Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Meka replied, “We know what the enemy has insystem. We know where most of their infrastructure is. If Naumann wants it taken out, it means he’s preparing an offensive.”

  “But this is insane!” Jan protested. “The Aardvarks will have any target replaced in days!”

  “No,” Meka replied, shaking her head. “It’s a legit order. All those targets are intel or command and control.”

  Costlow said, “So he wants the command infrastructure taken out to prevent them from responding quickly. Then he hits them with physical force.”

  “Okay, but why not just bomb them or use rocks in fast trajectories?” Jan asked.

  Costlow said, “It would take too long to set that many rocks in orbit. Nor could we get them moving fast enough. Maneuvering thrusters and standard meteor watch would take care of them. As to bombing them, they all have defensive grids, and we’re a recon boat.”

  Jan paused and nodded. “Yeah, I know. And there aren’t many real gunboats left. I’d just like a safer method.” He asked Meka, “So how could you get in?”

  “UN stations have sensor holes to ignore vacsuits and toolkits. Ships can’t get in, but a single person can.”

  Costlow looked confused. “Why’d they leave a hole like that?” he asked.

  “Partly to prevent accidents with EVA and rescue, partly laziness. They lost a couple of people, and that’s just not socially acceptable on Earth,” she said. “It’s the Blazer’s greatest asset to penetrating security. Systems only work if they are used. Backdoors and human stupidity are some of our best tools.”

  “Didn’t they think anyone would do what you’re discussing?” Jan asked. That was dangerous. It would push EVA gear to the edge.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “They would never give such an order. The political bureaucracy of the UNPF requires all missions be planned with no loss of life. Not minimal, but zero. Yes, it’s ridiculous, but that’s how they do things.”

  Jan asked, “So you EVA in, and then back out?”

  “How would I find a stealthed boat from a suit? How would you find me? It’s not as if there’s enough power to just loiter, and doing so would show on any scan.” Her expression was flushed, nauseous and half grinning. It was creepy.

  “ . . . But even if you get through, they can still get new forces here in short order,” Jan said. He didn’t want his sister to die, because that’s what this was; a literal suicide mission. His own guts churned.

  “No,” Meka replied. “Or, not fast enough to matter, I should say.” She tapped tactical calculus algorithms into her comm while mumbling, “Minimum twenty hours to get a message relayed to Sol . . . flight time through Jump Point Two . . . ”

  Jan had forgotten that. Jump Point One came straight from Sol, but it no longer existed. Professor Meacham and his wife had taken their hyperdrive research ship into it, then activated phase drive. The result of two intersecting stardrive fields was hard to describe mathematically, but the practical, strategic result was that the point collapsed. No jump drive vessel could transit directly from Sol to Grainne anymore, and the UN didn’t yet have any phase drive vessels that they knew of.

  Meka finished mumbling, looked up, and said, “Median estimate of forty-three days to get sufficient force here. They could have command and control back theoretically in forty hours, median two eighty-six, but that doesn’t help them if they are overrun. It’s risky, but we don’t have any other option.”

  Costlow said, “That may be true, but they can send more force. It’s a short term tactical gain, but not a strategic win.”

  “I know Naumann,” Meka replied firmly. “He has something planned.”

  “Unless it’s desperation,” Costlow said.

  Shaking her head, her body unconsciously twisting to compensate, she said, “No. He never throws his people away, and he has very low casualty counts. If he wants me to do this, then he has a valid plan.”

  “Trusting him with your life is dangerous, especially since you don’t even know that’s him,” Jan said. They’d almost died three times now. She’d almost died a couple more. This one was for real.

  “We’re trusting him with more than that,” she said. “And that’s definitely him. Security protocols aside, no one else would have the balls to give an order like that and just assume it would be followed. Besides, it authenticates.”

  “Okay,” Costlow reluctantly agreed. “Which target are you taking?”

  She pointed as she spoke, “Well, the command ship London is the first choice, but I don’t think I can get near a ship. This crewed platform is second, but I’d have to blast or fight my way in. If I fail, I still die, and accomplish nothing. I suppose I have to chicken out and take the automatic commo station.”

  “Odd way to chicken out,” Jan commented in a murmur.

  “Are you sure of these priorities?” Costlow asked. His teeth were grinding and he looked very bothered.

  “Yes,” she replied. “If I had more resources, I’d take London, too. We don’t have any offensive missiles, though.”

  “We have one,” the older man softly replied. They looked at him silently. “If you’re sure that’s a good order,” he said. His face turned from tan to ashen as he spoke.

  “I am,” she said.

  “Then I’ll drop you on the way. Just think of this as an intelligent stealth missile,” he said, and tried to smile. It looked like a rictus.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “No,” he admitted. “But if it’s what we have to do to win . . . ”

  There was silence for a few moments. Hating himself for not speaking already, hating the others even though it wasn’t their fault, Jan said, “I’ll take the automatic station.” Saying it was more concrete than thinking it. His guts began twisting and roiling, and cold sweat burst from his body. He felt shock and adrenaline course through him. “That takes it out of the equation, and you can fight your way into the crewed one.”

  Costlow said, “It’s appreciated, Jan, but you’re tech branch. I think you’d be of more help here.”

  It was a perfect escape, and Meka’s expression said she wasn’t going to tell his secret if he wanted to stop there. He was a Special Projects technician, who built custom gear for others, usually in close support, but too valuable to be directly combatant save in emergencies. The act of volunteering was more than enough for most people, and he could gracefully bow out. He felt himself talking, brain whirling as he did. “I do EVA as a hobby. I’m not as good as Meka, but I can manage, given the gear.” There. Now he was committed.

  “You don’t have to, Jan,” Meka said. “There are other Blazers. We’ll get enough targets.”

  “Meka, I’m not doing this out of inadequacy or false bravery.” Actually, he was. There was another factor, too. When she looked at him, he continued, “I can’t face Mom and Dad and tell them you did this. No way. I’m doing this so I don’t have to face them. And because I guess it has to be done.”

  After a long wait, staring at each other, conversation resumed. The three made a basic schedule, hid all data and undogged the cabin. They each sought their own private spaces to think and come to grips, and the rest of the crew were left to speculate. The normal schedule resumed, and would remain in force until the planned zero time, five days away.

  The three were reserved in manner during the PT sparring match that evening. The crew each picked a corner or a hatch to watch from in the day cabin, a five-meter cylinder ten meters long, and cheered and critiqued as they took turns tying each other in knots. Sarendy was small but vicious, her lithe and slender limbs striking like those of a praying mantis. Jan and Meka were tall and rangy. Costlow was older and stubborn. Each one had his or her own method of fighting. They were all about as effective.

  Jan was strong, determined, and made a point of staying current on unarmed combat, partly due to a lack of demand for his services. He and Costlow twirled and kicked and grappled for several minutes, sweating and gasping from exertion,
until Jan finally pinned the older man in a corner with a forearm wedged against his throat. “Yours,” Costlow acknowledged.

  Jan and Meka faced off from opposite ends, both lean and pantherlike. They studied each other carefully for seconds, then flew at each other, twisting and reaching, and met in a flurry of long limbs. Meka slapped him into a spin, twisted his ankles around, locked a foot under his jaw and let her momentum carry them against the aft hatch, where her other knee settled in the small of his back, pinning him helplessly as she grabbed the edge. Her kinesthetic sense and coordination never ceased to amaze the rest of them.

  Passive Sensor Specialist Riechard gamely threw himself into the bout. He advanced and made a feint with one hand, orienting to keep a foot where he could get leverage off the bulkhead. He moved in fast and hard and scored a strike against Meka’s shoulder, gripped her arm, and began to apply leverage. She countered by pivoting and kicking for his head.

  Riechard spun and flinched. “Shoot, Meka, watch it!” he snapped.

  “Sorry,” she replied. Nerves had her frazzled, and she’d overreacted, her kick almost tearing his ear off. “I better take a break. Default yours.”

  The crew knew something was up. Costlow and the Marsichs were on edge, irritable, and terse. The session broke down without comment, and everyone drifted in separate directions.

  Jan signed out and headed into The Rock the next morning. The scenery was no more exciting, being carved stone walls with sealed hatches, but at least it wasn’t the boat. The air seemed somehow fresher, and it was good not to see the same faces. It wasn’t his choice for a last liberty, but there wasn’t any alternative. It was either the ship or The Rock.

  Throughout the station, soldiers and spacers moved around in sullen quiet. The reserved faces made it obvious that other boats and ships had similar instructions. Jan had to smile at the irony that everyone had the same orders, and no one could talk about it. Then he remembered what was to happen, and became more withdrawn himself.

  He’d wanted Mel Sarendy for two years, but crew were off-limits, and it grew more frustrating as time went on. Their society had no taboos against casual nudity, and the spartan supplies and close quarters aboard boat encouraged it. He’d spent hours staring at her toned body, surreally shaped in microgravity. Her ancestry, like her name, was Earth Cambodian, diluted perhaps with a trace of Russian. That he occasionally caught what he though was a hint of reciprocation in her speech and actions made it almost torture.

  He didn’t want to drink, in case he crawled into the bottle. He settled for a small cubicle where he could just sit in silence and alone, a luxury unavailable aboard the boat.

  Costlow was excited when he returned. Jan recognized cheerfulness when he saw it, and was impatient to find out what had changed.

  Some time later, the three gathered on the command deck and sealed it off. “Talk to me, Warrant,” Meka demanded.

  “There’s enough guidance systems to set a dozen charges. We can do this by remote,” he said.

  “No, we can’t,” Meka stated flatly.

  “Shut up and wait,” he snapped. “We program them to loiter outside sensor range, then do a high-velocity approach on schedule.”

  “Thereby running into sensor range and right into a defensive battery. I suppose you could hide a charge in a suit, but I doubt it would maneuver properly, and you couldn’t program it to steer itself. We aren’t using us to deliver from lack of resources, it’s because we can get through and a drone can’t. If you want to try to program them for a fourth target, do so. It can’t hurt, unless of course you need them as decoys later.”

  Jan breathed deeply and slowly, feeling sick to his stomach. Crap, this was the worst experience of his life. Were they going to do this or not?

  Costlow looked sheepish. “I thought I had it there. Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t apologize, sir,” she replied. “The fact that you missed that means the Earthies think they are solid and can’t be taken. This will work.”

  A depressed silence settled over them, but then Jan had a different thought. He cleared his throat.

  “There’s another factor,” he said. “The crewed station might have viable oxy or escape pods. After Meka takes it out, she can hunker down and await rescue . . . there’s a chance you could survive, Sis.”

  “Well, good!” Costlow said.

  Meka flushed red. “Yes, but that’s hardly fair to you two.”

  He shrugged. “What’s fair? We do what we have to. After that, who can say?”

  She looked at Jan. He smiled, of course, because he was glad of the possibility. He was also furious, nauseated, frightened, and there was nothing to say, except, “Good luck, then.”

  It was wholly inadequate. They were all lying, they all knew it, and it was just one more cold lump in the guts.

  Two tediously painful days later, the two soldiers and the pilot gathered in the crew cabin once more. They checked off lists of essentials that had been requisitioned or borrowed, finalized the schedule, and prepared to start. The equipment made it fairly obvious what they planned.

  “First order of business, clear the ship,” Costlow said. He sounded the intercom for all hands, and everyone boiled in. When they were clumped around him, he said, “We have a mission for which we must reduce mass and resources, so the rest of you are being temporarily put on The Rock. Grab what you need, but you need to be off by morning.”

  The crew and techs looked around at each other, at the three who would remain, and it was seconds only before Pilot Sereno said, “How much mass are you stripping?”

  Costlow replied, “None yet. We’ll be doing that later in the mission.”

  More looks crossed the cabin, thoughts being telegraphed. After an interminable time, Sereno said, “Yes, Warrant,” and headed away. The others silently followed his lead.

  Yeah, he knows, Jan thought.

  Over the rest of the day, they returned, one by one, to make their cases. Every single member of the crew was determined to accompany the boat on its last mission. Death was to be feared, but staying behind was unbearable.

  Sereno spent some time arguing with his superior that he was more expendable. While true, Costlow was the better pilot. He left dejected and angry.

  Boat Engineer Jacqueline Jemayel had more success. She simply handed over a comm with her checklist, and said, “No one else has the years of training and familiarity to handle your hardware in combat. If you think you can handle that while flying, I’ll leave.” Costlow twitched and stalled, but relented to her logic and determination. They’d been friends and crew for a long time, and he was glad to have her along.

  Engine Specialist Kurashima and Analyst Corporal Jackson got nowhere. Neither was needed for this. They might be needed on another vessel. Costlow wasn’t taking anyone except Jemayel, and only because she did have a valid case. A good boat engineer was essential generally, and for this especially. He listened briefly to each of the others, wished them well and sent them packing. He was proud that his crew were so dedicated and determined, and he left recommendations for decorations in his final log file.

  It was mere hours before departure time when the hatch beeped an authorized entry. They looked over as Melanie Sarendy swam in, followed by Sergeant Frank Otte, the equipment technician for the intelligence crew.

  Costlow was annoyed, and snapped, “Sarendy, Otte, I ordered you to—”

  She interrupted with a stern face, “Warrant, the London has Mod Six upgrades to its sensor suite. If you want to get close, then you need offensive systems as well as sensors. This is a recon boat, not a gunboat. I’m the best tech you’re going to get, I can get you in there, and I’m coming along. Sergeant Otte is here to build a station for me on the flight deck, and modifications for offensive transmissions, then he’s leaving.” She moved to swim past them toward her station. How she’d found out the details was a mystery. No one had told her. Costlow blocked her. She looked determined and exasperated, until he held a hand o
ut. “Welcome aboard, Sergeant,” he acknowledged.

  It took Otte, Jemayel, and Jan to build the devices necessary. Sarendy’s requested station wasn’t a standard item for a recon boat, and there were few spare parts aboard The Rock. Judicious cannibalization and improvisation yielded an effective, albeit ugly setup. Additional gear was used to build an offensive electronic suite, and some of it had obviously been stolen from other ships. As promised, Otte left, but not before trying desperately to convince them he was as necessary as Jemayel. He failed, but not for lack of determination.

  4J23 departed immediately. The time left was useful for rehearsal and training, and those were best done without distractions. The short crew strapped in as Costlow cleared with Station Control, detached the umbilical, thereby cutting them off from communication, the boat being under transmission silence, and powered away.

  It would avoid awkward goodbyes, also.

  Meka began laying out gear for herself and Jan. They each would take their duty weapons. Jan had a demolition charge large enough for the structure in question. She took extra explosives and ammo. Both would carry their short swords, not so much from need but because it was traditional. They both required oxy bottles. He’d wear her maneuvering harness, she had a sled designed for clandestine missions. They had enough oxy mix, barely, to last them two days. That was tantalizingly close to enough oxy for a pickup, but still short. A boat might conceivably get into the vicinity in time, but rescue operations took time. If they could run this mission in the open . . . but of course, they couldn’t.

  Costlow spent the time getting trajectories from the navigation system. He needed to pass by two stations whose locations were approximate, get near the London, which was in a powered station orbit around the jump point, observe, plan an approach, execute the approach to stay unseen, and arrive at a precise point at an exact time with sufficient fuel for terminal maneuvers. Very terminal. He consulted with Sarendy as to detection equipment ranges and apertures to help plot his path. Jemayel tended the engines, life support, and astronautics. None of them spoke much.