by David Tatum
“Me?” he squawked with restrained laughter. “What am I doing to worry you?” He looked down and inspected his clothes – in honor of the occasion, he’d shown up in his uniform khakis. “Is my gig line crooked or something?”
“I wish it was that simple,” she answered, smiling weakly. “Look, Chris, it’s painfully obvious to those of us who know you reasonably well that something’s bothering you. You look more exhausted than our work on the sim can account for. Schubert tells me you’re moving around violently in your sleep... and you seem reluctant to even take a nap to rest yourself. Something’s obviously bothering you, Chris, and I feel like it’s my fault.”
Chris waited patiently and sighed. “Are you finished?” he asked steadily. Rachel reluctantly nodded, so he continued. “Okay, I know I don’t look well. I know my eyes are bloodshot, my comebacks aren’t as fierce, and my speech is a little slurred.” Rachel blinked – that was one symptom she hadn’t noticed. “I’m honestly not even surprised to hear how I’m thrashing about in my sleep. But it’s nothing – really! I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately, and now that I do have some time to rest I’m having a few nightmares. It’s not a big deal, so don’t worry about it.”
Rachel nodded, but refused to drop it. “Okay, I can understand that. But don’t tell me not to worry about it – I can decide what I should worry about and what I shouldn’t. And you aren’t getting away with saying you’re having nightmares that violent without telling more about that.”
Chris snorted. “And just how are you going to make me tell you about them? You don’t have the right to order me to, that’s for sure.”
“You’re right, I can’t order you.” She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “But I can still ask you, and trust you respect me enough to give me an honest answer.”
The battle of wills turned into a staring contest as Chris tried to glare Rachel into backing down. She refused to yield, though, and he finally relented.
“I’m not sure if I can explain it very well,” he said.
“Just try. That’s all I ask.”
Chris chewed his lip hesitantly. “Well, I suppose the first step is to show you something. Hold on.”
He started unbuttoning his shirt, and Rachel looked at him questioningly as she realized what he was doing.
Chris shot her a wicked glance. “Don’t worry – I’m not planning on showing you anything you haven’t seen before. I’m just taking off my shirt – I’m wearing something underneath.”
Rachel flushed slightly. “Well, warn me next time!”
He just shook his head in amusement as he continued to remove the khaki shirt and pulled up the t-shirt underneath about chest-level. The revealed skin showed a rather nasty-looking bruise and various other minor abrasions. Rachel was astonished – what could have done this to him, and what did this have to do with his nightmares?
“I have very... realistic nightmares,” Chris said. “Sometimes I even get a bruise or some other minor injury tossing around while I’m asleep.” He tucked his undershirt back in and started replacing his khaki top. “I talked to a doctor about it, and he sent me to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist sent me back to another doctor – a sleep specialist. I got them all together and they finally agreed that it’s a psychosomatic condition related to the nocebo effect. I’m not the only person this has happened to, though it’s rarely affects people as much as it does me, and even the Navy medical department says it’s nothing serious to worry about. That is, unless you consider minor bumps and scrapes a serious medical condition.”
“That looks like it’s a lot worse than minor to me,” Rachel noted.
“Well, it wasn’t that bad, at first. At first, it really was just a little sore spot, not even a bruise.” He grinned wryly. “The problem is, like when you take repeated punches to the same spot, it tends to bruise up... and when I have the same nightmare several times in a row, well, I think you get the picture.”
Rachel closed her eyes and leaned back in contemplation. “So you’ve not just been having nightmares, you’ve been having the same nightmare over and over again, is that it?”
“Pretty much,” Chris said. “Oh, there are always minor differences, but... the end results are always the same.”
“Chris,” Rachel said slowly. “What is this nightmare about?”
There was a pause, where Chris seemed to be having a debate with himself. Resolved, he pulled out his hand comp and started keying in a few commands. Nodding, he handed it to her. “That is what I keep dreaming.”
Rachel looked at the display on the hand comp briefly. “These are eval results from the macrosim. And for our project, too... why didn’t you show them to me?”
Chris closed his eyes tiredly. “I did, just not in that much detail. They’re the worst-case sims. I go to sleep at night and see myself in command of a fleet of ships just like we were given to work with in the scenario. I see myself following my plans. And then something goes wrong, and I can’t think clearly enough to fix it... and suddenly, my fleet has been wiped out, and the enemy force combines their fire on my flagship. And then I see a piece of debris headed for my chest, slamming into it... and then either I wake up, or... well, or I dream about it again.” He shrugged. “There are times sleep just isn’t very appealing to me, however much I need it.”
Rachel swallowed nervously. It really was all her fault – she had been putting too much pressure on him. True, the Academy was supposed to put its students through as strenuous a life as possible to try and wash out as many officers that couldn’t hack it as it could, but as a freshman he hadn’t been trained to deal with that level of stress, yet. He was being pressured for bigger and better things from a full Admiral for crying out loud, and she had the gall to add to it by nitpicking his uniform’s appearance after waking him up at four in the morning.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He laughed. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. Please, don’t feel responsible for any of this – it’s all on my head. And now that I don’t have to worry about this project any more, I’m pretty sure I’ll get back to normal soon. But I hope you see why I don’t want a career in tactics, now. Something I doubt Admiral McCaffrey and his friends will ever understand.”
Rachel smiled up at him softly. Obviously, he was trying to say he didn’t want her to let up on him too much. For him, apparently, changing that about her would be worse than the pressure she was already putting on him. Well, if that’s what he wants...
“Oh, I’m not sure that I don’t still agree with them, even after learning about this,” she said, grinning. She would keep pressuring him... but she’d start by helping him learn to cope with stress better, first. “Things could change. Wait until you’re through your sophomore year before ruling it out, okay?” Her eyes twinkled. “And I’ll be keeping you on your toes until then, so you’d better listen to me!”
He smiled back. “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I think it’s your move. So, just how are you going to deal with the loss of that bishop, anyway?”
CHAPTER IV
Earth Alliance Army Asteroid Base Cleopatra, Staging Area One Headquarters
Staff Sergeant Roland Murphy, acting as a messenger, rapped on the oak door to Colonel Andrew Beccera’s office three times and waited. He’d never met the Colonel before, but he knew him by reputation. Beccera had been a Captain some thirty years before, the last time that the Earth Alliance Army was deployed in anger, and was in some respects still recovering from that war. He’d won a battlefield promotion to Major early on, but later was severely wounded in action. He was promoted to Colonel, and the Army had tried to give him a desk job. Beccera refused to accept it, however, even though the surgeons who had repaired his wounds spent almost a full year (unsuccessfully) trying to remove all of the shrapnel. Thanks to the recent peace, the Army was able to keep him from a major duty station, but not for his lack of trying. He had repeatedly avoided assignments he saw as a permanent desk j
obs, going so far as refusing several promotions in order to retain field duty eligibility.
That Murphy was the secretary and Aide-de-Camp for Brigadier General James Austin didn’t make him feel any less uneasy. After all, General Austin was the officer in charge of personnel, and that automatically made him the natural enemy of officers who loved to refuse desk assignments. He was just there to coordinate a time for the General and the Colonel to meet, however, so maybe he would escape unscathed this time.
“Come in,” a gruff voice said from the other side of the door. Sergeant Murphy winced – that did not sound like a man in a good mood.
“Sir!” he said, saluting as he entered the office. His eyes traveled over the room. In Murphy’s opinion, it looked more like a museum than an office. On top of a set of file cabinets lay a number of historic trinkets, including an antique Japanese katana, various classical styles of firearms, and a number of hats and caps representing numerous era’s different military forces. Pinned to the walls were more uniforms from antiquity, old-style photographs, a few tattered cloth flags. Add in the dozens of other little trinkets from various eras of military history, and the place had the sense of being a shrine to the armies of the ancients.
Colonel Beccera returned the salute. “I’m afraid I wasn’t told of your coming, Sergeant...”
“Murphy, sir.”
“Sergeant Murphy. May I ask why you’re here?” He seemed somewhat amused, although a little wary.
“I’m here from General Austin’s office. He wishes to schedule a face-to-face meeting with you as soon as possible.”
The Colonel’s eyes hardened. “Ah. I see. You should have just commed my staff to do that.”
“I did, sir,” Murphy said, carefully keeping all emotion out of his face. He knew when he was being given the run-around. “But for some reason, once I told them where I was from, I never could find anyone who would allow me to talk to you directly. So I took a shuttle from Earth, transferred onto the next cutter delivering your supplies, and came here in person. I figured that was the only way we’d ever talk.”
Beccera continued to glare at him for a few seconds before a smile cracked his lips. “Well, I can’t imagine why my staff is having so many problems. Since you’ve gone to all this trouble, I suppose I can at least hear you out. What’s this meeting about?”
“Well, sir, your time in this post is up. In fact, you’re overdue for a rotation elsewhere,” Murphy began, watching the Colonel closely. Beccera just nodded impatiently, so he continued, “Essentially, we have more than one assignment open to you, and General Austin wishes to discuss your options. I am told at least one of these options may expire if you fail to meet with him within the next few days.”
The Colonel grimly nodded, leaning forward. “I see. And if I refuse to attend any of these meetings?”
Murphy smiled devilishly. “I believe in that case the General will be making your decision for you.”
Beccera stood up and offered his hand. Somewhat hesitantly, the Sergeant took it, and they shook. “Good day, Sergeant. Please, see Corporal Deborah Culp on your way out. She’ll be in a better position to give you an answer than I.”
Murphy walked out. Did I just get him to agree?
——————————
Earth Alliance Army Headquarters. CAC Building
Sally Hannah gave a pleasant smile as she entered the room. “Vice Admiral Craig sends her apologies, gentlemen, but she will be a few minutes late. An unexpected storm is forcing her to shuttle in from further out than she would have liked.”
Admiral Pratchet, the Navy’s senior most officer, nodded. “Well, we can start without her. Why don’t you stick around, Sally, and take some notes to help bring Lee up to speed when she arrives.”
Hannah looked at Admiral Mumford, who nodded. “Very well, sir. Just give me a moment to get my hand comp.”
“Most of us know each other, but not everyone, I think.” Pratchet grinned. “So everyone, please let us know who you are before you speak. Pierre, would you care to get the ball rolling?”
Mumford nodded. “Pierre Mumford. I am in overall command of assembling the personnel we need for this thing, though I have to admit I’ve delegated much of that to the two people sitting next to me.” He nodded to the man on his right.
The only person in the room not in a Naval uniform stiffened, all eyes on him. “General Alexander Preble. I’m the new Commandant of the Marine Corps. This will be my first encounter with the War Game – I’ve always been on the outside looking in. I’m officially in charge of picking which Marines participate and which get to stay on station like I always have.”
“Mike?” Pratchet prompted, gesturing to his left.
“Admiral Michael McCaffrey. Pierre’s being modest – he’s done a lot of work. Really, it’s taken a lot of co-ordination between us to get this far. This exercise is so manpower-intensive, one of us needs to be in charge of picking people to assign to the Wargame and the other has to figure out how to cover for the absence of those same people.”
“The drain on manpower is scary,” Mumford agreed. “But that is a topic for another meeting. This is about the Wargame itself. Ken?”
“At this time, I’d like to introduce the command structure for the Fleet side of the Wargame,” Pratchet said ruefully. “But Lee hasn’t gotten here yet. Most of her fleet commanders are, however – and I’m guessing they’d rather introduce themselves than have me do it for them. Arnold?”
“Rear Admiral Arnold Honeycutt,” a plump, somewhat jolly-looking man laughed. “And I’m not sure I want to know what you’d tell people about me, Ken. I’m told I will be commanding the First Division for the Wargame’s ‘Fleet’ side.” He grinned, pointing to his lapel. “The second star’s new, and it’s the first time I’ll command such a large force – even in a simulated environment. Looking forward to it.”
Pratchet snorted. “You’ll do fine – you’ve been good commanding smaller forces. Leanne?”
“Commodore Leanne Chapelle. I’ll be taking the Second Division. This will be my last hurrah before assuming command of the Pleiades Embassy Station.”
Pratchet snorted. Pleiades Embassy Station was one of the cushiest duty assignments in the Navy – practically no responsibilities outside of having to schmooze at a few parties, and the Embassy always had the best of food and entertainment as part of the “putting a good face forward” part of Earth Alliance propaganda. “Enjoy your vacation. Amanda?”
“Commodore Amanda Klingler. But why call on me? I thought I was supposed to be the chief liaison to the local civilian authorities.”
“Sorry, Commodore, that’s my fault,” McCaffrey said apologetically. “I told Ken before I told you. You may wind up commanding the Third Division, instead,” McCaffrey noted. “But only if there is a Third Division – we’re still working on that.”
“But that brings up a point,” Pratchet said. “There is a civilian authority during these exercises, and we’ll all have to be especially careful not to step on their toes. I don’t suppose you know who any of them are, yet, do you?”
Amanda shrugged. “I recently met with Dennis Lindquist, Deputy Governor of Colony Station Alpha-32 in the 94 Ceti Beta System. All three systems are in the infancy of their development, and currently they’re the most developed – they’ve actually terraformed some habitable sections of their planet, which the other two systems have yet to do. At the moment, one of the other two systems is occupied by little more than claimant buoys, and the other is still an early stages of their terraforming operation. I have yet to meet the Governor himself, however – someone named Geraci. I have no idea how involved either will be in the exercise.”
“Also,” Pratchet continued as Sally returned. “Vice Admiral Lee Craig will be the Commander-in-Chief for Fleet. Now that the introductions are over, Pierre? You’re up again.”
Admiral Mumford nodded. “Well, I’ll be in overall command of the exercise, but in practice that means very
little. I’ll be an observer and will adjudicate any disputes that the computers can’t resolve automatically. But most of my job will be over once the Wargame starts. Until then, though, I’m also the person who’s responsible for the whole mess.”
“The Wargame is always a logistical nightmare,” Commodore Klingler snorted. “Earth Fleet must contain at least forty percent of all commissioned military ships, by law. More ships than we could possibly need, all in one place, and we can’t touch them at all for this exercise.”
“The law’s the law,” Pratchet shrugged.
“What I don’t see is why you put an idiot like Captain Green in command of the Academy Forces,” Rear Admiral Honeycutt complained. “The sides are already so unevenly matched that Fleet is going to make mincemeat of the Academy. Can’t we make it a better challenge by at least posting someone competent in command?”
“Captain Green is hardly an incompetent,” Admiral Pratchet said with a warning look. “He’s been on the fast-track for promotion ever since he joined the Navy.”
“He’s more lucky than good,” Honeycutt argued doggedly. “And his skills are not as a tactician, but as a diplomat. In the context of fighting the Wargame, he is an incompetent.”
General Preble of the Marines shifted his weight uncomfortably. “This worries me. Was his appointment a result of our request?”
Admiral McCaffrey’s lips quivered. “The Marines want a say in the Academy’s CO? Now, why haven’t I heard anything about this?”
“Sorry, Mike,” Admiral Pratchet apologized. “Alex approached Admiral Mumford and I asking that the person we picked as a CO be a Captain with less than thirty years seniority.” He grinned. “Considering we always choose a Captain looking for promotion up to flag rank, and we don’t have any captains with nearly that many years seniority in the Navy, we figured it wouldn’t be enough of a problem to concern you.”
McCaffrey considered, then turned to the Marine general. “Just why did you make that request, if I may ask?”