by Mike Moscoe
The door to the admiral's quarters opened. Chief of Staff Stuart joined them on the bridge. “Tell Skobachev to take the squadron to Wardhaven at three gees. The admiral would appreciate your presence and all your department heads as soon as possible in his day cabin.”
Mattim nodded. He didn't know what the hell was going on here, but orders given were to be obeyed. “Quartermaster, order a department head meeting in the admiral's day cabin. Comm, advise Skobachev to lead the squadron to Wardhaven at three gees. Anything else?” he asked Stuart.
“Nothing for the moment.”
The hatch to the bridge opened. Mattim turned, surprised that any of his department heads had made it so fast. Eight grim-faced marines marched in. The two officers wore sidearms, as did a pair of sergeants. All the enlisted personnel, sergeants included, carried assault rifles.
The officer leading the marines stopped, saluted in a direction that managed to include both Mattim and Stuart, and announced, “I have orders to report to the admiral's day cabin as soon as we completed our jump.”
Stuart stepped aside. “The admiral's right this way.” He waved his left hand and the marine captain led her troops across the bridge and through the door. Was there a hint of a smile on the chief of staff's lips as he followed them?
One thing was sure. The marine officer was Mary the miner.
Twelve days out from Wardhaven, Oasis docked at High Rostock, the station in orbit above the capital. Her captain came to assist the transfer to a shuttle for the trip down. Ray was just at the lock when a young junior officer rushed up.
“There's a major battle fleet in orbit over Wardhaven!” he shouted.
“Where's our fleet?” Ray shot back.
“What's left is in the yards,” the captain snarled.
“Well, the yards are gone, and the ships in them,” the messenger added.
“My father's people,” Rita gasped.
“Terribly sorry, ma'am,” the captain responded, but Ray didn't see much thought behind it. Both he and the ship's skipper were intent on one question. Were the Earthies going to follow the rules ? The colonial worlds had been fighting among themselves for fifty years. The wars were wild affairs with each side doing whatever it took to beat the other into taking over their debt to Earth. One rule had never been violated. Once you lost control of the space above your planet, you surrendered.
Of course, under that rule, you did not destroy orbiting factories either. The Earthies had broken part of the rule. What did that mean for the rest?
* * * *
It took Mattim five minutes to muster his department heads; the doc was last. He led them in single file. Armed marines lined the bulkhead across from his officers. He stepped forward, placing himself alone in front of the admiral, his body between his crew and the marines. Without orders, maybe following some ancient drill that had been skipped in his ninety-day intro to the Navy, the exec and Guns followed him, taking station a step behind him and to either side. They felt good there.
Mattim hadn't the foggiest notion what the drill was, but he doubted this admiral did either. Saluting, he reported, “All department heads present. We await your orders.”
Admiral Whitebred beamed at the military honors, but the twist to his smile was pure evil. “In the next three days, I will win this war,” he informed the officers. “While the rest of the squadron silences resistance around the planet, we will accelerate and, at the proper time, release relativity bombs. They will shatter all resistance on the planet, and the shock waves from them will travel the length and breadth of colonial space. All resistance will crumble, and this war will end.”
“Good God” escaped lips. Mattim bit his tongue to keep silent. Now it all fell into place. The relativity bombs were never meant to intimidate; the stupid bastard meant to use them. Shock and numbness swept Mattim as he tumbled into the deepest pit of hell, a hell as real as the two-and-a-half-ton blocks of steel and stone his crew had so carefully stowed in the Sheffield’s magazine.
The admiral babbled on while Mattim struggled with his own demon. As if from a distance, Mattim heard gibberish about the need for the hard reality of war and death to be carried home. “Only when every man knows there is no place to hide will the killing stop.” Mattim stifled a snort; Wardhaven held a billion people. Their raging ghosts would call up bloody war forever. Mattim started to say so, but found he couldn't. For twenty years he'd sat in business meetings, listened to stupidity and folly . . . and kept his mouth shut. For a second, practice held him quiet.
And that second gave him a moment to look around. One marine nodded. He fondled his gun, familiar with it and the death it dealt. Mattim eyed Mary, remembering their hours together. She focused on the admiral, but the heat of his stare drew her glance. But only a glance before she dismissed him and returned to the back of the admiral's head.
They knew! The marines had been briefed while he was collecting his officers. What was in their briefing?
“Excuse me, Admiral,” Guns' soft rumble interrupted, “but no. I didn't joint the Navy forty years ago to commit genocide. And no man under my command will be a party to it either.”
The admiral actually smiled at that interruption, that same blend of smug, confident evil. “I was afraid an old-school type like you might not see the need to reinvent war,” the admiral said softly. He waved a hand, “Sergeant, I believe we have someone in need of counseling.”
“Yes sir,” shouted a young sergeant. In five swift steps he was beside Guns, pistol pointed up under Guns' jaw.
“Commander,” the admiral went on, “I suggest you reconsider your position. It has no future.”
“I've studied war since before you were born, kid.” Mattim cringed. Even with a gun in his face, Guns would not be tactful, much less retreat. “This idea stinks—morally and tactically. You'll get no quick peace. More likely a long war with no holds barred. You are wrong, and I will not besmirch the uniform I wear with the blood of a billion innocent people.”
“Then we'll limit it to your own,” the admiral quipped. “Sergeant, this man is guilty of disobeying an order and cowardice in the face of the enemy. We being at war, both crimes are capital. Execute him.”
“That's not a legal order.” Mattim didn't get the words out of his mouth before the gun exploded. Deafened, still Mattim could hear the roar of rage from behind him. The marines' assault rifles were coming off their shoulders even as he wheeled to find half his officers lunging forward, following the XO. His fist went out, slugging her in the gut.
“Back!” he ordered as Ding folded beside him and safeties clicked off behind him. One burst from those marines, and his ship would have no chain of command. “Back in place. Now.”
They hovered for a split second, torn between obeying him and avenging Guns. The second passed, and they fell back.
“Very good, Captain,'*' the admiral cooed. He had been very quick to get out of the line of fire. He stayed off to one side, a pistol in hand. “You'll go far.”
“I won't have my officers massacred,” Mattim answered through gritted teeth.
“No need for anyone else to get hurt,” the admiral assured him, “except some colonials, and we're at war with them. Right, Captain Rodrigo?”
The marine Mattim knew as Mary took a deep breath. “Yes sir,” she whispered.
“Captain Abeeb. You have your orders.”
“Yes,” Mattim hissed and turned on his heels, no salute this time. And almost stumbled over Guns' body. “Doctor, please remove Commander Howard to the ship's mortuary.”
“Immediately, sir.”
Normally, the officers would have waited on Mattim. With a quick jerk of his head, he sent them out ahead of him. They left, but didn't go far. He found them milling about on the bridge. As he took his chair, Mattim's mind raced. Somehow he had to stop genocide and keep his crew from being shot by marines. For that, he had to get control of his people and his own rage. Ding limped to her chair, rubbing her stomach where he'd slugged her.
The other officers gravitated silently toward the bridge hatch; what message would they take to the crew? Two marines came out of the admiral's cabin to take station on either side of the door. One of them was Guns' executioner—no, murderer. The safeties on both assault rifles were off.
“The briefing will not be discussed,” Mattim told his officers, then glanced at the bridge cameras. “Carry on.”
The officers filed out.
Mattim turned to Ding. “I need you, Commander,” he whispered. “I've already got one dead officer. We'll mourn him later. Right now, I and this ship need an exec.”
Trembling—Mattim put it down to her own rage—Ding stared back at him. Slowly she nodded.
Before Mattim could say any more, the chief of staff entered, heading for the helmsman, no doubt willing to pass the admiral's orders direct to Thor. Mattim would not become a figurehead on a ship whose name would be linked with infamy for the next thousand years. He arrived at Thor's station the same second Stuart started talking. “We want a high-gee course. I suggest diving sunward, using it to accelerate the ship, then swing around.”
“We'll have to swing by five or six planets to get us aimed at Wardhaven.” Mattim pointed out the system map Thor had at his station. The helmsman looked on in growing puzzlement.
“I don't think so.” Stuart was wearing that smug smile again. “A deflection around planet two, using four-gee lateral acceleration followed by three-gee acceleration for Wardhaven ought to do the trick. Don't you think?”
Mattim pursed his lips tightly to cover the impotency he felt. He was playing catch-up to a guy who had spent days planning this operation. Only the marines at his back kept Mattim from smashing the smug captain's head against the bulkhead. “Yes, that course will do it. It'll be rough on the crew, and the magazines might not take the load.”
“You'll have a couple of days at two-gee acceleration. Captain, I suggest you order the course change.” Mattim needed time, and they weren't giving him any. This was their hand. He'd lose money this round, but if he anted up, he'd be in and ready for the next—assuming there was time for another. He gave Thor his orders without mentioning relativity bombs. It didn't matter. About that time they brought Guns' body out on a gurney. Everyone swiveled to look. eyes growing wide. Ding looked, then turned away as tears slipped down her face.
Mattim had had all he could handle. “XO, you have the conn. I'll be in my cabin.” He left with as much haste as he could permit himself.
* * * *
Alone, Mattim let his rage out in one long howl. Pacing his cabin, he slammed his palm into the bulkhead. What he wanted to pound was Whitebred, and Stuart, and the damn marines. Mary the miner had talked about after the war. Was that why she and her marines had bought into Whitebred's promises of wealth and power if they followed his every whim?
Grabbing control of himself, Mattim plopped on the edge of his bunk. Enough worthless emotions; he had a mission and orders he was damned if he'd carry out and a crew that he could not allow to be slaughtered. “Think, damn you, think.”
He glanced around his cabin. Was Whitebred watching? The comm link did not face the bed. Whitebred had been on board for five days, but he had not asked for any work done by the ship's company. Still, any mikes and cameras on board were probably accessed, but no new ones added.
Maybe.
Mattim called up the load out the marines had brought. Most was standard issue. There was an exception. Lek what's his name, Mattim didn't even try to pronounce it, had several crates of uncatalogued electronic equipment and broken parts! Who was this guy? Mattim accessed the ship's personnel files. The marines had not been added. Okay, there was an electronic wizard on board, probably on the admiral's side. Coordinating anything was going to be a bitch.
Mattim settled into his bunk. What assets did he have? A crew that had followed him to the ends of the galaxy and pack. They'd do whatever he asked. But he couldn't say * hat he wanted to without risking a bullet in the back. And he could not stand by and watch them be murdered.
He'd stopped at Wardhaven a dozen times. One industrialist had invited him home to enjoy an evening with his wife and daughter. While it hadn't slowed Mattim's haggling, now it gave him faces to match with the bombs.
Alarms went off. He drifted up from his bed. “Oh, shit.”
His screen lit up—Whitebred. “Captain, you seem to have an engineering problem,” he said softly. Then his face hardened. “If we are not back at two gees in five minutes, I'll have the marines fix it. Your way or my way, we will be back at speed in five minutes.”
Launching himself from his bunk, Mattim was out the door and going hand over hand down the main passageway. “Make a hole,” he hollered. “Captain coming through.” People made space even if it meant drifting away from the emergency handholds. He passed two sets of marines. They watched him, but made no move to follow.
In engineering, Ivan and his watch hunched over stations. “Damn groundhog reactor hiccupped and sent a spike through the system. Damn near fried main power.” He glanced up, a resigned scowl on his face. “I'll need thirty-six hours to straighten this out.”
“You got two minutes,” Mattim growled, “or they'll put a bullet in your brain like they did Guns. Sandy first, then you, then your team one by one until somebody cracks and turns back on what you turned off. Ivan, don't be stupid.”
Marines clattered through the hatch. The sergeant who'd murdered Guns was leading.
“Back off,” Mattim said in a harsh whisper. “Now, Ivan.”
Ivan tapped his board several times. The normal hum returned to the engineering spaces.
“Very good, Captain.” The admiral's unctuous voice issued from the speakers in engineering. “I knew you could make your man see the error of his ways. Sergeant Dumont, bring that officer to my quarters.” And Mattim had to follow Ivan and his marine escort because he wasn't about to have another of his officers wheeled out of the admiral's quarters feet first. Meeting demands with counter demands, screams with shouts, threats with veiled threats of his own, Mattim got Ivan back through the door alive. The admiral looked smug.
In his quarters, Mattim collapsed on his bunk, trembling. He'd been to zoos with poisonous reptiles and man-eating carnivores. He'd never been so up close and personal with one.
The comm beeped. Ivan was in tears. “They took her.”
“Sandy?”
“Yes. While they had me, they took her to the brig.”
“Let me take care of this.”
“Please, Matt, she's my life.”
“I'll get back to you.” Mattim broke the connection. “XO, I need some help. Who has control of our brig?”
“We do,” she answered.
“Maybe not anymore. Check with the chief master-at-arms.”
“Wait one.” Ding was back in only seconds. “The marines took charge of the brig about three minutes ago. Faced with assault rifles, our people bailed out fast. Hadn't had time to report. Damn it, he can't just take over sections of our ship!”
“He can and is.” Mattim cut her off before she talked herself into the brig. “Okay, this is what we do. Sandy's in that brig. Ding, please call up the lead marine and offer her any assistance in making the brig secure and its occupants comfortable. Offer to have a couple of our people work under her people. Colin, I want our folks down there as witnesses to what happens in that brig. Sandy's only the first of us.”
“Put our people under her marines?”
“Yes, Colin, our people. She's got to be shorthanded with this whole boat to patrol. If we put one or two nonthreatening old farts in there to be gofers and do the unarmed stuff, that's got to be a load off them. And I do mean old farts who know better than try to be heroes. No kids. Got that? No kids.”
“Yes, sir. You are giving up the brig. We are to render full assistance to the marines in managing it.” The XO said the words like they were poison.
Mattim didn't like it any better. “Yes, Colin. Anything to get us through thi
s without people dying.” He hoped she noted his inclusive language. Not crew killed, but people.
There was a change in her voice when she said, “Understood.”
Mattim made a quick and very unsatisfactory call to Ivan, then tried to settle back on his bunk. Sleep was impossible, but he had to get some rest. In the morning, he'd have to be sharp when he made a walk around. There had to be a way around Whitebred and his marines and his damn rocks.
* * * *
Mary looked sharp as she made a walk-around of the guard posts before turning in. The crew was sullen as she passed them. There'd been no public announcement; still, you didn't keep the death of the gunnery officer a secret. Damn Dumont! He'd taken the admiral's bait, hook, line, and sinker. Stupid kid! And the admiral had played all of them like a damn piano. While she'd been trying to figure out how to react, he'd pushed Dumont over the edge. Pushed, hell. Dumont had jumped at the chance. And Mary couldn't let the sailors tear Dumont to pieces.
Now what? Her teams were stretched thin. The offer from the exec to keep a couple of hands around the brig was appreciated. Mary had rousted Cassie out of bed to take over the brig watch. She should be taking over soon.
“Captain.” It was Cassie's voice.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Brig is secure. Prisoner secure. For this you got me up?”
“You got two people from ship's company helping you?”
“Yeah, a middle-aged man and woman.”
“Keep an eye on them.”
Cassie snorted. “Hero types these two ain't, but understood.”
“Rodrigo out.”
Mary stepped carefully over the coaming of the bridge hatch. The bridge crew pointedly ignored her—only the XO nodded. Mary had assigned four marines to guard the admiral. The two male guards lounged in chairs outside the admiral's cabin, their guns at the ready. The two woman guards were nowhere to be seen.
The XO joined her. “Hope you don't mind us loaning your marines chairs. At two gees it gets a bit heavy on the feet.”