Fleet of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  Sten had no idea how or why Kilgour was on Cavite—but he was very clotting glad to see him, regardless.

  * * * *

  "It wasn't much of a task't’ be assigned to y'r squadron, young Sten,” Kilgour explained over two mugs of caff in the closet that passed for the Claggett's wardroom.

  "First, Ah kept tabs, knowin't y'd be runnin’ into braw problems y’ c'd no handle. Then a word here, a charmin't smile there, an’ whiff, Kilgour's on his way. But enow a’ young love. Clottin’ brief me, Commander. Where's th’ bonny crew?"

  Sten ran through the problems. Alex heard him out, then patted Sten's shoulder in sympathy, driving the deck plates down a few centimeters.

  "Noo y’ can relax, wi Kilgour here. Y'r problem, son, is y’ dinnae be lookin't for volunteers in the right places."

  "Like hell! I've been recruiting everyplace but the cemeteries."

  "It'll no get's’ bad we'll hae to assign the livin't dead, Commander. You hae nae worries now. Just trust me."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  "DINNAE THEY BE a fine bunch,” Kilgour said proudly.

  Sten looked askance at the thirty-odd beings glowering at him, then behind him at the firmly sealed portals of the prison. “How many murderers?"

  "Nae one. Twa manslaughters wa’ the best Ah could do. Th’ rest—"

  Sten cut Kilgour off. He would have time later to agonize over the fiches. Suddenly the prisoners in front of him appeared as—at least potentially—shining examples of sailorly virtue. The problem was that Sten, never adept at inspiring speeches, was trying to figure out what to say to these beings to convince them that they did not want to remain in the 23rd Fleet's safe, sane stockade.

  Alex leaned closer to him to whisper. “Ah could warm ‘em up, if ya like, lad. Tell ‘em a joke or three."

  "No jokes,"

  Sten said firmly. Alex's response was immediate gloom."No even the one about the spotted snakes? Tha's perfect for a braw crew such as this."

  "You will especially avoid the one about the spotted snakes. Kilgour, there are laws about cruel and unusual punishment. And if you even dream spotted snakes, I'll have you keelhauled."

  Still glaring, Sten turned his attention to the task at hand. The glare must have had a great deal of heat behind it, because the men instantly stopped their shuffling and shifting.

  Oh, well. At least he had their attention. Now all he had to do was some fancy convincing. Basic speechmaking—always talk to a crowd as if it were one person and choose one being in that crowd to address directly.

  Sten picked out one man who looked a little less dirty, battered, and shifty than the others and walked up to him.

  "My name's Sten. I'm commissioning four tacships. And I need a crew."

  "Y’ comin’ here, you're scrapin’ the bottom,” another prisoner said.

  "Sir."

  The prisoner spat on the ground. Sten stared at him. The man's eyes turned away. “Sir,” he grunted reluctantly.

  "No offense, sir.” That was the prisoner whom Sten had picked as the centerpiece. “But what's in it for us?"

  "You're out. Your records'll get reviewed. I can wipe your charge sheets if I want. If you work out."

  "What ‘bout rank?” yet another prisoner asked.

  "You qualify for a stripe, you'll get it."

  "What'll we be doing?"

  "Running patrols. Out there."

  "Toward the Tahn?"

  "As close as we can get."

  "Sounds like a clottin’ great way to get dead."

  "It is that,” Sten agreed. “Plus the quarters'll make your cells here look like mansions, the food would gag a garbage worm, and my officers'll be all over you like a dirty ship-suit. Oh, yeah. You'll be lucky to get liberty once a cycle. And if you do, it'll probably be on some planetoid where the biggest thing going is watching metal oxidize."

  "Doesn't sound like there's much in it."

  "Sure doesn't, sir.” This was a fourth prisoner. “Can I ask you something? Personal?"

  "GA."

  "Why are you doin’ it? Tacship people are all volunteers. You lookin’ for some kind of medal?"

  "Clot medals,” Sten said honestly. Then he thought about what he was going to say. “You could probably get my ass in a sling if you told anybody this—but I think that we're getting real close to a clottin’ war."

  "With the Tahn.” Sten's target nodded.

  "Uh huh. And I'd a lot rather be out there moving around when it happens than sitting on my butt here on Cavite. Or, come to think about it, sitting here in this pen."

  "I still think any of us'd be clottin’ fools to volunteer."

  "Just what I'm looking for. Clotting fool volunteers. I'll be in the head screw's—sorry, warden's—office until 1600 if any of you feel foolish."

  To his astonishment, Sten got seventeen volunteers. He never realized that the final convincement was his slip of the tongue—only somebody who had been a jailbird or on the wrong side of the law would call the warden a screw.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  "HOW MANY GENERATIONS has your family been warriors, Lieutenant Sekka?” Sten asked with some incredulity.

  "For at least two hundred,” the man across from him said. “But that was after the Sonko clan emigrated from Earth. Before that, we Mandingos, at least according to legend, had been fighting men for another hundred generations. That's not to say that all of us have been just warriors. We have been military scholars, diplomats, politicians ... there was even one of us who was an actor. We do not often discuss him, even though he was reputedly excellent.” Sekka laughed. His baritone chortle was just as pleasing to the ear as the man's perfect voice.

  Sten looked again at Sekka's fiche. It looked very good—there were just enough reprimands and cautions from superior officers to match the letters of merit and decorations.

  "You like taking chances, don't you?"

  "Not at all,” Sekka said. “Any course of action should be calculated, and if the potential for disaster is less than that for success, the choice is obvious."

  Sten put the fiche back in its envelope and shoved a hand across the tiny folding desk. “Lieutenant, welcome the hell aboard. You'll skipper the Kelly. Second ship on the left."

  Sekka came to attention, almost cracking his skull on the overhead. “Thank you, sir. Two questions. Who are my other officers?"

  "None, yet. You're the first one I've signed up."

  "Mmm. Crew?"

  "You have four yardbirds and one eager innocent. Assign them as you wish."

  "Yessir."

  "Lieutenant Sekka? I have a question. How'd you hear about this posting?"

  Sekka lifted an eyebrow. “Why from the admiral's note in the current fleet proceedings, sir."

  Sten covered. “Right. Thank you, Lieutenant. That's all. On your way out, would you ask Mr. Kilgour if he would report to me at his convenience?"

  * * * *

  "Kilgour. You didn't."

  "Ah did."

  "How?"

  "The typsettin’ plant th’ shitepokes who run tha’ lyin't publication hae na in th’ way ae security."

  "So you blueboxed into it, and phonied the admiral's own column?"

  "Is tha’ nae aye harsh way't’ put it?"

  Alex, ever since his scam back on Hawkthorne and later with the prisoners, fancied himself quite the recruiter.

  Sten changed the subject. “Is there any way he could trace who did it?"

  "Trace me, lad? Th’ man wha’ solved a conspiracy again’ our own Emperor?"

  Sten put his head in his hands. “Mr. Kilgour. I know the navy is dry. But would there, by some odd chance..."

  "By an odd chance, there is. Ah'll fetch the flask."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ALEX LIKED SOME rain, like the nearly constant gray drizzle of his home world. But the tropical buckets tha
t came down on Cavite tried his patience sorely. He counted unmarked alcoves down the narrow alleyway, found the correct one, and tapped on the barred door. From the inside his tapping probably sounded like a sledgehammer warming up.

  "What is the word?” a synth-voice whispered.

  "It's aye wet oot here, an Ah am lackit th’ patience,” Alex complained. Not particularly angry, he stepped back and rammed a metal-shod bootheel into the door.

  The door split in half, and Alex pulled the two halves out of his way and entered.

  He had time to notice that the inside of the brothel was quite nice, if one fancied red velvet and dark paintings, before the first guard came down the corridor at him. Alex batted him into the wall with one of the door halves. His mate came dashing toward Alex, was picked up, and went back up the corridor, in the air, somewhat faster than he had come down.

  "Ah'm looki't for a Mister Willie Sutton,” he announced.

  "Do you have a warrant?” the synth-voice asked.

  "No."

  "Are you armed?"

  "What kind of ae clot y’ thinkit Ah am? A course."

  "Please keep your hands in plain sight. There are sensors covering you. Any electronic emission which is detected will be responded to. You will be constantly in the field of fire from automatically triggered weapons. Any hostile act will be responded to before you could complete such an action."

  Alex sort of wanted to test his reflexes against the robot guns, but he was trying to be peaceful.

  "You will continue down to the end of the corridor, past the entrance to the establishment proper. At the end of the corridor, you will find stairs. Continue up them, and then down the hall to the second door.

  Enter that room and wait, while we determine whether a Willie Sutton is known to anyone on the premises."

  Alex followed instructions. As he walked past, he looked into the whorehouse's reception area, fell in love twice, smiled politely at those two women, but continued on.

  Kilgour was on duty.

  The room was more red velvet and more elderly paintings, dimly lit by glass-beaded lamps. The furniture was unusual, consisting of three or four wide, heavily braced hassocks. Kilgour stood with his back close to one wall and waited.

  The door on the other side of the room opened.

  "Would my thoughts be correct in assuming you are interested in applying for work as my bodyguard?"

  "Willie Sutton” waddled into the room. It was a spindar, a large—two meters, choose any direction—scaled creature that looked like an oversize scaly pangolin with extra arms. Since spindars’ own names were not pronounceable by the Homo sapien tongue, they generally took on a human name, a name prominent in whatever field the spindar chose to excel in.

  Kilgour had no idea who Willie Sutton had been, but he was fairly sure that the human had not been a philanthropist.

  "Warrant Officer Alex Kilgour,” he identified himself, not answering the question.

  "You, then, are a deserter, as I am?"

  "Na, Chief Sutton. But Ah hae consider't it."

  "You are not from the military police. Certainly not, from your grimace. How might my establishment and myself be of service to you? I am assuming, for the sake of argument, that you mean me no harm."

  "We want you to come back."

  The spindar chuffed and sat back on its tail. “To the fleet? Hardly likely. During the years I served, I experienced enough courts-martial to find the experience irritatingly redundant."

  Sutton was telling the truth. There probably had been no supply specialist in the Imperial Navy who had been tried so many times, almost always on the same offense: misappropriation of imperial supplies and equipment.

  There also probably had been no supply specialist who had been promoted back up from the ranks so many times, again almost always for the same accomplishment: Due to the outstanding performance and support of (insert rank at time) Sutton, (insert unit or ship name) accomplished its mission well within the assigned limits in an exemplary fashion.

  "We need a thief,” Kilgour said.

  The spindar chuffed twice more. Alex explained the problems that he and Sten faced.

  The spindar, thinking, extruded claws from a forearm and raked part of the carpet beside him into shreds. Alex noted that the carpet was torn up in other parts of the room.

  "What about the present charges that, shall we say, made it desirable for me to absent myself from my last duty station?"

  Kilgour took two fiches from inside his shirt and handed them to Sutton. “Tha first's y'r real service record. Tha original. Consider tha a present."

  The spindar scratched himself.

  "Tha second's a new record, which, dinnae wish't’ be't braggin't, Ah helped create. Couldnae be cleaner. You report back, and Ah'll hae tha in th’ records in minutes."

  "An entirely fresh beginning,” the spindar marveled.

  "M'boss say't there's a slight condition. If y’ thinkit y’ could be worryin't th’ same scam on us, bad things c'd happen. About those, Ah'll say nae more."

  "The mechanics of pandering and prostitution,” the spindar said, almost to himself, “have become most predictable. You humans have such a limited sexual imagination. Return to duty."

  He chuffed. “What a peculiar proposition.” Chuff. “Tell your commander I shall provide an answer by this hour tomorrow."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  STEN LOLLED BACK in his chair. His feet were stretched out lazily, crossed at the ankles, measuring the width of his desk. Inside he was tense, coiled, waiting for the hammer to fall. Outside he was doing his best to appear to be the cool, uninvolved navy commanding officer.

  Personally, Sten thought he probably looked like a damned fool. All he needed right now was a knock of urgency on his door to spoil the entire persona.

  The door was knocked upon. The raps were urgent; equally urgently, the door slammed open. Sten nearly compacted his knees getting his feet off the desk. Wildly, he thought for an instant which face he should present—bored CO indifference or calm CO concern. There was no stop-action camera there, or time to show the twists in his face as Alex and the spindar, Sutton, burst in.

  "What seems to be the—” Sten started.

  "Sir!” Sutton blurted. “We've been taken!"

  Sten reflexively glanced about. Was the Gamble being boarded? Was Cavite being invaded? The admiral's daughter violated? Taken? By whom? Sten skipped the why and where and assumed the now. Mostly, what Sten was really worrying about was how he was going to untangle his feet and leap into position. Alex saved his behind by sort of explaining.

  "Wha’ Mr. Sutton, here, is sayin't, Commander, is we been busted. I dinnae care't’ guess wha for, but we been pushin't the motive a wee bit a’ late.” Sten buried a laugh. He had a pretty good idea what was going on. But Alex had been running on his luck a great deal. It was time for Sten to run it back.

  He placed a look of great concern on his face. He almost harrumphed. With as much dignity as could be mustered in a three by two-meter space, Sten rose to his feet.

  "What, gentlemen, could possibly be the problem?” His voice was very casual and cool.

  "We're trying to tell you, sir,” Sutton said. “We're being invaded by the cops!"

  Sten allowed himself to be drawn out the door. At dockside, drawn up before the Gamble, was a phalanx of Black Marias with five police gravsleds per side and two cops per vehicle.

  "I told you, sir,” Sutton said. “We've been taken.” He turned to Alex with accusation in his eyes and an angry quiver in his voice. “You turned me in."

  "You? Who th’ clottin’ hell are you? Dinnae hae reference of grandeur, lad. They're bleedin’ bustin’ us all!"

  Alex gave Sten a glance. “I dinnae suppose we hae good graces here. But, if w’ do, Ah'd be serious usin’ them now, Sten!"

  Sten maintained his superiority of silence. Oddly enough, it did seem to have an effect on the two beings next to him. There
was an agonizing moment, then a hiss from the lead sled in the column. The driver's door opened, and an enormous member of the Cavite police force unreeled himself out. There was another moment for brushing of tunic and flicking at stray hairs. Then measured bootheels advanced toward Sten. There was an official piece of paper held in his thrust-out hand.

  "A warrant, Ah'll ween,” Alex whispered.

  Sten was silent.

  The cop marched up to Sten, tossed him a smart salute, and handed him the document. Alex peered over at it, his face breaking into amazement.

  "You dinnae?” he said.

  "I did,” Sten said. “Thank you, Constable Foss,” he said formally.

  "With pleasure, sir,” Foss said. “Now, begging your pardon, sir, but we're all on Ten-Seven. Can you process twenty recruits in less than an hour? Or should some of us come back?"

  Alex finally came through. “Twenty of you, aye? Come in, come in, said the cider to the fly."

  Moments later, he and Sutton were lining up the cops.

  "So, thae be what it's come to, then?” he whispered to Sten. “Recruitin’ clottin’ fuzz."

  Sten gave Alex his best and most practiced CO look. “Ain't war hell?"

  First Lieutenant Ned Estill was a miracle captured in amber. He looked sharp! Sounded sharp! Was sharp! And his résumé was as crisp and clean as his dress whites. He snapped Sten a knife-edged salute, heels clicking like a shot.

  "If that will be all, sir!"Sten had rarely been confronted with such perfection. Estill was the kind of officer who made even a commander feel the grime around his collar. The comparison was especially pertinent because Sten and Alex were dressed in filthy engineer's coveralls. Estill's interview had been impromptu—an interruption of a greasegun's-eye tour of the ship. Sten had as much difficulty in dismissing the man as he and Alex had in quizzing him. How do you deal with a naval recruiting poster?

  "We'll be gettin’ back to you, Lieutenant,” Alex said, solving Sten's immediate gape. Sten almost had to physically hold up his jaw as Estill wheeled 180 perfect degrees and clicked—not walked—down the gangway.

  Sten sagged back against the hull in relief.