Martial Law 1: Patriotic Treason

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Thank you,” I said, doubtfully.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Anna said. “Nothing much ever happens at the docks. It gets much more exiting when we’re in hostile space.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “He mentioned something about an invasion…?”

  “You’ll hear all about that later,” Anna assured me. We stopped outside my cabin and she motioned for me to press my hand against the sensor. The hatch hissed open and we stepped inside. “This is your cabin, John. I’d suggest that you got settled in, and then started working through the logistics papers one by one. I’ll send Kitty to help you out in a couple of hours. She was assisting Lieutenant Chi with the logistics duties before Chi was promoted to Commander and assigned to one of the bases orbiting Mars.”

  She walked out the hatch and it hissed closed behind her. I let her go, staring around my new cabin. It was smaller than the old wardroom we’d shared, but it was all mine! It was barely large enough to swing a cat, but it was all for me. I didn’t have to share it with anyone. I hadn’t realised how much I’d loathed the wardroom until I’d been given a cabin of my own. I spent nearly thirty minutes just exploring all the hidden drawers and unpacking my duffel bag before opening the terminal and logging on to the ship’s computer. As a Lieutenant, I had more access than as an Ensign, but certain details were still closed to me. I thought, briefly, of the icon the Senior Chief had given me and winced. I’d spent two days on Orbit Nine examining it and if I had dared to hook it up to a shared terminal…

  “Maybe not,” I said aloud, and brought up the logistics files. I’d seen them before with Lieutenant Hatchet, but the Devastator required far more supplies than any mere light cruiser. Food and drink were obvious, as were a goodly number of spare parts – the Engineer had complained bitterly about shortages on the Jacques Delors – but others were more confusing, the more so because they didn’t come with an explanation, other than that the Captain wanted them for his ship. What, I wondered, were KEW capsules, or buckshot containers, or even maser tuners? In total, the Captain was requisitioning over a thousand different items…and that was being conservative.

  I opened the direct link to the Supply Department on Orbit Nine and placed the orders. I hoped that they would just agree at once and send the items over to the ship, but I knew better. It wasn't an hour before a message came back, reluctantly granting a quarter of what I’d asked for…and querying the rest. It was just absurd. Every starship in the UNPF needed a reserve supply of oxygen, just in case the life support systems broke down, but they were demanding to know why we needed it. What did they think I was going to do? Steal the oxygen and sell it on the black market? I was still staring at the message in numb disbelief when the hatch chimed.

  “Come in,” I called, absently, keying the hatch.

  “You must be John,” a rich female voice said. I turned to see a redheaded woman wearing a Lieutenant’s uniform, smiling at me. She was utterly beautiful. I couldn’t help, but notice her. If she’d lived down on Earth, she would probably have been raped by the gangs by now, unless she had connections. I’d seen it happen far too often. “How are you?”

  “Swamped,” I said, finding my voice. This had to be Kitty. “I don’t even know where to begin?”

  “I had the same reaction,” she admitted, with a grin. She extended a hand and I took it automatically. “Lieutenant Kitty Hanover.”

  “John Walker,” I said, seriously. It was an effort to drag my mind back to the problem of logistics, but somehow I managed it. It helped that I didn’t want to look like a fool on my first day. “How the hell do I answer these stupid questions?”

  Kitty leaned over my shoulder and smiled thinly. “Oh, that’s Cecil,” she said. I stared at her in puzzlement. “He’s one of the staff officers in the Supply Department. I tried to charm him once, but it turned out that he was homosexual and wasn't interested in my charms.” She chuckled, leaving me to reflect on his insanity. “He’s a right royal prick, so just copy and paste the answers from last year.”

  She tapped keys on the terminal and brought up the document. I was starting to see why Lieutenant Chi had been so keen to leave. He’d written massive essays on the subject of why the Devastator required so much from the supply department. They didn’t even come from Earth, I realised, as a bell began to sound in my mind. The supplies all came from the asteroid belt and the industrial habitats there.

  “They’ll question most of it again, so repeat what you said in sharper tones,” she added. “Don’t worry, you have a fortnight. Just keep bombarding them until they give in. If they don’t give in, tell the Captain the day before we depart. He’ll tear them a new asshole.”

  “Thanks,” I said, seriously.

  “You’re welcome,” Kitty said. “Now, do you want a tour of the ship or not?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The UN claims to maintain an independent media reporting factual information from the entire human sphere. Nothing could be further from the truth. The UN censors the media through a series of laws designed to surprises hate speech, unpleasant language and anything that anyone might find offensive. The net result is that journalists in the UN-controlled media are effectively shrills for the regime, telling the masses that they have never had it so good, while branding enemies of the state as everything from paedophiles to crooks. The colonists, in particular, come in for heavy media bashing, accused of everything from stealing Earth’s resources to refusing to return Earth’s property. Independent journalists simply don’t last very long in the system.

  -Thomas Anderson. An Unbiased Look at the UNPF. Baen Historical Press, 2500.

  If there was one thing that Captain Harriman and Captain Shalenko had in common, it was a shared desire to see that their starships were always in the best condition possible, regardless of the circumstances. The Devastator’s Engineer found that there were no objections to obtaining the most expensive spare parts ever, while the starship’s crew and senior officers found themselves working endlessly on keeping the starship in good shape. I had heard of starships where essential maintenance was deferred endlessly, risking hundreds of lives, but the Devastator wasn't one of them. Captain Shalenko wouldn’t have allowed it.

  Life as a Lieutenant was very different to life as an Ensign, but it had its compensations. Apart from the cabin and the joyous opportunity to be alone for a while, it had additional duties and responsibilities. I had never been more than a little responsible on my old ship and I had always known that I was under supervision. That wasn't true on the Devastator. I was expected to take charge of myself and ask for help if I needed it, not watched by senior officers terrified that I would make a serious mistake and crash the ship into an asteroid. It wasn't likely to happen, but from what the Senior Chief had told me, it was quite possible for a new Ensign to make every mistake in the book. We were kept under very close supervision.

  And I also grew to hate the logistics personnel back on Orbit Nine, or scattered around the Solar System. The speed of light delay imposed on radio traffic kept me from screaming at them, but they seemed to take an unholy delight in slowing my requests for supplies, or new equipment. They never seemed to run out of excuses for refusing our requests and when we finally managed to convince them to send us the items, we often discovered that it was late. The Engineer discovered that a shipment of spare parts was shoddy and chewed me out for it, leaving me to pass on his displeasure to the bureaucrats. Apparently the spare parts had passed the checking process back on the industrial asteroid, but when the Engineer had checked them, they hadn’t passed even a simple check. He hadn’t been happy and had had to counter-sign more requests and demands for immediate delivery.

  It didn’t help that other starships were cannoning up as well. The Captain hadn’t said anything else about a possible invasion, but it was becoming increasingly clear that the UNPF Headquarters was forming up a task force for operations outside the solar system. Nineteen starships, the most formidable force gathered for quite some t
ime, were being assembled near Orbit Nine, each one trying to get their inventories filled before they departed. It might have moved quicker if I’d sent the Marines to shoot a few bureaucrats, but Kitty had told me that there were always more where they came from. The UNPF could have built an orbital tower reaching all the way to Mars with the paperwork. After barely a week of dealing with the bureaucrats, I was ready to slam my fist through the terminal and choke the life out of them. They just didn’t understand.

  “Of course they don’t understand,” Kitty said, when I complained to her. She might have had a few months on me, seniority-wise, but we had become friends. I liked to think that we might become something more – there was no regulation against dating someone in the same rank and grade as yourself – but so far it hadn’t happened. “Show me the bureaucrat who served on a starship, even for a day, and I’ll buy you a five-course meal at Finnegan’s Wake.”

  I snorted. “No bet,” I said. I already knew what I would find. “That animal doesn’t exist.”

  “Quite,” Kitty agreed. She sat up suddenly and smiled. “There are still five days until we depart, John, so if you can’t get anything in three more days, report to the Captain.”

  I scowled. I didn’t want to report to the Captain and admit that I had failed, even though I had managed to get my hands on most of the wanted list. I’d taken to checking everything carefully with the help of a pair of Ensigns – it seemed impossible that I had ever been that young – just in case of something else going wrong, but so far I’d found nothing. Somehow, it wasn’t reassuring. The Engineer had shown me just how many things could look normal…and then break down at just the wrong moment. If the wormhole generator broke down…well, it was a long flight to the nearest inhabited planet at sublight speed.

  But I might have no choice. “I understand,” I said. I felt utterly snowed under by logistics alone. “Does it get any easier when the ship’s away from Earth?”

  My terminal buzzed. “Lieutenant Walker, report to the Political Officer at once,” it squawked. “I repeat, Lieutenant Walker, report to the Political Officer at once.”

  “At a guess, I’d say no,” Kitty said, dryly. I laughed, nervously. I hadn’t met the Political Officer yet and didn’t know what she was like. “Don’t worry, you will get used to it.”

  Political Officer Ellen Nakamura was a strange blend of Japanese and European features. She was blond, with a tall willowy body, yet her face was more typically Japanese with faintly slanted eyes. She would have been beautiful if she hadn’t looked, constantly, as if she smelt something vaguely unpleasant in the air. Unlike Jason Montgomerie, she looked terrifyingly efficient and dangerous; she even wore a pistol at her belt. I was less impressed by that than I might have been without the Marine training sessions, but even so…it was a sign of grace and favour. Only the Captain was allowed to carry a pistol on his ship normally.

  “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,” she said, somehow managing to convey the impression that she was smelling me in the air. Her eyes flickered once over my body and then focused in on my face. It was disconcerting. I had never met a woman who didn’t blink before. “I have not had the time to meet with you before and I do trust that I am not keeping you from anything important.”

  “No, thank you,” I said, carefully. She was keeping me from writing yet another abusive message to the Supply Department, but I knew better than to say that. Ellen was clearly a very different kettle of fish to anyone else. Besides, I wasn't expected on watch for another three hours and really should have been trying to catch a nap.

  “Good, good,” Ellen said. Her voice was vaguely seductive, but her body language was all wrong, as if she were a blunt instrument measuring its target. “I have heard great things about you, John. I do hope that the tales haven’t grown in the telling.”

  I said nothing. I was vaguely aware that Captain Harriman and Jason Montgomerie had written glowing testimonials about my abilities, but that was something that every candidate for promotion had to have. It wasn't enough to be average: I had to constantly set the standard for everyone else…and walk on water besides. If they had tried to promote all six of us at once, the Promotions Board would have probably gotten very confused when they read the sworn statements.

  “And you caught the men and women who were attempting to slip away from us,” she added. Her gaze suddenly sharpened and bore into my eyes. “How do you feel about that?”

  I answered carefully, only to discover that it was only the first part of a searching interrogation covering everything from my early life at school to my shore leave. I worried at first if she knew anything about what I’d done on Earth, but as she wore on, I realised that even if she did know, she didn’t care. Jase and his friends were nothing to her, so far beneath her notice that she didn’t even know they existed. I could guess at her background. The odds were that she came from a family like Roger’s and had been born to her position.

  “You’re going to fit in here well,” she concluded, finally. I hoped that she was wrong; the hints about the Devastator’s missions had been worrying enough, but I was stuck. The only purpose the ship seemed designed for was to bombard targets on the ground. “Do you like the media?”

  “The media?” I asked, puzzled. “I haven’t had time to watch anything since I came onboard the ship.”

  She smiled. The media spent most of its time pumping out programs intended to keep the lower classes tranquil, mainly boring stories about perfect people in perfect lives. The propaganda for the UNPF had at least been entertaining, although it had shied away from the suggestion that anything like violence might be involved somewhere. The remainder of the media had mainly carried stories about how great life was on the colonies under the UN…and how stupid a handful of rogue colonists were being in resisting the UN’s paternal oversight. I couldn’t say that I was a fan of the media. I’d hardly had the time to become a fan.

  “We are going to be playing host to a number of reporters,” Ellen said, smiling openly for the first time. It was still rather disconcerting. “Among your other duties, you will play host to them and serve as their…first port of call. Give them whatever they want, within reason. They’re very important people.”

  I felt cold even before she took me down to the airlock to introduce me. The reporters looked worse than we had done back when we had boarded the Jacques Delors. Two of them looked as if they were going to be sick, despite the artificial gravity, and the others looked worse. I could see the thoughts flickering through their heads; they had barely been on the ship a few seconds and they already couldn’t wait to get back to the ground.

  “Welcome onboard the Devastator,” Ellen trilled, spreading her arms wide and accepting a kiss from a dark man who was so overweight that zero gravity would only have been an asset. Ellen sounded as if she were sucking up to them and, I realised suddenly, they were responding to it. Four men, three women…all reporters. I noticed that they’d dumped a collection of bags outside the airlock in the docking tube – a serious breech of regulations – and scowled inwardly. I’d have to get some crewmen to help me move their luggage to their cabins. “You’ve in the staterooms in Officer Country – John, if you’ll bring up the rear, please?”

  She led them through the corridors and I was grateful that she’d put me at the rear. It was all I could do to avoid bursting out into laughter. Two of the girls – no, female reporters; reporters aren’t human – wore high heels and were clearly having problems walking on the deck. If they fell over, the dirty part of my mind commented, they would expose everything they had in those tight dresses. I saw crewmen turning to stare as they passed, with the more adroit among them concealing smiles. They knew, as I did, just how badly the reporters had prepared for their voyage. I wouldn’t have bet on them packing a spacesuit, even though regulations insisted that all passengers had to have their own pressure suits in case of emergencies. The four men weren’t much better. The fatty seemed to be having real problems manoeuvring his bulk throu
gh the passageways. Almost everyone who served on a starship was slim – exercise was also mandated by regulations – and the corridors hadn’t been designed for his bulk.

  “Here you are,” Ellen said, finally, opening the hatch for them to enter the stateroom. I hadn’t realised that Devastator had so many crew quarters, although I suspected that the designers had probably had something else in mind. The cabins in the stateroom would have suited forty Cadets or Ensigns. I doubted that even an Admiral on a battleship would have such accommodation.

  “It’s too small,” one of the women said. She had a nasal voice that made me detest her right from the start, a high-pitched whine that might have been more suited to a dog whistle. She hobbled around on her high heels, the better to glare at Ellen. “We were promised the best quarters on the ship.”

  “There are the best quarters on the ship,” Ellen said. She didn’t look hassled in the slightest, despite staring into a face that showed the signs of too much cosmetic surgery. It might have looked good on the videos, but face to face it was appalling. “They were designed for an Admiral and his staff, more than suitable for you.”

  She smiled at the men and I watched them melt under her smile. “And if you have any further questions, Lieutenant Walker will be glad to handle them,” she continued. My thoughts were unprintable. “I have to return to help the Captain make the final preparations to depart.”