by Jake Elwood
"I understand. Just do the best you can."
She nodded and reached for a telephone.
The star known as New Avalon had extensive bands of asteroids and just one planet. The planet, an airless ball of rock orbiting far outside the Goldilocks zone, was unfortunately also known as New Avalon. It had been a source of endless confusion for decades. Gate Eight orbited New Avalon (the planet).
For many years the planet had been home to a vast mining operation, with a steady flow of cargo ships and personnel carriers going back and forth through the Gate. The mines had been abandoned long since, and there was no longer a human presence in the system. Hammett was grateful for that much. He wouldn't have to worry about any more civilians.
"Do you think it's happenstance?" said Carruthers.
Hammett raised an eyebrow.
"The aliens being here, I mean. It proves they don't need the Gates, doesn't it?" He grimaced. "Unless it means they've already conquered the Earth, and they came through the other way."
Hammett decided to ignore that idea. "It could be coincidence. Maybe they're spreading through the whole galaxy. Popping up everywhere." It was an unpleasant thought.
"Maybe they're following us." Carruthers rubbed his jaw. "Maybe they can track wormholes."
Cartwright set down a telephone. "They wouldn't need to. We were in view of alien ships when we jumped out of Deirdre. We were pointing straight at New Avalon when we jumped." She made a face. "I should know. I handled the maneuvers."
"New policy," Hammett told her. "When we leave here, we jump in a random direction. Then we turn and aim for Earth."
Cartwright nodded. "We're lined up for the next jump."
"You're getting faster," Hammett said, and she smiled. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the wormhole generator to cycle. Somewhere just ahead of the ship a ball of energy was forming, contained within a perfect sphere generated by force fields. The sphere would grow smaller and smaller, condensing that ball of energy into a point smaller than an atom. Eventually it would reach a critical threshold and a wormhole would open, sucking the Alexander through in the blink of an eye.
Hammett had cornered Rani and demanded to know why a process as complex as wormhole generation could still function when even simple timepieces no longer worked. She had shrugged and said, "Redundancy." The wormhole generator had the capacity to go utterly, disastrously wrong. Forward-thinking engineers had built endless layers of redundancy into the system. He didn't know what labors she'd gone through in the immediate aftermath of the first battle, but against all reasonable expectations the wormhole generator was working again.
The unmistakable sound of stomping feet came echoing in from the corridor beyond the bridge. Hammett looked up as Dalton Hornbeck came storming in. He was a small man, slender and not especially tall, but he seemed much bigger, transformed by outrage until he seemed to almost fill the bridge. He swept the compartment with a frosty eye, then fixed his gaze on Hammett. "Captain. I've been hearing wild rumors that you're planning to destroy yet another Gate."
Hammett sighed. "Yes, it's true. Now, this is my bridge, and—"
"You can't do it!" The administrator's arms came up in an agitated flapping motion. "It was the wrong choice back at Deirdre, and it's the wrong choice now. How many alien ships have you detected?"
The urge to simply throw him off the bridge was strong, but Hammett decided to be diplomatic. "Half a dozen."
"This ship has faced more of these aliens and survived!"
"It's not open for debate, Mr. Hornbeck."
"The Gate is right there!" Hornbeck pointed at the forward bulkhead. "We need to rush past these alien craft and jump through to Paradiso. From there we can be home in no time."
"It's too risky."
"Risky?" The man's voice was very nearly a screech. "And stranding us in deep space with hostile aliens isn't risky?"
"This isn't your station, Mr. Hornbeck." Hammett could feel his irritation rising. "It's the bridge of a warship. I'll need you to—"
"This is why the military need civilian oversight!" Hornbeck advanced on Hammett, one accusing finger raised like a weapon. "You're a lunatic, Hammett. You've been displaying criminally bad judgment ever since your arrival in Deirdre."
Hammett stood. "Now, look. I—"
Hornbeck stepped in close. "You can't keep making high-handed decisions that put everyone around you at risk. I won't stand for it, do you hear me? If you think you—" His finger jabbed toward Hammett's chest—and a hand closed around the administrator's wrist.
Hornbeck let out an indignant squawk and turned. Crabtree stood beside him, a dangerous glitter in his eyes. A twist of his elbow had Hornbeck's finger pointing at the ceiling. "Let's you and me have a chat in the corridor, shall we?"
"Let go of me, you oaf!"
Crabtree released him.
Hornbeck turned back to Hammett. "You can't be trusted to run this ship, you irresponsible—"
His tirade ended in a grunt of pain as Crabtree planted a fist in his stomach. Crabtree hardly seemed to move, but the punch had a devastating effect. Hornbeck sagged forward, his mouth hanging open. He would have dropped to his knees if Crabtree hadn't put a supporting arm around his shoulders. Crabtree marched him briskly to the hatch, then said, "Now, don't you come back until you're invited." A hard shove sent Hornbeck stumbling out of sight down the corridor.
Crabtree turned to face Hammett, planting his hands on his hips. He looked pleased with himself. "I beg your pardon for coming onto the bridge without permission, Sir. It seemed … expedient." He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the departed administrator. "Captains didn't have to put up with that sort of foolishness before the Corps was disbanded."
Hammett looked him over. "I had you pegged as ex-military, Mr. Crabtree."
Crabtree nodded. "Twenty years in uniform," he said proudly.
"Were you by any chance a marine?"
Crabtree grinned. "Not every Navy man is as quick on the uptake as you, Sir. I started out as a jar, and then ten years as a sergeant. My last two years I was a master sergeant."
"I've known some marines in my time," Hammett said. "They were tough men, every one of them. They lived in fear of their master sergeants, though."
Crabtree nodded, accepting the compliment as his due. "Begging your pardon, Captain, but I was hoping to talk to Lieutenant DiMarco about the laser batteries. I've had some experience with manual aiming on personnel carriers."
"You'll find him in the missile bay," Hammett said. "In the meantime, how would you like to be my Chief of Marines?"
Crabtree's eyebrows rose.
"You will also be my only marine, until you do some recruiting. We won't be taking a Gate home. That means about another four weeks in deep space. It may be necessary to put a guard on the food supplies."
"I'll put together a plan straightaway, Sir." Crabtree saluted and hurried out.
"I like him," said Carruthers.
Hammett grunted. "I'm certainly glad he's on our side."
Carruthers chuckled. Then his expression grew serious. "I didn't like that Hornbeck fellow so much." He shrugged. "Still, do you think he might be right? Maybe we should rush the Gate. Fight our way through, and get home. If there's only a handful of ships …"
"And maybe there's a whole fleet tucked in behind the Gate, or sitting on the surface of the planet." Hammett shook his head. "No, a nuke gives us our highest probability of stopping them. It makes for a long flight home, but we can't take a chance on leaving them a Gate."
Carruthers nodded.
"We can get into firing range," Hammett said. "I'm pretty sure we can take out the Gate. After that, the only trick will be getting away."
CHAPTER 32 - HORNBECK
Pain.
For a time it was all Dalton Hornbeck knew. It was centered in his stomach, but it seemed to fill his whole body. Every breath was an agonized labor. He knelt in the corridor, the top of his head touching a bulkhead, wondering wit
h each breath if he would be able to inhale again. It grew easier, but it still hurt.
As the worst of the pain passed a hot fury rose to take its place. It wasn't just the pain that stung him. It was the humiliation, and his utter impotence. He was nothing aboard the Alexander. Him, Dalton Hornbeck, the most powerful man in Deirdre. He had less authority than a cadet on this miserable tub.
He heaved himself to his feet and leaned against the bulkhead, holding his stomach. The casual, uncaring brutality of Crabtree's attack had rattled him deeply. This, he thought, fighting the agony in his midsection as he forced himself to stand upright. This is why military forces need civilian oversight.
He set off down the corridor, moving at a slow shuffle. I'm a civilized man surrounded by barbarians. I'm the voice of reason—which they desperately need—and they won't listen.
He would go back to his quarters, he decided. There he would be surrounded by his people, the survivors from Freedom Station. He grimaced. He was responsible for them, and he'd just failed them.
There were almost a hundred of them, and he was their leader. He felt his responsibility keenly. They were what mattered. The people, the innocent civilians who hadn't asked for an interstellar war. Why couldn't Hammett see that?
The man was a barbarian. He was like a little boy with a pellet gun, determined to shoot something just because he could. He was so keen on fighting the aliens, playing soldier, that he blinded himself to the whole reason that a military even existed.
"It's the people who matter," Hornbeck muttered. He thought of his staff back on Freedom Station. Most of them were dead. He remembered a man named Jerry, a retired spice farmer from a colony called Apricot. Jerry and Hornbeck had played squash twice a week for years. He'd become Hornbeck's best friend. Hornbeck had scoured the Alexander, hoping to find him, but Jerry wasn't there. He was gone.
So many people were gone. He saw their faces every night when he closed his eyes. It was costing him sleep. His friends, his colleagues, and casual acquaintances who had lived on his station. So many dead, and the rest in desperate danger. They were all his people, and he needed to get them home.
Which meant he needed to stop Hammett.
Hornbeck slowed his pace. He no longer wanted to rush to the comforting privacy of his little cabin. He hadn't risen to the top position on Freedom Station by being timid. By being afraid to make the tough choices. No, he'd always been willing to step up, take responsibility, and face the consequences of his actions.
He stopped. The idea that had taken root in the back of his mind frightened him. If he followed through, the consequences would be dire indeed.
But what were the consequences of doing nothing?
He whispered, "I can't let him destroy the Gate."
I can't do it on my own. But I'm a leader. And I know I'm not the only one who wants to get home. We could storm the bridge, take control. Put Hammett in the brig, along with anyone who insists on following him.
And then what?
Another officer would take command, and nothing would change. Hornbeck scowled. The civilians couldn't fly the ship; they didn't have the skills. He needed the cadets and the regular sailors, and yes, even the officers on his side. But there was no way he could convince them all. They were brainwashed. The military did that to a person. They were rigorously trained to follow a chain of command. To follow it blindly, even when the man at the top of the chain was an obvious lunatic.
If Hammett's in the brig, who takes charge? Probably that dolt Carruthers. He'll just do whatever he thinks Hammett wants. Hornbeck scowled, then hesitated. He remembered the meeting in the Baffin boardroom. Carruthers hadn't been there. Hammett had brought some woman. What was her name?
Velasco. Commander Velasco.
Wasn't Carruthers a lieutenant? Hornbeck didn't keep up to date on military ranks, but he was pretty sure a commander outranked a lieutenant. He thought back to that long-ago meeting and the three or four brief times he'd met Velasco since. He'd sensed something from her, especially when she and Hammett were together. She wasn't his puppet. In fact, if Hornbeck was any judge, she saw right through Hammett. She recognized him for a dangerous fool.
Would she see her greater duty?
Would she support a mutiny?
Hornbeck straightened up. The pain in his stomach wasn't so bad now. It was a dull ache, just enough to remind him of the consequences of settling for the status quo. He knew what he had to do. Now it was time to assemble his team.
He squared his shoulders and headed aft. Ben Wyatt would be his first recruit. He'd always struck Hornbeck is a sensible, reasonable man. Once he was on board, the Baffin team would follow. That would mean the effective support of every civilian on the ship, except that reporter woman. It was probably best to leave her out of it. She seemed pro-military.
Deep in thought, he rounded a corner and almost collided with a brawny young man with flaming red hair that showed dull brown at the roots. Two more young men flanked him. All three of them were rough-looking and uncouth. Hornbeck tried to move around them, but a beefy arm blocked his way.
"Well, well, well. Look what we have here. Dingleballs Hornbeck, in the flesh."
Hornbeck gave him a stern look. "I'm in a hurry. I'll need you to get out of my way."
"You're not going anywhere." The man stepped close, looming over Hornbeck, and his companions circled around, blocking every escape.
Hornbeck found himself perversely wishing Crabtree would show up. The thought annoyed him, driving the rising fear from his mind. He snapped, "What do you want?"
The red-haired man blinked, taken aback. Then he scowled. "We want proper food." He grimaced. "We're tired of this muck they're handing out. But a fancy man like you? I bet you're getting the good stuff."
For a long moment Hornbeck stared up at the man, weighing his options. He was deeply irritated, but he made himself bite back a sharp retort. These were desperate times, and the men confronting him could be valuable. He needed every tool he could get his hands on, and someone, after all, would have to face Crabtree.
He smiled.
Red Hair gave him a suspicious look.
"The food is about to get worse," Hornbeck told him. "After all, it has to last another four or five weeks."
The man's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? We're supposed to be back on Earth in a couple of days."
Hornbeck nodded. "Yes, that was the original plan. But the captain has spotted some more aliens, and his response to just about any stimulus is to blow something up." He let them see his disgust. "His current plan is to destroy Gate Eight."
The man looked horrified, as well he might.
"I don't plan to let him," Hornbeck said. "We can still be home in two days. I just have to put someone else in charge. But I can't do it on my own. I need your help."
The three imbeciles exchanged glances.
"I need you to do what you do best," Hornbeck said. "Intimidate some people, and make sure you get your fair share." He rubbed his stomach. "And act as my personal bodyguards."
"What do you mean, get our share?"
Hornbeck smiled. "Help me effect a change in leadership, and I'll see to it that you eat the captain's personal meals for the rest of the voyage. He won't object. He'll be in the brig."
CHAPTER 33 - VELASCO
I'm going to be an admiral.
Velasco repeated the phrase under her breath, over and over, like a mantra. It was the only thing keeping her going. I'm going to be an admiral. It won't always be like this. I'll be one of a tiny handful of officers with actual field experience against the aliens. This will catapult my career.
I'm going to be an admiral.
In the meantime, her life was a nightmare of cloying trivialities. Her years at Spacecom headquarters seemed like a sparkling golden dream. She'd been walking the same corridors as the most powerful people in the Navy. Building a power base. Building relationships. Building a career.
And now she was drowning in the minutia o
f keeping a battered starship running.
Her current task was mapping telephone lines. Most of the installation had been done by technicians from Baffin. They had done a credible job, but they hadn't documented a single thing. Now Velasco, armed with a couple of notebooks and a pencil, was working her way through the ship from stem to stern, tracing every wire. The idea was to create a master document that would make it faster to diagnose and fix problems.
It was beneath her, but Hammett insisted. He said she needed to know the ship, and this was certainly one way to learn it.
We're two or three days from Earth, she fumed. I should be preparing my reports for the Admiralty. I should be preparing my strategy. I need to think about who to talk to, in what order. What information to give out, and what to hold back. Not tramping through a lot of corridors following wires.
The problem with Hammett was that he had no political sense. It was why he faced retirement with the lowly rank of captain. He didn't value what she did, didn't understand why it was vital to her. He honestly thought that mapping out wires and learning the ship was more important.
The Navy isn't about ships, you fool. It's about people. And the people who matter are back on Earth.
A sailor with a pistol on his hip stood in front of an armor-plated door a dozen paces away, staring at the bulkhead across from him. She wished he would go away. It embarrassed her to have a witness as she did such menial work. He was guarding the Alexander's weapons locker, which was locked and unlocked by the ship's computer. That meant it was permanently unlocked until the ship could get a refit, so there was a sentry around the clock. He wasn't paying any attention to her, but she could imagine what he was thinking. Her cheeks burned as she worked her way along, one slow pace at a time, trailing her fingers along an insulated wire held by brackets glued to the bulkhead.
Wires would run along side by side, then veer off in different directions. Sometimes they crossed each other. There was no pattern to it that she could detect. The only way she could be sure which wire was which was to trace every miserable centimeter as she worked her way from one handset to another.