First Casualty

by Mike Moscoe

  “Ray, a ship came back from a bad jump!”

  The blank look on his face was not what Rita expected.

  “Ray, ships have been going into jumps and never coming out for centuries. If you make a bad jump, you don't come back.”

  “And why were we poor passengers never told?” he growled.

  “Because we pilots worry about it enough for all of you.”

  Ray drew back, aware he'd stomped his bride's professional pride. He kept his mouth shut. Excited, her glower was short-lived. “In the early days, they had a lot of bad jumps. For a century they've become rarer and rarer. We haven't had one in fifty years. You know what causes them?” Ray shook his head, not about to risk another misstep.

  “Speed! Speed and spin. The faster you go into a jump, the farther you go.”

  Now Ray was puzzled. “You said you took the jump into that hellhole at twice the speed you would have if the admiral hadn't ordered it?”

  “Spin and speed,” Rita repeated. “Spin the ship up, hit a hole at high speed, and zoom, you're halfway across the galaxy. Think about it, Ray, a whole new bunch of jump lines to survey. Millions of systems to visit. Enough cheap resources and good land for humanity to stretch out in. Ray, we've got to get this damn war stopped so we can get on with the real stuff of life!”

  Which brought Ray back to the letter in his pocket. He pulled it out and handed it to her. “It appears that few share your enthusiasm for peace,” he said dryly.

  Rita glanced at the letter. “You're invited to brief the President on the progress of the war?”

  “Please glance at the second page.”

  It took her a moment to read that letter. Handwritten by an acquaintance of Ray's who was now on the General Staff, it offered him “advice” on how to handle—more like survive—the briefing. Do not interrupt the President. Do look attentive to everything the President says, no matter how long he speaks. Do not correct him. And, most important, do not say anything that would cast doubt on the eventual victory of Unity forces.

  Rita scowled. “That's not a briefing, that's a ...”

  “Deaf-mute leading the blind,” Ray offered.

  “I was groping for something truly obscene. But nothing I've heard in my Navy time was bad enough. Ray, people are dying, and the President has his head buried in the sand.”

  Ray leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I'm a soldier, Rita, but sitting here, trying to make this body more than a lump of wasted tissue, I've had time to think. Your father is an interesting source of information. As are you. We need a private talk. I imagine violating any of the general's Dos and Don'ts would be a career-ending decision.” Ray glanced down at his legs. “Somehow I suspect I do not have much of a career left. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing to go out in a blaze of glory ...” He hadn't intended to pause, but the words came to glaring life behind his eyeballs before he finished. “... telling the President what no one else has the guts to tell him.”

  Rita paled; the pause had not gone unnoticed. “Father should be home soon. Let me help you to the garden. I think he would like to talk about this among the flowers. Mother, send Dad to the garden when he gets home,” she shouted.

  “Yes, dear. Dinner will be at seven.”

  'Thank you, Mother.”

  * * * *

  Ray managed to make it under his own power to the hidden glade of pleasant memory. Rita was at his elbow, carrying three light lawn chairs under one arm. They were just settling in when Rita whispered, “Father is coming.”

  Coat thrown over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up, and whistling, Mr. Nuu sauntered toward them. “Mother told me you had something to tell me.”

  “Yes, Father, I've had a very exciting day.” Her voice didn't sound excited. Ray wished he could turn back the hour, let Rita once more bubble of doors opening and the galaxy falling into their hands. Maybe he should not have mentioned his letter. Being a husband was more difficult than he'd expected.

  “Can you tell us what time it is, Father? Mother was very specific about dinner.”

  “Of course.” He glanced at his watch, then raised an eyebrow at them. Ray nodded.

  Ernest frowned and turned around slowly. “Can't read it in the sunlight. Just a moment. Ah, yes.” He took his chair. “We are in the clear. What must we talk about?”

  Ray nodded to Rita. “Tell him of your discovery.”

  “It's nothing,” she said, but she quickly told her father of the ship that returned from the lost.”

  “Sweet Mother of God,” he breathed. “Each jump point leads to a dozen, and we have only made use of one. Oh, my daughter, what this will mean to you and your grandchildren.”

  “There may be no children, Father.” She handed him Ray's letter.

  He read both pages; finished, his hands collapsed into his lap. He stared at them, mouth agape, no words coming out. “I... have ... been hearing things.” He shook his head as if to free himself of a daze. “I have known powerful fools who like to rewrite history, sometimes events only a week in the past. But the Unity Party is living in fantasy.”

  “What can we do, Father, to make them see?” Rita pleaded.

  Slowly, Ernest shook his head. “Maybe it's too late. Maybe they've gotten away with changing the past for so long that they no longer fear the future. Major, a friend of mine sits in the Wardhaven legislature. The night we voted to join Unity, they suspended the rule barring nonmembers from the floor of the legislature. Thugs with billy clubs wandered the hall. Thugs!

  “But even with clubs, they could not thwart our traditions. The vote of the members was to join Unity after the people approved the issue in a referendum. Do you remember that vote?”

  Ray shook his head. “As a soldier, I ignored politics.”

  “Father, I have not missed a vote since I turned twenty-one. I don't ever remember hearing of that ballot.”

  “You and the rest of the planet. I recently had cause to review the law that brought us into Unity. The official one posted on net has several differences from the one I downloaded the morning after our legislature voted.”

  “They can do that.” Ray left the words hanging. Not a question, not quite a statement of fact.

  “They did it,” Ernest answered.

  Rita rose from her chair and went to stand behind Ray. Gently she rubbed his back. “Ray is thinking of using this invitation into the presence of the President to end his military career in a blaze of glory, telling him what he does not want to hear. Would words mean anything to him?” Rita choked on the question.

  For a long time, no one said anything. When someone moved, it was Ernest. Glancing at his watch, humming a patriotic tune, he paced around them. After one circuit, he continued pacing, but talking low, as if to himself. “I have a friend you two may wish to meet. It might shock you, daughter, but I know a spy. He may see in the major's summons opportunities that most people only dream about. Let us talk again tomorrow afternoon.”

  He quit studying his watch, looked Ray in the eye with a gently twisted smile. “Let me help you up, Major. You have got a lot of walking ahead of you.”

  * * * *

  If Mattim didn't care for the greeting they got from the 97th, he liked Pitt's Hope's even less. Ordered to immediately halt, they hung in space while four heavy cruisers came out to meet them. They were scanned by everything Sandy had ever heard of and a few she hadn't. Only after they'd been boarded were they allowed to head for Beta Station. Even then, security teams spread out over the ship while ten very suspicious types under the direct supervision of Captain Horatio Whitebred kept everyone on the bridge under close scrutiny. The Sheffield ended up in dock while Mattim was hustled off to report to the admiral.

  The new admiral, or the newest admiral, received him without waiting. “Captain Abeeb, you were mentioned very prominently in Captain Pringle's report of the first battle. Highly flexible approach to fighting, but good instincts.”

  “I did what I had to do to get
us out of that mess. Was the Significant badly damaged?”

  “No, they patched her up before the next shoot, and lost her with all hands in that one, sorry to say.”

  It was a kick in the gut. All the risks Mattim had taken to get them out alive only added a few days to their lives. Damn! If the admiral noticed his reaction, she only hesitated a moment. “The Sheffield’s going to be a while in dock, Captain.”

  “We made most of her battle damage good,” Mattim interrupted. “The crew needed work to keep their minds off being lost. The ship's in good shape.”

  “I don't doubt that, Mattim, but we've learned a lot in the last six weeks, and your ship is about two mods behind in hardware, three or four in software. What was good enough for fifteen or twenty years of peacetime service gets replaced in two or three weeks now.

  “I've been wanting to do something since I took command last week, but didn't have anyone. Now, I think I do. While the Sheffield is being updated, I'd like to detach you to the Ninety-seventh. Captain Anderson and Commander Umboto are damn good, but they've spent most of their careers on the defense. The squadron keeps getting clobbered in running gun battles. They keep getting clobbered from space when we're not around. We're each fighting our own separate battles. I want us to fight together.”

  Mattim liked her point. Still, he hardly saw himself as the man to glue two different Navies together. “You must have someone better at this than me.”

  “Captain, I came in with the Forty-ninth Cruiser Squadron. Right now every ship, except the Sheffield , is battle ready. I know what kind of battle I want to fight. Until Gamma jump starts hollering that colonials are in-system, I intend to spend every minute training the ships I've got to fight just that battle.

  “You fought the Sheffield pretty independently. I'm game to give you that freedom next battle, too. But for now, I want you with Andy, coming up with ways we can support each other.”

  What could he say? “Yes, ma'am. When do I leave?”

  She returned to her desk, tapped it a few times, and glanced up. “A couple of destroyers were due to make a supply run tomorrow. I just moved them up. They leave in two hours. That enough time to get your kit together?”

  Mattim saluted. “On my way.”

  * * * *

  Next afternoon, Ray and Rita were taking the sun in what had come to be their part of the garden, when Mr. Nuu approached, a short, roly-poly man huffing along beside him. Rita offered him her chair, then settled on the grass beside Ray. The two men carried on a running commentary on the trees, flowers, and bushes, while the newcomer produced several gadgets from the pockets of his disheveled suit. He'd glance at each, move it around or hold it up, glance at it again, then make it disappear. Finally satisfied, he leaned forward.

  “Ernest tells me you would like the President to see the light, grasp the hopelessness of his policy, and end the war.”

  Ray nodded; so did Rita.

  “You realize that answer is itself a capital offense.”

  “Already?” Ernest failed to sound surprised.

  “The Presidential Proclamation came in yesterday. Anyone found defaming either the President or the glorious war against the Earth scum is to be arrested immediately, hurried before a peoples' court, and executed within twenty-four hours.”

  “The people of Westhaven won't stand for that,” Rita said.

  Ray remembered Santiago's sister. What the people would stand for and could survive were not the same anymore.

  “Most of Westhaven is in uniform, like you two, and subject to even more draconian measures. You haven't been reading your mail, Senior Pilot.” Rita blushed.

  “You're saying,” Ray mused, “that matters are totally out of hand. They are drafting an army they cannot deploy. But it can enslave the people on the planet it is supposed to defend.”

  “I am afraid so,” the newcomer agreed.

  “How did we get ourselves into this mess?” Ernest sighed.

  “If I may be to the point,” Ray said, leaning forward, “the matter before us is how to get out of this mess. I take it that either no efforts have been made to redeem the situation, or they have all failed.”

  “Many fine men and women have died trying to strike at the head of this gang that throttles us, but our President only increases his security.”

  “Then what chance have we?” Rita whispered.

  “More than you might think.” The fat man pursed his lips. “Major, the tools at our disposal are quite good, but not perfect. Your disability opens doors closed to others. Your mobility is presently limited. For a long journey it would be only natural to fit you for walking assistance. Walkers are very helpful, but the skin must be toughened. I know just the medicine you should use.” The spy grinned.

  Rita swallowed hard. Her hand clutched at his. “This is not a suicide mission. Ray will survive it, won't he?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Longknife,” the spy master assured her. “The President needs to see the light. I think Ray has a very sound grasp of the problem.”

  “Of course, honey. I will do the job, like a soldier.” I might survive. “There's no defense I can't handle.”

  She rose up on her knees, looked him hard in the eye, searched his face. He dared not look away.

  “Good, because I'm going with you. I want to be carrying your child—our child—before you meet the President.”

  * * * *

  The Destroyer Navy was an interesting place to visit. Mattim would not want to live in a tin can. The officers and crew were young enough to handle four gees with panache, if not without grumbling. For him, they had a full water tank, and he was glad for it when the John Paul Jones and the Yamamoto dashed for the jump point. They backed through it at a few klicks per second. In-system was a surprise. “Colonials. Looks like a couple of their cans just made a supply run,” the skipper told him. “Doubt they'll cause us any trouble.”

  If the trip was boring, the ending made up for it in stark terror. On final approach, the Jones held to two gees and they introduced Mattim to his drop shuttle. The Jones would not land. Supplies and the single passenger were cut loose in packing crates with rockets and a tiny navigation control.

  “Does this work?” Mattim asked incredulously as they crammed him into a space no bigger than a bed, and a narrow one at that.

  “Never had any complaints from the others,” the chief supervising his installation assured him.

  “Dead men tell no tales,” the second class tightening down Mattim's straps muttered.

  “Knock it off, Peadee.”

  “Right, Chief.”

  Mattim glanced around his tiny cell. “How often do you use this drop system?”

  “Whenever we drop replacements to the Ninety-seventh. We only land when we've got casualties to lift out,” the chief said.

  Mattim glanced at the second class. “We deliver the poor jarheads.” He shrugged like a boat hand on the River Styx.

  With that kind of lead-in, Mattim expected the worse. He was not disappointed. The canister creaked and groaned as it dropped away from the Jones. Rockets slammed him into the thin cushion of his seat. Something snapped; Mattim did not like the sound of it, but he had no control over this thing. It began to spin. He had no view out. After twenty years in space, he discovered what claustrophobia was. Gritting his teeth, he concentrated on what he could control—his breathing. And his bowels. Tightening his gut, he waited. The damn suit he'd been loaned didn't even have a chronometer. Mattim wasn't a strong believer in hell; this bucket introduced him to it.

  Without warning, he hit with a crunch that jarred him to the bone and sent a spasm of pain through his back. The canister stood for a moment, then slowly collapsed, leaving him dangling from his straps. Someone was supposed to be right along to collect him.

  “Hello, Ninety-seventh, this is Captain Mattim Abeeb. Anybody there?”

  Dead silence. He glanced at his air supply. The backup canister showed twenty-nine minutes. The main supply showed—nothing.
He tapped it. It still showed nothing. He rapped it hard. For a second it

  showed zero minutes. Then it went back to blank. Then the entire canister went dark.

  “Oh, God,” he breathed. Mattim wasn't any surer about heaven than he was about hell. At the moment he hoped there was a God watching over him, 'cause the Navy was doing a damn poor job of it. He started to shiver. It wasn't that cold. Yet.

  * * * *

  “Company A, brigade here. We got a stray supply canister in front of your position. Could you collect it?”

  Mary had sent her radio operator to the sack after a thirty-two-hour shift. She had managed to catch a two-hour nap during that thirty«-two, so she considered herself fresh. “Supplies or replacements?” she asked without thinking.

  “Neither. Navy sent a captain down for a little talk-talk with Anderson, then misplaced him. We've got to pick him up. He's got two hours of air and a half hour backup. No big rush.”

  The miner in Mary took that in, divided them by two, then took the smaller. She gave herself fifteen minutes. “Roger, brigade, we're on it.”

  She glanced at her boards. Dumont had the reserve squad. “Du, how many rolligons have we got working today?”

  “Four. Who wants to take a drive in the country?”

  She passed along the situation. “Put a driver and gunner in each, and a driver in my command car. I'll take this one out.”

  “Good, I can get back to catching up on my beauty rest. Damn, this being in reserve is great.”

  Mary would bet a month's pay the gunner on the lead rig would be Dumont. Her command rig was slowing as she exited the HQ. She grabbed a handhold, and it accelerated away. She kept the rig open to space, but it could be closed up and pressurized.

  Four captured rolligons were already raising dust as they hustled through the pass; she joined the tag end of the column. The colonials had just tried their hand at walking in singles, heavy explosives packed on their backs to leave behind as calling cards. It had been a real snipe hunt, but those that hadn't been chased down had been chased off.

  And they were now barreling out into the ground they'd disappeared into. Isn't life in the corps wonderful?