Manticore Ascendant 1: A Call to Duty (eARC)

by David Weber

  The problem was that such obedience wasn’t as straightforward as it used to be. Over the past few weeks he’d become aware that there were other rules in force in the Royal Manticoran Navy, rules that might not be in the manual but were just as binding.

  And at the top of that unwritten list of unwritten rules was that you supported the men and women of your platoon. No matter what.

  But this was theft. This wasn’t just an infraction of a minor rule. This was a real, actual crime.

  “Hey, Stickler.”

  Travis jerked and spun around. Chomps was standing at the end of the line of lockers, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “Chomps,” Travis managed in return.

  “Anything wrong?” Chomps asked, his eyes steady on Travis. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “Not saw,” Travis corrected, his heart picking up its pace. His body had muscled up a lot in the past few weeks, but Chomps could still eat him for breakfast. “And not a ghost.” Steeling himself, he pointed at Chomps’s locker. “Cookies.”

  Chomps’s lip twitched. Probably he was thinking about Travis’s reputation for sticking to the rules. Maybe wondering what it would take to shut him up.

  Then, to Travis’s relief, he lowered his eyes and inclined his head.

  “Cookies it is,” he admitted. “I guess you hadn’t noticed my stomach isn’t keeping everyone awake anymore.”

  Travis felt a flush of annoyance with himself. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t noticed the new level of peace and quiet in the barracks, and he really should have.

  “Not much food value in cookies,” he said, some obscure impulse driving him to argue the point.

  “No, there isn’t,” Chomps agreed without rancor. “Usually, I just take real food.” He nodded toward his locker. “I brought those back as a thank-you for my team.”

  An unpleasant shiver ran up Travis’s back. There was a team?

  “Ah,” he said lamely. “I hadn’t thought…”

  “It’s not like you could sneak into the kitchen all by yourself,” Chomps pointed out. “You need a diversion, for starters, to get the right mess man looking the wrong way. You also need to know what’s happening right after lunch—not a good idea to go on a twenty-five-klick hike with bags of sliced meat hanging under your armpits and breadsticks up your sleeves.”

  “Or the obstacle course,” Travis murmured. “Which was what we were supposed to do today.”

  “Exactly,” Chomps said, nodding. “Classwork can be tricky, too, depending on how aromatic the stuff is that you took. You don’t want to be sitting in a small room watching an impellor systems deconstruction with salami in your shorts.”

  “No,” Travis agreed, the memories of today’s lunch flashing back to mind.

  But now he was seeing the images with fresh eyes. Elaine Dunharrow—“Whistler”—bobbling her tray for several seconds before regaining control, with the mess man nearest the swinging door into the kitchen watching in fascinated and nervous anticipation of what would have been an ugly clean-up job. “Shofar” Liebowitz, talking earnestly with the next closest mess man. “Professor” Cyrene and “Betcha” Johnston, standing together in animated conversation right where their bodies would block the view of the door from the platoon commanders’ table.

  And a glimpse of a broad back disappearing through the kitchen door, a back Travis had assumed belonged to one of the Sphinxians in the mess crew.

  “But the obstacle course is the worst,” Chomps said, flashing one of the smiles that had been his normal expression before the mess hall started starving him. “I did that last week when Professor’s intel went sideways. It wasn’t pretty. He double-checks his facts now.”

  “So why are they still here?” Travis asked, waving again toward the locker. “No one was hungry during study time?”

  “We couldn’t coordinate with Whistler,” Chomps said. “She’s going to sneak over after lights-out for a little get-together in the shower room.”

  Travis winced. Sneaking out of barracks at night. Not the same level of crime as theft, but another serious rule violation.

  Chomps caught the wince.

  “I guess the question is what you’re going to do now that you know,” he said.

  Travis exhaled, his brain feeling like it was running its own obstacle course. A crime…but whatever anyone said about the meals, Chomps really did need the additional food. A conspiracy…but the Sphinxian really couldn’t do it alone. Loyalty to his platoon…but where did that loyalty become a crime in and of itself?

  “I don’t—”

  And then, from the far side of the row of lockers came the sound of the outer door being slammed open.

  “Ten-hut!” Funk barked.

  Travis snapped reflexively to attention, his heart suddenly in his throat.

  “Long?” Funk shouted over the sound of boots scrambling madly off their bunks or chairs. “Long!”

  There was nothing for it.

  “Sir, here, Sir!” Travis called back, wondering if he dared take a step or two away from the locker toward the PC’s voice. You weren’t supposed to move a single muscle when at attention, but if Funk came back here and smelled the cookies…

  It was just as well he didn’t try to take that step. Barely half a second later Funk came storming into view around the end of the lockers, moving faster than usual for this time of night. Whatever the reason for this unexpected visit, it must be important. Maybe important enough that he wouldn’t pause long enough to inhale?

  “Get dressed,” Funk growled, his eyes taking in Travis’s undershirt and bare feet. “You’re wanted at—” He broke off, his eyes narrowing as his nostrils flared. “What am I smelling?” he demanded, his voice suddenly cold and dark. “Is that cookies, Recruit Long?”

  Chomps’s face had gone pale. But there was nothing to be gained by feigning ignorance.

  “Sir, yes, Sir,” Travis said.

  Funk turned his gaze onto Chomps, a knowing expression on his face.

  “And how exactly did cookies did get into this barracks?” he asked, his voice purring with grim anticipation.

  Travis took a deep breath. The crime was laid bare, and payment had to be made. But the rule of loyalty to a comrade in need also had to be upheld.

  And in that split-second, Travis could think of only one way to satisfy both ethical requirements.

  “Sir, I brought them in, Sir,” he said.

  Funk’s head snapped back around, his eyes turning from Chomps just in time to miss the Sphinxian’s own suddenly widened eyes.

  “You brought them in, Recruit Long?” he demanded.

  Too late, Travis wondered if this might not have been a good idea.

  “Sir, yes, Sir,” he said.

  “Really,” Funk said. “Travis Uriah ‘Rule-stickler’ Long. You broke into the mess hall and stole a pile of chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Sir, yes, Sir,” Travis said. “Sir, I was hungry, Sir.”

  “Uh-huh.” Funk folded his arms across his chest. “How’d you do it?”

  Travis’s mouth went dry as he saw the trap laid invitingly in front of him. As Chomps had already pointed out, it was impossible to pull off such a stunt alone. Travis had admitted to the crime; Funk was now fishing for the identities of his confederates.

  And he would have them, too, Travis knew. Even if he used the same vague descriptions that Chomps had just given him, Funk would be able to compare notes with the other PCs and piece it together.

  Unless Travis, Chomps, and Funk were all wrong about one crucial fact.

  “Sir, I went in the side door after lunch, Sir,” he said, his mind racing to stay ahead of his mouth.

  “Which side door?”

  “Sir, the north door, by all the trash cans, Sir,” Travis said.

  Funk snorted.

  “The door that’s always locked?” he asked pointedly.

  “Sir, the blond mess man always props the door open when he bring out his bags of trash,
and he always pauses to take a look at the western sky before he goes back in, Sir,” Travis said. “Sir, I slipped in while he wasn’t looking, Sir.”

  “What about the rest of the mess men?” Funk countered, clearly not buying it for a second. “You just tango your way past them?”

  “Sir, the others were all in the dining area cleaning up, Sir,” Travis said. “Sir, I put on an apron and kept my back to anyone who came in, Sir.”

  “Mm,” Funk said. So far, Travis thought uneasily, he seemed more intrigued than angry. Travis wasn’t sure what to make of that, but it couldn’t be good. “Lucky for you we cancelled that twenty-five-klick hike that was supposed to happen after lunch.”

  So now he was fishing for Travis’s intel source. Fortunately, Travis already had the answer for this one.

  “Sir, yes, Sir,” he said. “Sir, I noticed you had a second roll at lunch, Sir. Sir, you never do that when there’s a strenuous activity planned, Sir.”

  Just visible at the edge of Travis’s peripheral vision, Chomps’s lower jaw had been dropping ever lower as the conversation progressed. Fortunately, Funk seemed to have eyes only for Travis.

  “You’re a very clever maggot, Recruit Long,” Funk said, his voice still unnaturally calm. “Good thing we were already on our way to see the CO.” He jerked his head toward the barracks door. “Get dressed. Now.”

  * * *

  Travis had seen Colonel Jean Massingill exactly twice since his arrival at Casey-Rosewood. The first time had been when she addressed and welcomed the new recruits, the second had been when he spotted her getting into an air car on the far side of the obstacle course. On neither occasion had she seemed particularly intimidating.

  She was more than making up for that now. And the most unnerving part of it was that, unlike Funk’s standard procedure, she never once raised her voice.

  “I presume Gunner’s Mate Funk has already told you what the penalty for food theft was in early wet navies,” she said, her voice calm, her face composed, her eyes seeing far enough through Travis’s face to set the back of his skull on fire. “The thief was flogged around the deck.”

  She stopped, apparently expecting some sort of response.

  “Ma’am, yes, Ma’am,” Travis said, his mind going completely blank on anything else.

  “What was it, some whim?” she suggested. “Some spur-of-the-moment craving for chocolate?”

  “Ma’am, I was hungry, Ma’am,” Travis said. The excuse sounded even less plausible now than it had when he’d trotted it out a few minutes ago for Funk. But he still didn’t have anything better to offer.

  “Or was it perhaps a return to your old ways?”

  Travis blinked.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Ma’am what?” Funk growled.

  “Ma’am, I don’t understand, Ma’am.”

  “Really.” Massingill picked up her tablet. “That’s not what Peter Corcoran testified in court this morning. He says you were part of a gang that attempted to rob a jewelry store in Landing two months ago.”

  Travis felt the blood drain from his face. So Bassit had survived the abortive robbery attempt after all. Before Travis’s arrival at Casey-Rosewood he hadn’t had the nerve to hunt for information on Bassit’s fate, and afterward he’d been so busy he’d nearly forgotten about the other teen.

  But Bassit clearly hadn’t forgotten him. And whether he’d named Travis in an attempt to cut a deal or whether it was pure spite, the bottom line was that the whole ugly incident had now come home to roost.

  And with that, he had no doubt, his five-year enlistment was at an end.

  “The Colonel’s waiting,” Funk prompted darkly.

  “Ma’am, I was briefly associated with Mr. Corcoran, Ma’am,” Travis said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Suddenly, and almost to his surprise, he realized just how much he wanted to continue this path he’d started. How much he genuinely wanted to serve the Star Kingdom alongside the men and women of his platoon. Now, between Bassit and Chomps, between naïveté and impulsive self-sacrifice, he was going to lose it all. “Ma’am, on that particular night, without my knowledge, he attempted the robbery you spoke of, Ma’am. Ma’am, I was not on the scene at the time, but was in fact speaking with a Navy recruiter, Ma’am.”

  “Mm.” If Massingill was impressed, she didn’t show it. “Corcoran further stated that the robbery was your idea. That you were the mastermind behind the plan.”

  Travis stared at her. Bassit had said that?

  Of course he had. Because from Travis’s new perspective on life, he now realized that what he’d taken to be Bassit’s proud refusal to compromise his beliefs and goals was really nothing more than a self-centered refusal to follow any rules but his own, and to put his own skin ahead of anything else.

  One of the first rules of any society was that actions had consequences. If there was any single rule Bassit would try his best to lie his way out of, that would be it.

  “Ma’am, no, Ma’am,” Travis said. “I was not involved in any way in the robbery.”

  “Because you were talking to a recruiter at the time.”

  “Ma’am, yes, Ma’am.”

  “Joining the RMN,” Massingill said. “Where you could come to boot camp and steal cookies.”

  Travis felt his throat tighten. Again, what could he say?

  “Ma’am, yes, Ma’am.”

  “Mm,” she murmured again. “He also said you were a travesty of a human being. Rather exotic phrase for a common punk thief. Some private joke between you?”

  Travis winced. He’d hoped that hated high school nickname had been left behind. One final gift from his false friend.

  “Ma’am, no, Ma’am.”

  For a long moment Massingill continued to impale him with her eyes. Then, she nodded microscopically toward the door.

  “Wait in the outer office,” she ordered. “Gunner’s Mate Funk will join you shortly.”

  “Ma’am, yes, Ma’am.” Executing a crisp about-face, Travis strode back across the office.

  So that was it, he told himself bleakly as he opened the door and stepped into Massingill’s outer office. The only question now was how hard the colonel would bring the hammer down on him on his way out.

  And how much it would hurt.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Massingill waited until the door had closed behind Long. Then, keying her outer-office monitor camera, she nodded to Funk.

  “At ease, Gunner’s Mate,” she said. “Let’s hear your side of this.”

  “My side, Ma’am?” Funk asked, frowning as he dropped into parade rest.

  “As in why you don’t think Long stole the cookies,” Massingill said, watching the monitor out of the corner of her eye. There wasn’t anything valuable out there, nor was any confidential data readily accessible on any of the computers. But Long didn’t know that. And a habitual or even a semi-hardened thief ought to at least look around on general, reflexive principles, with the hope of nabbing a consolation prize on his way out.

  But Long was doing nothing of the sort. He’d planted himself beside the office door in parade rest and was standing with his face and eyes pointed rigidly forward.

  And those eyes looked like they were stifling back tears.

  “I never said he didn’t steal the cookies, Ma’am,” Funk protested. “At this point I don’t know anything other than that he confessed to the crime.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Massingill said. “I’m also aware that in describing the incident you went out of your way to use words like he stated and I was told. That doesn’t sound to me like someone who believes what he’s hearing.”

  Funk’s lip twitched.

  “No, Ma’am, I don’t,” he said reluctantly. “He spins a good yarn, but I doubt anyone could pull off something like that all by himself. And I know those cookies weren’t meant for Long.”

  “A payoff for something?”

  “More likely extra fodder for a Sphinxian gullet,” Funk said. “Recruit
Charles Townsend. He’s been trying to scam himself extra food ever since he hit dirt here.”

  Massingill felt her lip twist as the gunner’s mate’s tone registered. So Funk didn’t think too much of Training Command’s brainstorm either, did he?

  “And someone thoughtfully stole a few cookies for him?” she asked.

  “More than a few, Ma’am,” Funk said. “That memo from Mess Division two days ago pretty well shows the pilferage has been going on for at least a couple of weeks.”

  “And you don’t think Long’s smart enough to pull off a long-term crime?”

  “Oh, he’s smart enough,” Funk said. “But he’s also the ethical, rule-following type. If he’s involved at all, he’s on the fringe. More likely he just stumbled into it and went all heroic to cover for the real thieves.”

  “Perhaps,” Massingill said. On the monitor, Long was still waiting at parade rest. Waiting for whatever fate the future had in store for him.

  That fate wasn’t entirely in Massingill’s hands. Luckily for him, part of it was.

  “Very well,” she said. “Return him to the barracks. The Provost Marshal is sending an air car to take him in for testimony tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred—make sure he’s ready. Assuming the King’s Prosecutor has the brains to see through Corcoran’s B.S. and sends him back, write him up for tonight’s incident and give him ten hours’ extra duty.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Funk sounded a bit…conflicted, Massingill noted. The standard book punishment for food theft was considerably stiffer than that, and the gunner’s mate wasn’t generally in favor of shorting his recruits on something like that. In this case, though….

  “You can also confiscate the cookies if they’re still there,” Massingill went on. “Which I’m not really expecting. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Spinning around in an about-face that was twice as crisp as Long’s had been, Funk strode to the door and left the office. Massingill watched the monitor as he collected Long and the two of them left the office suite and headed out into the night.

  And then, muttering an ancient French curse she’d once heard and memorized just because she liked the sound of it, she dug into her bottom desk drawer and pulled out a half-full bottle of scotch.