazers didn’t have that problem.

  He checked his harness and prepared to line aft, leaving Mammy Blue cold and dead in space.

  Stadter’s guts flipped at the current exchange, but he had to do it.

  “Rescue to Sergeant Diaken.”

  Her voice was raspy and ill-sounding. “Go ahead, Rescue.”

  “One-eight-six recovered. Four-three after you cut feeds.”

  “Glad to hear it. Thanks for all your efforts. Diaken out.” The transmission ended in an odd fade.

  “Rescue out,” he said, needlessly. There was no way she’d live to reach the station after that dose, much less anywhere that could hope to do anything. It wasn’t even safe to recover her body. That hiss had been her helmet unsealing to vacuum. There were no good ways to die, but that seemed so cold.

  He turned his attention back to Bowden.

  “Bowden, this is Rescue. I have an interim AAR if I can relay the good and bad.”

  “Rescue, go ahead. I can take it.”

  “Bowden, one eight six of two one seven recovered and expected to live. Those extra two you caught had to be towed outside and transferred to another ship. They’re pretty shaken. I think most of the survivors are well-tranked.”

  He paused and continued, “One lost on recovery, we’ll need to check your cameras to determine who. Bundle of five tumbled, one separated and caught in engine wash. I’m sorry.”

  There was momentary silence, then Bowden said, “Continue.”

  “Regret to relay that Special Projects Sergeant Diaken absorbed lethal dose, by choice, to effect shutdown on the feeds. She bought you the additional time.”

  “Then she saved at least forty lives. She was a good woman.” The man sounded steely, but Stadter figured he’d be torn up as soon as his mic was closed.

  “That’s it for your watch. Other casualties due to lifeboat failing and no crew aboard to assist with backup O2. The bottle worked, they just couldn’t figure it out in time. Some of the crew died aboard, and twelve passengers.”

  “On the whole, then, I guess we all did an amazing job. Thank you, Lieutenant, and your staff, for coordination.”

  “And you, Bowden. Stadter out, listening.” He figured to leave the man to deal with his troops and his frustration, for the next half day.

  Bowden would be the last man out of a powerless derelict, in free flight in space, awaiting pickup in the darkness. That took insane amounts of courage.

  They spent a full day passing the passengers in the balls outside to other ships, swapping fuel and oxy, coordinating others. They breathed canned air, ate plastic-wrapped food bars and were grateful for both. The rescued passengers were stuffed into the two cabins of the small craft, making any movement a pain. Luckily, the pregnant woman wasn’t close to labor. They all stank of fear, the filters couldn’t keep up, and even the latrine was overloaded, despite venting to space twice. Garwell had to pretty well sit on top of them. Two were billeted under his couch and controls.

  Eventually, they maneuvered into their cradle and docked. Stadter hit the switches to cut power, dumped a reload request for supplies expended, and crawled out the hatch into the station. The alternate crew had lined up to cheer them, in both tribute and jealousy. A mission like this happene
d once in a career, though, he reflected, once was enough.

  He shook hands with his opposite, Captain Brown, and said, “I need to debrief and rest. Thank you,” he turned to the rest, “and thank you all. We’ll catch up later.”

  He near staggered on his way to Station Control.

  Captain Vincent looked worn, satisfied and angry. It was an odd combination of expressions.

  “Lieutenant Stadter. You’re just in time.”

  “Yes, sir?” He didn’t think there was a problem at his end, and Vincent wasn’t one to string things out.

  “Things are very good. I want to make sure you know that. Exceptional work all around. Among your crew, Warrant Vela is to be commended for outstanding traffic control.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just thought you’d like to know I have the ship’s owner on another screen.”

  “That’s interesting,” Stadter said. He didn’t want to make any assumptions about that. He was too edgy and likely to snap.

  Vincent turned, lit the screen and looked into it.

  “Mister Etzl, Lieutenant Stadter was in charge of the rescue effort.”

  Etzl didn’t look like a cheap bastard, nor was he oily. However, he didn’t waste any time.

  “I’d like to thank you for recovering my passengers, sir.”

  “You’re welcome. We all did the best we could. I directed a lot of professionals and dedicated volunteers.”

  “I’d like to discuss recovering my ship, and compensation.”

  Adminwork, the bane of existence, he thought. Though to a man like this, reports were everything. He saw figures. Statder saw people.

  “If you are asking for a report for your insurance, it will come to you in time, after it works through our system.”

  Etzl shook his head. “I’m not worried about that. But there’s cargo and gear and supplies aboard. I understand it’s in free flight. This wouldn’t count as rescue, but recovery, and of course you’re entitled to a share as salvage. But will you be able to get back out on that shortly? The sunk costs increase the further out it gets.” He seemed agitated.

  Stadter was too numb from the mission to get angry. It was just too surreal. Etzl needed to worry more about what would happen when charges started piling on him, and challenges to duel. If he was lucky, he’d only be indentured for life.

  On the one hand, it would be nice if the passengers recovered any items of personal value. There was even a chance the cargo contained things that couldn’t be replaced by money alone. At the same time, they’d already lost too many people, injured several, and one had volunteered to die to help save others and reduce the burden this scumbag faced. He really should be enraged. He should challenge the man himself, Bahá’i rules on dueling be damned.

  He was just too wired, tired and overloaded to deal with it right now. He was giddy with fatigue, disoriented, and this didn’t feel real. There was a policy that applied here, though. He went with that.

  “Sir, you may contract whoever you wish for salvage. Neither I nor my crew are available. Your ship represents a hazard to traffic as is, so I recommend you move quickly on any recovery. I will officially recommend that the military use it for target practice if it’s not dealt with in a week. This matter is closed. Good day to you.”

  He nodded to Vincent, who nodded back with a faint smirk. Then he turned and headed for his cabin. He could pick up the anger later, if there weren’t better things to do.

  AFTERWORD

  I read a lot.

  This house has several thousand books, mostly nonfiction, on a plethora of subjects. Somewhere in the section on ships is a story about a ferry in New York Harbor sometime in the 1890s, I recall. There are three events online that might be the specific one I found in the book, but they’re all of a similar vein.

  This small vessel, in winter, was full of people traveling from island to island or mainland. Most of them were immigrant laborers.

  This boat did have a boiler explode, rupturing one side, causing it to founder and sink. There were lifeboats, bought cast-off from some better vessel, not seaworthy. There were kapok life jackets, but the rubber had dry-rotted, the kapok mildewed, and they weren’t in usable condition even if the water wasn’t barely warmer than the freezing air.

  Every craft in the harbor did respond, in a frenzy not seen again until Flight 1549 landed in the Hudson River more than a century later. I can’t recall how many survived, but most did. The owner was held in very poor regard, and if I recall correctly, sued into poverty, as he should be.

  From there, I wondered how such a story would work in the Freehold universe, which, despite some parties alleging it to be a “utopia,” bears several significant resemblances to the era of robber barons and exploitative management. There are many things done better by the free market. However, some things actually do require government infrastructure to effect properly. Whether or not quality standards for spaceship inspections are among the latter probably depends in part on who’s arguing the point, and if they intend to be aboard. Even if one can settle up economically afterward, duel or seek vengeance, it’s probably better to have the intact ship in the first place.

  Of course, the Deepwater Horizon oil spill incident in the Gulf of Mexico took place despite government inspections and approval, so it may not matter either way.

  The Price

  This was a bad story in 2000. In its original version, it rightfully got rejected because it was long, turgid and tried to be far too complex. I’m still learning how to write shorts. This was an attempt to cram a novel into 12,000 words.

  When John Ringo told me he expected a story from me for the Citizens anthology—a collection in which all the authors are veterans, though the stories aren’t necessarily military—I wondered if this one would work. He agreed to my query, so I dusted it off. I pretty much gutted and rewrote it thirty-five percent shorter, cut scenes, tightened some stuff up, and made it work. The concept was sound. The execution had been awful.

  Both he and Baen editor Jim Minz were complimentary over it, and I got good feedback from quite a few veterans. I’ll just keep working on the concept of short fiction until I get better.

  Four Jemma Two Three, Freehold of Grainne Military Forces, (J Frame Craft, Reconnaissance, Stealth), was a tired boat with a tired crew.

  After two local years—three Earth years—of war with the United Nations of Earth and Space, that was no small accomplishment. Most of her sister vessels had been destroyed. That 4J23 was intact, functional, and only slightly ragged with a few “character traits” spoke well of her remarkable crew.

  “I have a message, and I can’t decode it with my comm,” Warrant Leader Derek Costlow announced. The crew turned to him. This could be a welcome break from the monotony of maintenance. Jan Marsich and his sister Meka, both from Special Warfare and passengers stuck aboard since the war started, paid particular attention. Any chance of finding a real mission or transport back to Grainne proper was of interest to them.

  “Want me to have a whack at it, Warrant?” asked Sergeant Melanie Sarendy, head of the intelligence mission crew.

  “If you would, Mel,” he nodded. “I’ll forward the data to your system.”

  Sarendy dropped her game control, which was hardwired and shielded rather than wireless. Intel boats radiated almost no signature. The handheld floated where it was until disturbed by the eddies of her passage.

  Jan asked, “Why do we have a message when we’re tethered to the Rock? From who?”

  Meka wrinkled her brow.

  “That’s an interesting series of questions,” she commented.

  “The Rock” was a field-expedient facility with no official name other than a catalog number of use only for communication logs. The engineers who carved and blasted it from a planetoid, the boat crews who used it, the worn and chronically short-handed maintenance personnel aboard had had little time to waste on trivialities such as names. There were other such facilities throughout the system, b
ut few of the surviving vessels strayed far enough from their own bases to consort with other stations. “The Rock” sufficed.

  They were both attentive again as Sarendy returned. She looked around at the eyes on her, and said, “Sorry. Whatever it is, I don’t have a key for it.”

  Meka quivered alert. “Mind if I try?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Costlow replied.

  She grabbed her comm and plugged it into a port as everyone waited silently. She identified herself through several layers of security and the machine conceded that perhaps it might have heard of that code. A few more jumped hoops and it flashed a translation on her screen.

  The silence grew even more palpable when she looked up, her eyes blurred with tears. “Warrant,” she said, voice cracking, and locked eyes with him.

  Costlow glanced around the cabin, and in seconds everyone departed for their duty stations or favorite hideyholes, leaving the two of them and Jan in relative privacy. Jan was family, and Costlow let him stay. In response to the worried looks from the two of them, Meka turned her screen to face them.

  The message was brief and said simply, “YOU ARE ORDERED TO DESTROY AS MANY OF THE FOLLOWING PRIORITIZED TARGETS AS POSSIBLE. ANY AND ALL ASSETS AND RESOURCES ARE TO BE UTILIZED TO ACCOMPLISH THIS MISSION. SIGNED, NAUMANN, COLONEL COMMANDING, PROVISIONAL FREEHOLD MILITARY FORCES. VERIFICATION X247.” Attached was a list of targets and a timeframe. All the targets were in a radius around Jump Point Three, within about a day of their current location.

  “I don’t understand,” Jan said. “Intel boats don’t carry heavy weapons. How do they expect us to do this?”

  “It was addressed to me, not the boat,” Meka replied. “He wants me to take out these targets, using any means necessary.”

  That didn’t need translating. There was a silence, broken by Costlow asking, “Are you sure that’s a legit order? It looks pointless. Why would they have you attack stuff way out here in the Halo?”