“There may be some truth to that,” he admitted. “But not, I hope, as much truth as you think.”
“Why did those sard try to grab you, do you think?”
“I’m really not an investigator, Lisbeth. Why don’t you ask your man Jokono?”
“He’s not my man any longer,” Lisbeth said grumpily. “He’s found a higher calling.”
“On this voyage, I feel he may not be the only one.”
9
They pushed away from Tuki Station and Vieno orbit in late first-shift. Erik wanted to be in the command chair for undock, given those three sard ships at station, but those did not twitch as they powered away. They ran at a one-G push for two hours, the ship effectively turned on its end for the purposes of the crew, who walked on the walls instead of the floors as Phoenix gained position up Vieno’s gravity slope.
Kazak was next, by way of an intermediary stop at Chonki. Vieno’s current orbit about its M-class star placed them on the wrong side, meaning a long haul across the star’s zenith until they were clear of the solar gravity well and ready for jump. In combat conditions they could have done it far faster, but it put unnecessary stress on any ship, let alone one recently damaged and patched like Phoenix. A United Forces ship in combat could rely on friendly docks in which to repair any incurred damage. Out here, Phoenix had none, and Erik was not prepared to take any unnecessary chances.
It gave them a three day cruise after a jump pulse through the thickest polar intensity of the star’s radiation, with all magnetic shielding maxed and corpsmen distributing radiation sensors throughout quarters just in case. Erik left the chair to Lieutenant Draper at the shift change, while Second Lieutenant Dufresne took Shahaim’s post and Second Lieutenant De Marchi took Kaspowitz’s. All three retired to Erik’s quarters, just a few paces off the bridge, and Kaspowitz made them all some coffee at the little brewer, while Erik showed Shahaim the latest simulation results.
The sim chair was back in Engineering where it could still be used at dock. Erik had used it to run a full combat simulation of Phoenix being attacked by seven enemy vessels in a difficult system. He’d made them tavalai, partly because the computer knew how to simulate that well, and partly because it was very possible, out here. It kept reflexes sharp, and gave Phoenix’s little gang of starship pilots something to talk and bond over. Typically there’d be six of them, Commander and Helm for each of three shifts, effectively pilot and co-pilot. Now the Captain was dead and Commander Huang had remained behind by her own choice on Homeworld. That made Erik, previously third-shift commander, the acting-captain. Shahaim retained her role at first-shift Helm, and Draper and Dufresne, second and third-shift Helms respectively, were now Commander and Helm of second-shift. And now the arrangement was becoming problematic.
“Two minutes seventeen,” Shahaim announced, sipping coffee while watching the wall screen of the sim that Erik had seen five times already. “He misses that evasive by, what, twenty degrees? And doesn’t burn hard enough, which… yeah, look here. Ordinance incoming, he’s having to waste energy and headspace going extra-evasive.”
“Draper’s conservative,” Erik agreed, looking over crew reports that had accumulated while he was sitting the chair. Shahaim had had other duties at Tuki Station, she hadn’t had a chance to review the sims yet. “He misses nothing, but his responses are sometimes below optimum.”
“Good recovery here,” Shahaim added. She was sixty-four, and had the longer curls that Fleet regs allowed women to get away with if they chose. No such luck for men, and some complained about it. Erik’s tight curls gave him the option of not caring. “Good pattern of fire. Nice V-boost, good position.”
“His spatial perception is great,” Erik agreed, grimacing at a report from crew systems at how air ventilation units were now well behind maintenance schedule due to lack of manpower. It was the same all over the ship. “His biggest problem is he gets behind in the count. But he always recognises it immediately, and recovers well.”
“Hmm,” said Shahaim into her coffee cup. “Simulated opponents are more forgiving.”
“Sims are for learning, and you don’t learn much when you’re dead all the time.”
“I learn plenty,” Kaspowitz offered, settling his lanky frame into the chair bolted to the lower desk. “I learn I’d rather not go into combat with him commanding.”
“Most situations I think he’d do okay,” Erik said charitably.
“Of the last three firefights this ship was in,” Kaspowitz said drily, “which would you categorise as ‘most situations’?” Erik did not reply. His Navigation Officer made a good point, as usual.
“And a good escape,” Shahaim observed as the sim concluded. “Sim ranks him eighty-four percent. I think that’s a bit generous, I’d say high seventies. Erik?”
It was formality to rank these things. Though out here, there was no formal review procedure, and no official records to send back to HQ. No doubt HQ would have been even more interested than usual to receive them if they had. “Seventy-five,” said Erik.
“A harsh marker,” said Kaspowitz.
“The Captain always was with me. Check out Dufresne.”
“Good?” Shahaim wondered, changing over to Second Lieutenant Dufresne’s sim recording.
“Interesting,” said Erik. And waited, reading more reports as Shahaim watched the recording. Kaspowitz watched too, but as a non-pilot had little directly to offer. Five minutes later, Shahaim paused the screen.
“Well,” she said with emphasis, a thoughtful frown on her face. “That is interesting.”
“I marked her at eighty-five,” said Erik, finally looking up from his slate. “She’s not always that much better, the difference is usually more like three or four percent. But it’s noticeable, and it’s consistent.”
“Dufresne’s better?” Kaspowitz asked.
“I gave her eighty-eight,” said Shahaim. “But then I mark a little higher than Erik.”
“I’ve been stepping up her difficulty too,” Erik admitted. “Small increments, and I haven’t been telling her. She’s twenty-six, Draper’s twenty-eight, and Draper’s had the more operational experience, thus the higher rank. Draper also had the better Academy scores. But you know, some people only really blossom once they get out on duty.”
“Hang on, I thought the consensus was that Draper’s a gun?” Kaspowitz asked.
“It was,” said Erik. “And he is. But Dufresne’s better.”
“The thing with being a hotshot all through the Academy,” said Shahaim, “is that sometimes you start to just take your greatness for granted.” She glanced at Erik, meaningfully.
“Don’t look at me,” Erik said mildly. “Everyone thought I was getting a free ride on Mommy’s name. Every time someone read out my sim scores it was with this note of disbelief in their voice.”
“That’s why I’m looking at you,” the older woman said shrewdly. “Some people are too secure, while others are insecure.”
“Gee, thanks.” But he was smiling. They were all friends here, and even the ship commander could take some gentle ribbing from those most closely ranked. But not all of the ship’s officers were on such good terms.
“So we’ve got the wrong person in command of second-shift?” Kaspowitz summarised. A brief silence.
“Hmm,” said Shahaim. “Awkward. And then there’s Justine’s politics.”
Erik scratched his jaw. “Yeah. And she’s as stiff as a board.”
“We used to say that about you,” Kaspowitz told him.
“Great,” said Erik, with humour this time a little more forced. “And thanks again.”
“Don’t mention it. Draper’s got an ego on him. Won’t take it well, and then they have to work together.”
“I don’t know if I want to do it yet,” said Erik. “Suli, you mind going to relieve Justine for a moment?”
“Now?” Shahaim asked in surprise. Erik nodded. Shahaim looked impressed at the decisiveness. “Certainly. If my dinner arriv
es, please keep it warm.”
She got up and left. With the bridge just meters away, it wouldn’t take long. Kaspowitz remained where he was, reclined with long legs stretched, and confident that if Erik had wanted him gone, he’d have said so. In truth, Erik wouldn’t have had Kaspowitz anywhere else. He’d been on Phoenix the longest of just about anyone, and had an uncompromisingly dry view of people and human nature that Erik found valuable.
Soon the door opened, and Second Lieutenant Justine Dufresne stepped inside, freed from her post now that Shahaim was occupying it at Lieutenant Draper’s side. Dufresne was slim with short, dark hair and no apparent sense of humour. Kind of pretty, but pinched and tight, as though something were clenched up inside. It wasn’t just the current situation that did it, either — she’d been like that since she’d first come aboard ten months ago, after Lieutenant Perot had been promoted to LC on another ship. The crew were calling her ‘Giggles’, with great irony, and she had few obvious friends. She’d been Erik’s Helm on third-shift for most of that time, but despite spending eight hours a rotation on duty together, Erik still could not say he knew her particularly well.
“Sir,” she said to Erik precisely. “Permission to enter.”
“Permission granted Lieutenant.” She came in, and Erik gestured to the unoccupied part of his bunk — in tight quarters there weren’t many seating options. Dufresne sat neatly, knees precisely together, hands on thighs. She may have held the same rank as Kaspowitz, but in the unofficial way that so many things worked on a warship, everyone knew better than to believe she held effectively the same authority.
“We’ve just been looking at your sim-scores, Lieutenant,” said Erik.
“Yes sir?” Expectantly.
“Very impressive. You and Lieutenant Draper both.” She nodded shortly. Clearly she wanted to know how she’d done. “Lieutenant, how do you feel about this current situation?” She blinked at him. “Phoenix being declared a renegade vessel?”
“It’s unfortunate, sir.”
Erik waited a moment. One of Kaspowitz’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, watching her. “Only unfortunate?” Erik pressed.
“It’s very unfortunate. I don’t think anyone likes it.”
Another time, Erik might have rolled his eyes. It wasn’t exactly revealing. “Your family has a long record of service. You’re known to the crew as a vocal Fleet patriot.”
Dufresne stiffened, and her lips tightened. “I’d like to think that patriotism is a common condition among the crew, sir.”
“Indeed,” said Erik. “But we’ve had people on this ship lately who felt so patriotic toward Fleet, that they could not stomach our actions against Fleet Command. No matter what Fleet Command did to Captain Pantillo.”
“Sir, am I being accused of something?” Three months ago, three Phoenix spacers had tried to kill Erik. All had been casual friends of Dufresne. Given how few friends she had, it had raised considerable suspicions, but ultimately she’d been saved by the fact that like with most people, she hadn’t known them very well.
“Not at all. But the situation may arise where you find yourself in effective command of this warship.” He paused to let that sink in. “And before that happens, I’d like to know your view of our current situation, vis-a-vis the Fleet. Candidly.”
The young Second Lieutenant thought about it for a moment. Calculating what she wanted to say. “Sir, I feel that Fleet Command has done very poorly by us. But I also feel that Fleet Command are only human, and capable of mistakes. We should not write off the entire institution because of the mistakes of a few very senior officers.”
“I agree completely,” said Erik. “I hold great hopes that the rest of Fleet will come to see reason.”
“Do you think they might grant us pardon, sir?” It was the closest thing to eagerness, or raw emotion, that Erik had heard from her.
“I think that’s entirely possible,” Erik agreed. “But not with Supreme Commander Chankow, and the likes of Fleet Admiral Anjo in charge. We have to keep the pressure on them. If Fleet sees that the current commanders have screwed up, as you say, then their replacements may view our situation differently.”
Dufresne nodded shortly, but with real feeling. “You’re looking to confirm my loyalties to Phoenix sir. If we’re fighting for a full pardon? And for Chankow and Anjo to be brought to justice for what they did to the Captain? I’m all for that sir. One hundred percent.”
Erik glanced sideways at Kaspowitz. Kaspowitz didn’t look convinced.
* * *
“Listen,” said Trace as she spotted his bench presses. It was unnecessary, because the machine held no free weights and worked on adjustable resistance arms. But accidents had been known to happen on ships that manoeuvred at 10-Gs, and this particular machine had once broken an unlucky spacer’s ribs when the safety height had failed to engage. “Take the damn promotion. Make yourself captain. If you don’t want to pin the damn wings on yourself, I’ll do it.”
“Doesn’t exactly solve my problem, does it?” Erik retorted beneath the bar, straining as he completed his set.
“You have too many lieutenants,” Trace spelled out for him, as though he were a little slow. “You have a great fucking logjam of lieutenants, people all of whom are one tiny little rank below you. It challenges your own authority, and it means the ship has no clear second or third-in-command. Worse, it means that you can’t establish a clear authority of rank in your little pilot problem. If you’re the Captain, then Suli’s Commander, then you make either Draper or Dufresne the LC and get that tension sorted out for good. No one has egos like pilots — you get the command ranks sorted out for good or people will start killing each other.”
“Gee thanks,” Erik gasped, and hung up the bar with a thud. About them, weights crashed, treadmills whirred and music played. “What’s the single greatest motivating force driving this crew?” he asked her. “What holds them together in the face of everything? Justice for the Captain. He was a living legend. I’ve shown I’m a good pilot and a passable commander, but they’re not going to go to hell and back for me. Not yet.
“If I declare myself captain, then suddenly we have two captains on the ship — the current one, and the ghost of the legend they served under for all those years. And you can’t have two captains on a ship.”
He slid out from under the bar, and Trace took his place. She dialled back the weight resistance on the bar to something lighter, and began lifting. Being considerably smaller, and female, Trace’s marine augments did not allow her to maintain the power required to lift weights as heavy as an augmented man could. What her augments did allow was the explosive release of power in short, athletic bursts for activities that required it. Her bench-press was only two-thirds of Erik’s, but in sparring she had to hold back in case she broke his bones.
“On that sim you all did,” she said as she strained against the bar. “What was your score?”
“About ninety-five.”
“Right. Which as much as I understand the details of warship piloting, is pretty much inhuman and insane. But still you don’t think you’re up to it.”
Erik gritted his teeth, standing over her with hands beneath the bar. How could someone he liked and respected this much be so consistently aggravating? “I do think I’m up to it.”
“So act like it.”
“Crew morale in a ship is not such a simple thing as mind over matter!”
“You can’t allow other people to dictate your actions to such an extent that your own free agency dissolves amongst them. For all practical purposes you are the captain. So be the captain. People can’t follow what doesn’t exist. Make it real, and they’ll follow you.” She finished with a hiss, and hung up the bar.
“And then there’s the politics,” Erik insisted. “Fleet will paint me as the egotistical rich boy with delusions of grandeur. If I promote myself to captain, it will look awful and play straight into Fleet’s narrative.”
“And again,” said Trace, sitt
ing upright on the bench and adjusting her gloves, “you’re letting others make your decisions for you.”
“You don’t do politics by telling everyone else what their opinions are,” Erik retorted. “That’s how you start wars.”
“And you don’t convince anyone to take you seriously by putting more value on their opinion of you than your own,” Trace said firmly. “Come on, your turn.” As she got up and gestured, impatient that his rest breaks took too long.
“So I’m not supposed to take anyone’s opinion of me seriously except yours,” Erik said sarcastically, sliding back under the bar.
“To be in command is to be alone,” Trace said firmly. “In this sense at least. It’s all on you. You have to know that, bone deep, or you can’t function.” Erik began lifting, Trace spotting. “On my first posting, I was sent to some crappy little industrial station in Diri System, the kind of place they send Second Lieutenants straight out of the Academy to boss some leadfoot marines around for a few months before a combat command.” Leadfoots were what ship-company marines called station marines, or marines posted to guard space facilities. It was important work, but it lacked the prestige of ship-postings.
“They gave me my first platoon, but my company commander was a cynical prick, overlooked for promotion lots of times, no surprise to me. He didn’t like some shiny Kulina lieutenant taking one of his platoons from a previous lieutenant he’d liked much better, and he didn’t like that I wouldn’t drink with the boys. Probably didn’t like that I wouldn’t fuck with the boys either, we still get a few men like that in the marines. Two more, push!”
As Erik gritted his teeth and heaved against the bar, finally finishing with a gasp and loud clang as the bar locked in place.
“So he started riding me,” Trace continued. “Extra duty, insults and jokes in front of the men. I think it made him feel bigger to boss a Kulina around. Maybe he thought he could make me cry, I don’t know.” Knowing Trace, Erik found the prospect preposterous. “There’s not a lot to do on station duty, just endless drills, every now and then you get an interception on a station warship. Lots of opportunities for idle hands to make trouble.”
Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) Page 11