by Mike Moscoe
“We’ll be spread thin, but I’ll get you a team if I have to pull my daughter out of grade school.”
“Thanks, Torchy, I knew I could count on you.”
“Hey, man, with all of you going out at once, there won’t be any staff weenies looking over our shoulders. We can get the job done. Thanks. See you in thirty minutes.”
All around the table there were smiles, and sighs of relief. Mattim eyed Ivan and Sandy. “What gives? You two have been against this war from day one. Now you want to go fight?”
Ivan shrugged. “Matt, you’ve never been here for a staff inspection. Smiley’s staff don’t know much about engines, but they can bury you in paperwork.” He glanced at Guns.
“Every blue suiter knows the story behind Smiley. He’s commanded a destroyer, cruiser, and battleship…while they were in the yard. After he damn near ran his destroyer into an asteroid, they didn’t even let him take the cruiser out of dock. As soon as we’re operational, another admiral gets to take over.”
Sandy shrugged as she took over from Guns. “Given a choice between spending the war dockside with Smiley or going out, the colonials got to be easier.”
“That remains to be seen. Let’s get this ship tested and out of here.” Mattim stood.
• • •
Major Ray Longknife struggled upward to consciousness, fighting past corpses and exploding guns. He knew who he was and what he’d done. Because of that, he kept his eyes closed.
He’d awakened before. On the transport, surrounded by the moans of the other wounded. He’d wanted to tell them he was sorry, search in their eyes and words for the forgiveness he’d never allow himself. He’d awakened other times, screaming in agony as lancing fire shot through him. President Urm’s reward for defeated commanders was a bullet. Ray hadn’t heard they’d added torture. It didn’t surprise him.
His body demanded a deep sigh; Ray controlled the urge. He wanted neither the pain nor the bullet. If these were his last moments, he would enjoy them. Memories crowded his mind, most of death and destruction. He pushed them aside, focused on Rita. The proud commander the first time he saw her on her bridge. The dancer he couldn’t keep his eyes off as her whole body flowed to the music. In that sundress, proudly showing him around the garden at her parents’ home. God, she’d been beautiful. If he had to have a last memory, he’d hold tight to that one.
Warm fingers roved the palm of his hand, circling slowly, then moving out to caress his thumb and fingers. His breath caught in his throat; he opened his eyes. Rita sat beside his bed. It was her fingers playing with his hand. She wore the sundress. She leaned forward, eyes wide, cheeks tear-stained. Her breasts didn’t quite fall out of the dress. Not quite.
He found himself stirring, responding to her. He tried to move. His legs weren’t there; at least the important stuff was. She reached for him. He opened his arms. They could damn well wait for a few minutes to shoot him.
The executioner didn’t show up for quite some time. The hug grew to a kiss. It might have gone further, but Ray discovered his body encased in something a lot less flexible than armor.
“What the hell?” Startled, Rita stood, giving him room to grab the sheets covering him and throw them back. From his chest down, he was encased in white. Well, not entirely. “What the hell is this?”
“A very nice hard-on,” Rita said with a grin, “and I am very glad to see it.”
“Thank you very much, woman, but what is the rest of this?”
“A body cast. You’ve got to hold your back rigid. Notice the traction. It’s helping you while your nerves regenerate.”
“A damn lot of expense just so I can stand up to be shot.”
“Nobody’s going to shoot you, Ray. You’re a hero.”
Ray looked Rita square in the eye. “Some kind of hero. Second Guard never ran ’til I took it to that damn rock. God, all the good people killed.” He let the anguish flood him, bleed into his voice. “I wish to God they would shoot me.”
Rita was back, holding him. He wanted to weep. The commander of the toughest bunch of bastards Wardhaven ever spawned did not cry. He pulled it back in, damned up the pain. Rita was crying; he would not. But that didn’t stop the question. “How could they beat us? How?”
“I was at the hearing. Dad demanded it be open. I testified why we chose Rosebud One. Santiago laid out the problems at the landing site and how the battle developed. Even your political officer was praising you. ‘Major Longknife took the risk in the best tradition of the Guard. He could not have known he faced a full company, reinforced with engineers and heavy support.’ The admiral wanted you for the scapegoat. He didn’t get you. I hear he’s out for a third sweep. He better come back with a victory, or there’s a bullet waiting.”
Ray leaned back on his pillow, tried to let it soak in. “I can’t think of a man more in need of a new job. But a bullet?”
Rita glanced at the ceiling. “You fail the will of the people, you owe them your blood.” She repeated the official line.
“Yes,” he mumbled for the hidden mike, then threw off the dark mood. “Enough. Senior Pilot Nuu, what are you doing here?”
She drew herself up, a junior officer answering a senior, but did not release his hand. “The transports have stood down until naval superiority is achieved. While the Friendship is in for maintenance, I am on a well-deserved leave. I’m also fishing for a new assignment.” The officer vanished; she finished as lover. “Ray, I thought I’d lost you. Enough. Where you are, I am. While you’re recovering on Wardhaven, I’m not budging.”
“If it pleases God and politicians,” he breathed.
FIVE
FOUR HOURS LATER, Torchy stood beside Mattim. As test reports from throughout the ship flowed to his handheld board, it slowly turned from red to green. At 1430, it was all green.
“You got one good ship here,” the superintendent crowed. “I’m yours to the jump point. I’ll ride the target tugs back.”
Mattim glanced around; the bridge was four times larger than what he was used to, and most of the people were strangers. Sandy was at navigation and Thor Jagel now wore lieutenant stripes as he sat in his usual place at the helm. Mattim turned to his exec.
“What does the ship’s company say?”
“Our boards have been green for a month, sir.”
“Ivan.” Mattim tapped his comm link. “One last time. Is the power plant safe?”
“As safe as a babe in his mother’s arms.”
“Comm, send to the flag. Sheffield ready to get under way.”
Thirty minutes later they got their orders. The Reply and Significant had cast off two hours earlier. They now trailed the station in orbit by five hundred kilometers. The five new cruisers were to sortie as a group. To maintain separation, odd ships were to duck below the station, even ships above. Nothing said whether this was based on the newly painted hull numbers or their order along the station. Mattim raised an eyebrow to the XO. “What’s the Navy way for this?”
“Captain, I’ve never been on the bridge for a multiship departure. All the ship handling manual says is follow the admiral’s instructions.” She paused, then added softly. “Smiley may be trying to make you merchant skippers feel like, uh, feel dumb.”
“He’s succeeding. Now what?”
Ding pursed her lips. “Whenever navigation orders are unclear, you have the right and obligation to ask for clarification. But don’t expect a thank-you for telling the admiral he doesn’t know how to write orders, sir.”
“Right. Helms, keep us tied up. Comm, send to flag. Sheffield requests clarification. How do we determine which ships are odd? No, make that even, I refuse to feed anyone a straight line.” Mattim glanced at the clock. “Wonder how long this will take.” Two minutes later, a window opened on the main view screen. Smiley was not smiling.
“For all its claimed eagerness, the Sheffield does not seem to know how to get under way. Ships count off, starting with the Sendai, and maneuver accordingly. Flag out.”
Mattim stuffed his anger away. “I don’t think he likes us.”
“He did put us last in line,” Ding added.
“We’ll have to show him we’re better than that.”
“Without showing him up anymore,” Sandy suggested dryly.
“Sir, we’re an odd ship,” the helm offered.
“Very good.” Mattim had taken the Maggie out with just himself, Sandy, and Thor. Not today, “XO, you have the conn. Prepare to get under way.”
She grinned. “I have the conn. Bos’n, order the crew to underway stations. Announce weightlessness in ten minutes. Quartermaster, initiate the mission clock.”
Ten minutes! Mattim usually got the Maggie away in two minutes. With ten times the crew and so many green hands, Mattim leaned back in his chair, ready to see how the Navy did it. A chief pulled a bit of gleaming metal from her open collar and leaned close to her mike. After blowing a couple of notes that Mattim had only heard on old vids, she announced. “All hands to underway stations. Weightlessness in ten minutes.”
The XO depressed her comm button. “Deck in-port watch, single up the lines. Prepare all attachments for separation. All departments, report readiness to get under way to the Officer of the Deck on the Bridge.” A young lieutenant JG who’d been following the XO with attention turned back to his station as a light appeared. Mattim tapped the display on his own commsole, searched through his menus and converted his station to a copy of the JG’s—and shook his head. He didn’t care about the doc’s or supply’s readiness. Going back to his main menus, Mattim searched. Yep, Chief Aso was bossing the underway detail. As hatches were secured and attachments cast off, Aso’s board went green. This list Mattim watched while Ding prowled the bridge, checking the quartermaster’s log, watching the OOD’s board, and having him hassle departments that were slow reporting.
When the bos’n reported “Five minutes until weightlessness,” the OOD’s board was getting green. Three minutes later the XO ordered the last hatches secured. A half minute later, Chief Aso’s board was all green. Again, the XO paced the bridge, looking over everyone’s shoulders, verifying for herself that reports were accurate and the ship was ready for space. Sitting in his chair, Mattim did the same, flicking his commsole through the stations. He got the same data—and caused his crew a lot less stress.
Satisfied, the exec saluted and reported, “Ship ready to get under way, sir.”
He stood to return her salute. “OOD, engage the running lights. Torchy, your gang got anything to say?”
The yard superintendent took a full minute to scroll through his board. It was green from top to bottom. “Quit dilly-dallying, Matt. I want my space pay.”
Mattim reached for the brass bar overhead and braced himself for weightlessness. “Announce weightlessness. Mr. Jagel, back us out at five meters per second.” The hull rattled as the pier grapples slowly moved the ship backward and kept it from spinning into the next ship to port. As each grapple reached the end of the dock, it released. Thor softly added power, helping the three, now two, now one grapple move them along, keep them parallel to the dock. With a thunk, the last grapple let go.
“Increase speed aft to ten meters per second. Sensors, let me know if any of those other cruisers so much as look in our directions. We are not going to ding or be dinged.” Much more slowly than normal, they backed clear of the station.
Mattim tapped his comm link. “This is the captain. Police up your stations for drifting gear. We’ll get gravity back in a minute or two, and I don’t want anyone hurt by falling objects.” Behind him, someone got explosively sick. He went on. “There are burp bags under your seats. You were issued motion meds when you came aboard. If yours aren’t handy, don’t be ashamed to ask. Officers and chiefs were issued extras. That is all.”
“Bos’n, I’ve got some spare meds,” he said, turning himself on the overhead rod and pulling several pills from his pocket. He came to a quick halt. The chief bos’n’s mate was the one holding a bag over her mouth.
“Sorry, sir, won’t happen again,” she mumbled around the bag. The chief quartermaster beside her slapped a patch on her neck.
“No problem, chief, too much shore duty will do that to anyone. I took my pill before lunch.” He got a weak smile as he turned back to business.
“Helm, bring us around one hundred twenty degrees to port. Tell Ivan to stand by for one-quarter gee acceleration.”
“One-two-zero degrees to port. Stand by for point-two-five gees. Aye, aye, sir.” That hadn’t changed from the Maggie D. Mattim would boot any helmsman off his bridge who didn’t repeat his orders. Thor swung them about and brought the ship to a deft halt in space. One by one, the other cruisers dropped back toward the flag and took station behind it, the Sheffield last. They came around smartly, but not quickly enough to avoid comments from the flag. Mattim shrugged it off and studied the squadron from his unique position at the rear.
The lead cruisers, Reply and Significant, were regular Navy. Twelve eight-inch guns made them the squadron’s real hitting power, reaching out as much as thirty thousand kilometers. The rest, Topeka, Garibaldi, Aurora, Jeanne d’arc and Sheffield were conversions with six-inch batteries made of off-the-shelf components. Their range was twenty-five thousand klicks, but Mattim doubted they could toast bread out there.
The next six hours held no more than the usual surprises. The new crew went through standard drills and got the standard sprains as they got used to moving in varying gravity.
The first real excitement came when they put a defensive spin on the ship. Given enough time, lasers could cut through any amount of reflector and ice. In battle the ship spun around its long axis. This should spin damaged armor out of the line of fire before burn-through. Spinning a ninety-thousand-ton ship required balance. Now Mattim learned not all of the reaction mass was there for the engines. As they spun up, pumps moved fuel, keeping the ship perfectly balanced.
Right up to 2.6 gees when one pump locked.
The Sheffield shook like a belly dancer’s hips. In the ten seconds it took to slow down, a commsole popped its bolts and careened into his chair. Mattim got his hand out of the way a split second before he would have lost fingers.
Torchy waited until they were back to 1 gee and no spin before he undid his seat belt and checked his chair. One bolt had snapped. “Matt, you promised me a shakedown cruise. You didn’t have to put that much shake in it.”
“The Maggie always satisfies the paying customer. Damage control, find out what went wrong and fix it.”
“Comm here. The flag wants to know if we’re returning to dock.”
Smiley was offering Mattim an out. If enough of the merchant skippers took him up on his offer, he’d be off the hook. Mattim really did not want to spend tomorrow up to his ears in a space battle. But he wasn’t about to give Smiley another chance to smirk down at him from the message screen.
“Advise him we had a minor problem and will be back on station within an hour.”
At her station, Sandy shook her head. “Boys.”
“Flag says they’ll delay gunnery practice until we rejoin.”
“Damn.” Mattim muttered.
“I’ll get my crew on it right away,” Torchy said. A half hour later, they met the specs…5 gees and 20 rpm.
They rejoined just in time for the shoot. The lasers powered up in alphabetical order. Turrets A, B, and C forward, D, E, and F amidships, and X, Y, and Z aft. C and Y refused to hold a charge. “I’ll get teams on them immediately” was Guns’ reaction. “We’ll have them on line in five minutes.”
“We’ll wait until we’ve powered down the main battery, Guns. Let the yard people tackle them one at a time.”
“It’s not necessary, sir. The system has baffles to isolate each turret.”
“That hasn’t been tested live.” Mattim cut him off. “Guns, prepare for a seven-gun shoot. Captain out.”
Then things got real bad. Tugs twelve thousand klicks off to starboard fired target
s, balloons that expanded until they were the size of a ship. Turret A shot first.
“Guns,” Mattim snapped, “three shots at this range to hit a target that size?”
“Captain, that’s damn good shooting. It would earn an E.”
Not from Mattim, but the other ships hadn’t done any better, even the flag. Mattim was damned if he’d fight colonials with shooting that bad. “Sandy, is the Westinghouse SG-190 fire control on line?”
“And waiting, sir.”
“Feed the numbers to B turret,” Mattim ordered.
“What the hell are you sending me?” came from Guns a second later. “There are three firing solutions!”
“And a recommended fourth,” Mattim answered. “Use it.”
“This isn’t regulation,” Guns snapped.
Mattim windowed into B turret’s gun laying station. It used numbers that must have come from the Navy’s standard local fire control—and missed. The second shot used the updated numbers from Sandy—and hit. Guns was back a second later. “You’ve got a central line control up there?”
“Westinghouse SG-190 series,” Mattim answered.
“They never passed mil specs. You can’t count on them to take a pounding,” Guns shot back.
“This one’s still working after our little balance problem.”
Guns was silent for a long minute. “Please take the Westinghouse off line until I say so.”
Sandy worked her board. “It’s on standby,” she said.
“Target launched,” Guns said. “Bring system on line.”
“System on,” Sandy answered. “Target acquired. Solution up.”
“Fire.” Guns shouted. There was a brief pause. “Damn, we got the target before it was a quarter size.” There was a longer pause this time. “Captain, I’ve always wanted to get my hands on an SG-190. Let’s finish this shoot, then we have to talk.”
All targets expended, the squadron continued its 1-gee acceleration toward the jump point. While Torchy’s crew, supplemented by specialists from engineering, worked on the two recalcitrant lasers, Guns paid a visit to the bridge. As Sandy put the SG-190 through its paces, he shook his head. “I been telling HQ for years we needed a central fire control. Something that could take every sensor—laser, gravity, radar, visuals—and refine their results into a single firing solution. What’s a merchant doing with one of these?” He changed the subject.