Vorpal Blade (ARC)

by John Ringo

  "I wanna know how we're gonna mount it," Jaenisch said.

  * * *

  "You're joking," the CO said.

  "Not really, sir," Weaver replied, taking a sip of Coke. He really thought that, all things considered, it should be beer. "Freeze-drying something is just exposing it to vacuum for a specified period. If we pull it up to orbit, leave it there for, oh, a couple of days, then take it back down to, say, that north polar continent . . ."

  "Yeah, but where are we going to store it?" Spectre asked. "I mean, once we get it back."

  "Someplace dry," Weaver said. "And secure. Area 51?"

  23

  A Voice as Stern as Conscience

  "We're down twelve Marines," Captain MacDonald said. "All of their Wyverns, even the ones we recovered, are useless. We can blage them for parts, but that's about it. And we're down one scientist."

  The CO had ordered the ship into deep space, then stopped to have a conference. They weren't in full "chill" mode, but most systems were powered down as much as possible and the chiller fans had been extended. The ship needed to chill in more ways than one.

  "I'm qualified in geology and planetology," Dr. Beach said. "As is Dr. Becker. For that matter, Dr. Robertson has a masters in geology and Dr. Weaver has a masters in planetology. Last, Lord only knows what Mimi is capable of."

  "Yeah, but we've taken a solid hit," the CO said. His jaw worked for a moment. Those losses were, after all, all "his" people. "And we're less than fourteen hours from Sol system. Time to head home."

  "Sir, with due respect," the XO said, frowning. "We are not done with the mission."

  "We've just taken casualties in more than a third of our security contingent," the CO replied. "Not to mention a science team member. We've got damage throughout the ship, including pressure leaks from that damned squid thing. The sick bay is packed and we've got people in quarantine. And your professional opinion is that we should not return, XO?"

  "Sir, if I could interject?" Miller said uncomfortably. "I think I see what's going on here."

  "Go ahead," the CO said, leaning back and glancing unreadably at the XO.

  "Sir, sub officers and surface officers think differently," the warrant officer said. "I've worked, extensively, with both and it's something that SEALs notice. Sub officers will keep at sea even when most people would consider it much more . . . prudent to return to base. Surface warfare officers are more inclined to put in when something goes seriously wrong. I'm not saying which approach is better or worse, sir, but it's a very different approach. I think that's what's going on here."

  "I'd never noticed it," the XO said, nodding, "but the chief's right. Sir, I've been on boats that were leaking like a sieve and had half the machinery held together with spit and prayer and we stayed on mission. That's . . . the submarine service, sir."

  "Interesting point," Spectre said, frowning. "I'd accept further input."

  "The question to me, sir, is I suppose, which culture the space navy assumes," Weaver said, nodding in thought. "Taking that view of the two disparate cultures and given that this ship is, among other things, going to set the cultural tone of the navy that follows, which do you choose? Frankly, sir, viewed that way it's a much bigger question than simply 'do we turn back?' Assuming that we survive the Dreen, in a hundred years a captain of a spaceship, faced with the same decision, is going to say: 'What did Spectre do?' "

  "Oh, crap," the CO snapped. "Thank you so very much, Commander Weaver. So the choice is 'Damn the torpedoes' or 'Prudence at sea is always wisdom.' Not much choice there, is there? I'm much more worried about what the review board is going to say than what a captain a hundred years in the future is going to think. Not to mention if we can survive the rest of the cruise and return alive. This is the only spaceship Earth and the Adari have. Losing it would be a major setback. Not to mention terminal to everyone on-board."

  "Again, sir, I would say it depends upon the nature of the review board," Miller said. "If the review board is primarily former sub skippers, they're going to shrug and say: 'Of course you continue the mission.' Carrier commanders might wonder if you were sane."

  "And, again, that's going to set the tone of the space navy, sir," Weaver said. "Given what we've already encountered, the only difference here is that we've taken casualties. Serious casualties, admittedly, but that's the major difference."

  "The ship damage from the dimension jump and retanking the air systems was worse than the pounding we just took, sir," the XO pointed out. "Except for the casualties, we're in better shape than we were at Sirius. We filled our fresh water tanks, took on a bunch of O2 and chilled down while we were submerged. There were benefits accrued to being dragged underwater. On a comestible level, well, we're pretty good. Less use, among other things."

  "Commander, your tendency to look on the bright side can sometimes border on the annoying," Spectre said, shaking his head. "Okay, I appreciate the input. I'm going to have to give this some thought. XO, ensure I'm not disturbed unless a giant space beast attempts to eat the ship. And I'm authorizing an issue of medicinal bourbon."

  The CO stood up and left the compartment, headed for his office.

  "The term here, is 'weight of command,' " Miller said, standing up. "Fortunately, I'm not the commander, so I'm going to go get at the head of the line."

  "Medicinal bourbon?" Dr. Beach asked.

  "Every warship of sufficient size is issued enough bourbon for two issues per person on-board," the XO said, standing up. "Little bottles like you get on planes. The CO is authorized to issue it if he feels the entire crew needs some tranquilization. Given that Dr. Chet has two trank cases in the sickbay and everyone's looking a little rocky, I think it's a justified order. Now I need to go carry it out."

  * * *

  "I thought you were going to go get at the head of the line," Weaver said, entering the mission specialist mess. Miller was sitting at one of the tables with a bulb of Coke in front of him.

  "What, you think I didn't bring my own?" Miller said, pulling a bottle of Aunt Jemima syrup out of a musset bag. "Grab a cup."

  "Absent friends," Miller said, lifting his cup.

  "Absent friends," Weaver said, downing the bourbon. "You've been hanging out with the Marines. I can't believe they lost an entire platoon while we were under water."

  "I room with their first sergeant, note," Miller said. "It is not sweetness and light in the Marine compartment right now. Apparently they were all going to get wiped out but one kid with an experimental gun stopped the charge."

  "Kid needs to get a medal," Weaver said.

  "Captain MacDonald has recommended him for the Silver Star," Miller said. "It still doesn't change the fact that we're down some serious troops. And we've got the wrong guns, apparently. The Marines say that their Gatlings hit and bounced off those things."

  "What was the experimental gun?" Weaver asked.

  "Believe it or not, a cut down Barrett," the SEAL said, shaking his head. "The kid uses them as pistols. His nickname is Two-Gun."

  "I'm almost sorry I missed it," Bill said as Miriam and Mimi walked into the compartment. "That would have been something to see."

  "Join us in some medicinal bourbon?" Miller asked. "It's good to see you up and around, Miriam. How's the edema?"

  "Gone," Miriam said, sitting down. "And I'm allergic to alcohol. But feel free. Most of my friends drink. I'm a great designated driver."

  "None for me, either," Mimi said. "Not ready to try it, yet. I hear that the Marines . . ."

  "Twelve dead," Miller said.

  "That's terrible!" Miriam said. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry!"

  "Nothing you could have done," Miller replied. "Those things weren't talking."

  "I can still be sorry," Miriam said. "Is there anything we can do for them?"

  "That's a good question," the SEAL said, frowning. "Honestly, you probably could. But I don't know if you should. Right now, they're going to be in the Marine mess, getting their issue of bourbon. There
's some empty seats . . ."

  "And we could fill them?" Miriam asked. "I've done counseling before. But I'm not sure we're allowed . . ."

  "You're allowed," the SEAL said. "They're not allowed in our area, not the reverse. But we shouldn't go down there, yet. Not as shocky as they're going to be. Give it . . . fifteen or twenty minutes.

  "Okay," Miriam said. "So a question: Why are we just sitting here?"

  "The CO is trying to figure out if we should go home or stay out and finish the mission," Bill replied.

  "Go home," Miriam said.

  "Keep going," Mimi replied almost simultaneously.

  "We have people who are hurt," Miriam said, frowning prettily. "They should be in a hospital."

  "Dr. Chet is very good and there's nothing a hospital could do for them he isn't," Weaver pointed out.

  "Better food," Miller said. "No, scratch that. Worse food. Well, if you don't mind three-bean salad."

  "I mind three-bean salad," Weaver said. "But mostly because it should be outlawed on a submarine."

  "This is harder than we expected," Miriam pointed out. "This is only the second planet we've found with life and we lost all those soldiers, and Dr. Dean. What if other planets are worse?"

  "We didn't really know what to expect," Weaver said. "We've run into four alien species so far. Three of them were enemies. We've run into some weird space stuff, but that was to be expected. I thought it would be harder than it has been."

  "We haven't run into magic, yet," Miller said. "No giant floating heads in space, no godlike beings and nothing that's trying to eat us in weird ways. Hell, we haven't even run into another Boca Anomaly. Seems okay to me, so far. And, note, I probably spent more time with those Marines than any of you. I knew them by name. But they were here to keep the scientists and commanders from getting eaten and they did their jobs. The ship's still working and we've got air, food and water. We're good. What do you think, Mimi?"

  "What's the purpose of the mission?" the girl asked.

  "Local area survey," Weaver replied. "Get a look at the local area. Get a feel for how many viable planets there might be in the galaxy and especially in the local area. Keep an eye out for the Dreen."

  "That's what the mission says we're supposed to be doing," Mimi said. "But what are we really doing?"

  "I don't follow you," Miller said. "That's the mission parameters, like Doc said."

  "We're seeing how hard this is," Miriam interjected.

  "Exactly," Mimi replied. "We're out in space to find out how hard it is to be out in space. How long we can expect to stay out and survive. What we can expect to encounter in the way of space hazards and planetary hazards."

  "We've found that out," Miriam pointed out. "It's hard."

  "Not yet," Mimi argued. "Because we can keep going. I'd say that if we turn back when we're still capable of going on, we won't know what the ship and the crew can handle. So far, we've handled everything we've run into."

  "Yeah, but you don't test to destruction," Miller said. "Not in this case, anyway. There's only one ship. We don't even have the theory for another one, unless I'm much mistaken. Doc?"

  "He's got a point," Weaver admitted reluctantly. "We'd sure as hell better head back before we run into something we can't handle. There ain't any more ships on the drawing board if you know what I mean."

  "Ten Marines and a wake-up," Miller said then snorted.

  "What?" Miriam asked.

  "I get it, but only because I've been in the Navy for a few years," Weaver replied, smiling slightly at the grim joke. "When you're about to get out, when you're 'short' as they call it, you do a count-down. 'Forty days and a wake-up and I'm a civilian, man!' "

  "So we have to turn back when we're out of Marines?" Miriam asked. "That's harsh."

  "But we can keep going, so we should," Mimi said. "We should keep going as long as the food, air and water hold out. And the Marines, of course. Or until we run into something that really messes us up. Otherwise we won't know what we can do. Is this the last mission we're going to do?"

  "No," Bill said. "The overall plan is go back, assimilate data, do maintenance and repair, maybe switch out some crew and mission specialists, then go back out. I don't know what the next mission parameters will be. Pretty much the same unless I'm much mistaken, just farther out."

  "And farther and farther," Mimi said, stroking Tuffy. "To go farther and farther, we need to know how far we can go, what we can do. That's all I'm saying."

  "Solving the problems of the universe, sir?" the COB asked as he walked in the mess.

  "Trying to," Bill admitted. "That's what we're out here to do, right?"

  "Yes, sir, as you say," the COB replied. "But at the moment, the captain would like a minute of your time."

  "On my way," Bill said. "His office?"

  "Yes, sir," the COB replied. "I see the medicinal bourbon has made its way here. Mind if I have a hit?"

  "Actually, just maple syrup," Miller said, squeezing some more into a cup. "Have some. Puts hair on your chest. Then Miss Moon, Miss Jones and I are going down to the Marine mess to explain the concept of a wake to them."

  * * *

  "Come," the CO said, slipping away a book and waving to a station chair as Weaver entered the compartment. "Sit."

  "Sir," Weaver replied, sitting down carefully.

  "Any more thoughts on turning back versus going on?" the CO asked.

  "Lots, sir," Bill admitted. "I think there are about two hundred different opinions on the ship."

  "But only one matters," the CO said. "Why did you ask to join the service, Weaver?"

  "Sir?" Bill asked, momentarily confused. "Well, I was getting jerked off this mission by Columbia over and over again and I thought I could make a contribution, sir."

  "So you arranged to get a commission with the caveat that you got to go on the mission," Spectre said. "You got sent through half a dozen classes, which you naturally breezed, given your background, and a couple of cruises. Do you think that makes you a fit officer?"

  Weaver opened and closed his mouth for a moment at the apparent attack. The thing that got him was that the CO was presenting it in such an even tone he couldn't figure out if there was anger in the background or not.

  "More or less accurate, sir," Weaver replied. "But, yes, I think I'm a fairly good officer. So far my reviews have been excellent. I think I'm a good officer, sir."

  "Did you know those Marines, Weaver?" the CO asked. "I'm sure you knew Dr. Dean, but did you ever meet any of the Marines?"

  "Only in passing, sir," Weaver said.

  "I did," Spectre said. "I made sure to meet with all the security personnel at one point or another, get to know them. I'm not a ground combat guy and don't begin to think that I am. But they were under my command and I made sure I knew what they were made of. Pretty good kids for Marines, and they were all kids. I sent them out there, knowing it was going to be a hot mission. Given what we'd seen of the crabpus, there was a fair chance one or two were going to get injured or killed. Why did I do that?"

  "It's our mission, sir," Bill said, still puzzled. "We're doing a survey."

  "We had all the big information we needed about Runner's World," the CO said. "Dr. Dean got his core sample, we had botanical and animal samples. We had air and water samples. We could have just left and gone on to the next planet. So why keep poking?"

  "If you're second guessing your decisions, sir . . ." Weaver said carefully.

  "I'm not, I'm asking you why I chose to keep poking," the CO replied.

  "Sir, with all due respect, I'm not a mind reader," Weaver said.

  "Take a guess."

  "Curiosity, sir? You felt that more information was necessary for the mission?"

  "More the second one," the CO said. "But the information I was looking for was 'how hard will it be to poke on this planet.' For that matter, how hard could it be to poke on other planets? We've only found two planets through the gates that have extensive biology. And both of them
are pretty tame compared to Earth, much less Runner's World. What's your opinion of that, Commander Weaver? Be frank."

  "I think it was a valid choice, sir," Bill responded automatically. "That was part of the discussion I was just having. How hard is it going to be to do things out here is an important part of what we're looking at. And, hell, sir, pure curiosity isn't a negative in what we're doing."

  "Ever read any Kipling, Weaver?" the CO asked.

  "A bit, sir," Bill said, trying to keep up with the apparent changes in topic. "A book called Kim and a couple of his poems."

  "Brilliant man, I wrote my masters thesis on connections between Kipling's Victorian Era, the Romans he tended to write about and current conditions. At least, current when I wrote my thesis. Things . . . change. But one of his overlooked poems is one called 'The Explorer.' It's about a guy who quits farming one day and goes off exploring over a mountain range everyone says is uncrossable. The trip nearly kills him, and others take all the credit, but he was the first to go there and to see what was there. 'Then a voice as stern as conscience said: Something lost beyond the ranges, lost and waiting for you . . . Go!' "

  "Not familiar with it, sir," Weaver said.

  " 'That was where the Norther killed the plains bred ponies, so I called the pass Despair,' " the CO said, apparently lost in thought. "Haunting poem. And do you know that funny thing about it? Such a place as he found would never have existed on Earth at any point. Even in the Americas, there were Native Americans who had been there first. A farmer couldn't walk away from the plow and find a place that was uninhabited. But we can, Commander Weaver. We can. I'd suggest you brush up on your Kipling, Commander Weaver. Take that as a strong suggestion based on professional development. The reading list of the CO of the Vorpal Blade will, after all, be the de rigueur reading list for the future space Navy, right?"

  * * *

  The. Heat. Was. Lowering. It. Was. Becoming. Again.

  * * *

  "Semper Fi, jarhead," Miller said as he entered the compartment.

  First Sergeant Powell was standing by the hatch, looking at the group of nearly silent Marines. The mess was standing room only. But, normally, you couldn't have packed the whole company, less officers, into the space. And even at the tables there were empty spaces, places that no one chose to sit.