The First Casualty

by Mike Moscoe

  The admiral and his chief of staff studied the welders’ work. Mattim held his breath. Aso and his work party had done a terrible job. The actual welds were as solid as they came. But the welding torches had cut a broad swath, taking the temper off of the main girders. Here and there were nicks. The weld might hold, but the girders would twist and bend in the middle.

  They’d done what Mattim had asked. Would they die for it?

  “This looks like lousy workmanship,” Whitebred groused.

  “Never saw anything like these on any of my ships.” Stuart backed him up.

  Mattim wondered what Stuart had done aboard ship. He didn’t look like the type to get his hands dirty. Commander Gandhi didn’t retreat an inch. “Ever rip a sack, sir? You don’t run a single strip of tape up the tear, you take a couple of strips and spread them out, to spread the pressure. Same with welding,” she lied with a straight face. “Slap some paint on that and it’ll look as fancy as any ship you ever rode, Captain.”

  Whitebred still looked like he wanted someone shot. Mattim went for the closing. “Admiral, if you want, I can put the chief in the brig. If anything he’s worked on breaks when we launch, you can decide what to do then.”

  “I really need the help,” Gandhi moaned.

  “Not from gunnery,” the admiral ordered. “Okay, we’ll do it your way, Captain. But if my marines start shooting, you can bet they won’t Stop with chiefs.” Whitebred stormed off, leaving Mattim staring at Mary and her sergeant. Neither one looked too happy with the admiral’s claim on “his marines.”

  • • •

  A fresh-faced colonel ushered the major into a hall half the size of the 2nd Guard’s drill field. Officers, most of them generals, milled about. Ray and Santiago stood stiffly, waiting to be told where their place was. Here begins a whole different kind of combat. General Vondertrip excused himself from a group and hailed Ray. “So glad you could make it. What with the situation on Wardhaven, the President may ask you quite a few questions.”

  “The situation is reaching critical.” Ray carefully skirted the boundaries of treason. Assuming they hadn’t moved again.

  “Yes, but do not forget the most important part, my young friend.” As the general approached, his voice lowered. Beside Ray, his voice was little more than a whisper. “The offensive is what matters to the President. Wars are not won on the defensive. ‘Attack, attack, always attack.’”

  Ray glanced around. Like the general, most of the people within earshot were whispering. “Is that why the Navy has not come to the aid of Wardhaven?” he asked.

  “You will get nowhere attacking the Navy. The President is tired of interservice rivalries. And yes, the Navy is up to its ears supporting three offensives. Wardhaven has thirty million men under arms. If you can not stop the Earth stooges with that, you don’t deserve to breathe.” The general’s voice took on the accent and cadence of the President as he recited the often-repeated phrase.

  “No line of brave infantry can stop a relativity bomb.”

  “Oh, that. You have heard that bit of bragging. So they have the space above you. They can do nothing until they land and meet us face to face. They dare not use their bombs. They are the ones with the vast populations and crammed industry. If they start such folly, we will bake them in their own pudding. The President has announced that they are only bluffing. In ten hours, you will see.”

  “Where should I sit? The briefing begins at one.”

  “No need to rush; the President is never here before two. He does not like anyone new sitting near him. Despite all our loyal protests, and the endless guards we must pass, he fears bombs. You will sit at the end of the table, but I have arranged for you to be across from him. You will have a good view.”

  “Thank you, General. I have never met the President, and my wife will want to know everything he does.”

  “Yes, I understand you are in the family way.”

  “Does anything move faster than a woman’s whispered word?”

  “Not even light, my young friend.”

  “Could you show me to my seat? I have prepared a briefing, as your letter asked. It would be a shame if your computer could not interface with mine.”

  “We have the latest system, but be careful. The President has a short attention span for briefings. You must give him the highlights quickly. If he begins to speak, sit down. Never interrupt.”

  “As your note said.”

  “Here is your place. I have never understood these machines. My mother always said if God had meant for us to have computers, we would have been born with one.”

  “I thought that was what our brain was,” Santiago quipped to the general’s departing back.

  “I doubt the general believes in them either,” Ray answered softly. “Can you plug us in?”

  “It requires a physical hookup! Ancient technology. But there are several cables in the briefcase. Let me see.”

  “You do this. I will find the restrooms. My stomach.” Ray began a quick walk across the marbled floor, hoping he could control his roiling gut long enough to find the necessary room. Death would come easy. Keeping his dignity was a fight.

  • • •

  Mary sat in her high-grav cart—enjoying herself. Dumont and his teams rushed up and down the launcher, looking over the shoulders of every sailor working on the accelerator. Every ten or fifteen minutes they’d denounce some worker as a saboteur. Mary and the damage control officer would motor over to review the case. The chief of the work party would explain what they were doing, and the commander would assure them that it was part of the critical upgrade of the system. Dumont began to smell a skunk with Gandhi always going last, so he demanded she go first and the accused chief go second. Either they were telling the truth, or chiefs were just as good at whoppers as Gandhi was. Either way, Dumont was none the wiser.

  Mary had spotted a few untruths so far. That one about welding arcs needing to heat up the surrounding area was one of them. She’d learned how to weld in a nonunion shop. You keep a good, tight bead—the smaller the better. Yep, there was a whole lot of lying going on.

  Dumont turned back from the latest fracas. “Damn it, folks, you got just as much to gain from this as we do. You.” He pointed at a youngster, two slashes on his uniform. Mary took him for a Navy corporal of some sort. “You think what they teaching you in the Navy’ll get you a job when this war’s over? If you don’t got a friend in a very high place, you’ll be back in the street with the rest of us again.”

  “Hey, man, they drafted me and sent me to school for two months. I know enough to carry the petty officer’s toolbox. I can’t tell you what he’s doing,” the Navy kid answered—in too-perfect English. Mattim had told her how kids fresh out of college had helped him get his ship back home. She wondered what this kid’s degree was in…and told Dumont nothing.

  That was it, really. The admiral had the power of authority. The marines had the power of the gun. But Mattim and his crew had the power of knowledge. She and her miners had played their part. Lek had taken away the admiral’s stranglehold on their tongues. They had come together. What were they creating?

  Mary glanced around the launch bay. Did anybody know who was doing what? Come launch time, this bay was gonna be damn dangerous. Mattim, you didn’t want any more dead. Can you get this place evacuated? Mary suppressed a snicker. Was Dumont smart enough to be very far away from here in—she glanced at her chronometer—eight hours?

  • • •

  Ray stared at the ceiling and struggled to control his gut. Three hours ago, the President had marched into the room in his bright red space marshal’s uniform and began to orate. Watching him on vids, Ray had been mesmerized. Now he saw him in person; no wonder human space trembled when he shook his fist.

  The power of the man’s eyes, voice, body held Ray. The President was father, mother, lover—all at once. If Ray hadn’t faced the harsh reality of death, the President would have held him in the palm of his hand.

 
; But Ray had watched rockets from the wrong end. Ray had made the hard choices of life and death. Ray had chosen life, and today he was choosing death. While other officers in the room hung on every word, Ray eyed the man with a dispassion he suspected was rare.

  In the three-hour rambling monologue that had yet to pause, there hadn’t been one reference to the present situation. Still, no general interrupted.

  Ray kept his face a worshipful mask. Inside he roiled. This was theater, nothing more. They were the audience, he the center stage. Once, a general had become more involved; he’d been singled out for his department’s failure to reequip troops as the President wanted for an offensive that failed. He received the President’s full attention for an hour, struggling to answer questions in the brief moments when President Urm paused to catch his breath. It ended only when the general collapsed and was carried out on a stretcher. A trained lifesaver would have begun immediate heart massage; the guards did nothing.

  As Ray watched his President in action, the disgust that had grown over the last two months boiled. Men were fighting and dying, struggling to make real this man’s dreams. Here, the man who should have provided, cohesion and direction strutted about like an actor—a world-class actor, but an actor no less. Only the guards kept Ray from reaching for his briefcase.

  Guards were everywhere: by the doors, behind the President, even roving around the table, assault rifles ready. The table remained as broad—and empty—as the plain the 2nd Guard had attacked across. If Ray was not careful, his attack across this table might be as much a failure. The monologue ended abruptly as the President turned and strode toward the exit behind him. “Restroom break, at last,” General Vondertrip muttered. “Did I warn you to go light on the coffee? Did you see the President glance your way before he quit? You will be next.”

  “My stomach.” Ray struggled to stand.

  Santiago came to his aid. “The war wound,” he said. “Where is the nearest restroom?”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot. The nearest will be mobbed.” The general looked around. “Try that exit,” he said, pointing. “Take the first corridor on your left. It should not be too far.”

  The exit looked miles away; Ray marched as fast as his stomach and braces allowed. Gladly he would have traded this for an advance into battle.

  “Hell of a situation when the can looks like heaven,” he snorted when he’d reached his goal.

  “Yes, sir.” Santiago let go of his arm and retreated, briefcase in hand, to stand beside a sink. Ray closed the door—no lock. Security everywhere for the President and you can’t even lock the bathroom door!

  • • •

  “Captain, comm here. We’ve got a general announcement from the government of Wardhaven due in a minute or so.”

  “Helm, open a view on the main screen.” It showed a room full of reporters. Before them, a man in a green uniform spoke. “People of Wardhaven, we will never surrender.”

  “That cuts it,” Mattim sighed. Between the government of Wardhaven and Whitebred, there was no middle ground. The Sheffield could shoot around the system forever. Sooner or later, a relief fleet would show up to drive them away, and the Sheffield was in no shape for a fight. They’d won the bet, but the other side was just thumbing their nose at them.

  Bomb us or bugger off.

  That wasn’t the way it’s supposed to be!

  The door to the admiral’s quarters opened. Whitebred grinned from his cart. “Six hours. Six hours and we show that bastard who’s got guts and who doesn’t.” The door closed behind him. Whitebred had no problem; bomb them. The problem was Mattim’s; if he didn’t bomb them, what was he going to do?

  SIXTEEN

  HIS STOMACH UNDER control, but no less a pain, Ray began to struggle to his feet.

  “Let me help you, sir.” Santiago was back, the door pushed aside.

  “I can do it myself,” Ray snapped.

  “Not today, sir.” Santiago reached down and deftly removed the power supply from Ray’s walker.

  Ray collapsed back onto the stool. “What?”

  “Quiet. Please, sir. We don’t want anyone alarmed.” The young officer came to attention, briefcase hanging from his left arm. “Thank you, Major, for giving me this chance. Tell Rita this is my gift to her and the baby. Make the peace worth all we’ve paid for it.”

  Santiago saluted, did a smart about-face, and marched out of Ray’s view. Ray tried to get to his feet. Now the walker fought him. He was still trying when the explosion came.

  • • •

  Santiago marched down the corridor. In only a moment, he entered the briefing room. Keeping his cadence perfect, he marched for the table where everyone was gathering.

  He felt no fear. If anything, he was elated. Ever since the major had shared the second combination, he had known this moment would come. The fleet orbiting Wardhaven settled any question of necessity for him. Rita’s announcement this morning settled who would open the briefcase.

  Using the confusion of people finding their seats, Santiago paused across from the President. Two guards immediately turned toward him, guns at the ready. “My President, my Major is indisposed at the moment. His war wound is not healing as quickly as he would wish. He has done a very brief presentation with pictures of the defenders of Wardhaven preparing to destroy the invading Earth scum. May I run it for you?” Santiago rested the briefcase on the table. He’d put the combination in during the stop at the restroom.

  “Yes, yes.” The President beamed. “I love to—”

  Santiago flipped the case open. The President didn’t have time to say what he loved.

  • • •

  Mattim glanced at the clock. Four hours ’til launch. He gritted his teeth. If he survived this, he’d be buying a new set of caps. At his elbow, his comm link beeped. “Captain, we’ve intercepted a message. It’s confusing, but it sounds like there’s been a bombing on Rostock and the President may have been killed or injured.”

  “Give me the raw feed,” Mattim snapped.

  “Yessir. Sir, we’ve got a coded message here from the admiral. He wants it sent to someone on Wardhaven.”

  “Wardhaven?” Mattim exchanged a frown with Ding.

  “That’s right, sir. Someone on our target.”

  “If the admiral says send it, send it.” Mattim sighed and began reading the first message. According to it, President Urm could be dead, wounded, or on vacation. Mattim remembered why he rarely bothered reading the general news.

  “What do we do?” Ding asked.

  • • •

  “What do we do with this mess, sergeant?” Two soldiers looked down at Ray. His gut was suddenly cold steel. Like so many other heroes, Santiago had died for him. Now these guards were about to shoot him rather than look at him.

  “Just part of the rest of the mess.” The sergeant eyed Ray. “This one’s the visitor. Didn’t we hear his wife’s waiting in his car? See if you can put a call through. She’ll be glad to hear he missed the…” Both soldiers glanced in the general direction of the great hall.

  “How’d someone get by us?” the private asked.

  “Sure it wasn’t us?”

  “But wouldn’t the general have gotten us all out?”

  “Rats leave the ship, people start thinking it’s sinking. Besides, Red and Titra weren’t exactly the general’s favorites. Hey, you.” The sergeant nudged Ray with the toe of his boot. “Ain’t you done yet?” Both snickered.

  Maybe Ray wasn’t done just yet.

  “Isn’t he a cripple, or something?” the private asked. “Didn’t walk too well when he came in. Metal detectors didn’t like him, but the screens only showed what he was supposed to be wearing. Think his braces were bombs?”

  “Naw, he’s still got them on. Okay, Mister Major, looks like we’ll have to take care of you. Hope you don’t need your butt wiped, ’cause you ain’t getting it by us. Let’s take him to the car park. That ought to keep us out of worse details.”

  They lifted Ray
none too gently. He barely managed to get his pants belted. As they reached the main corridor, they had to pause as a gurney was wheeled by. Medics and guards surrounded it. The front top half of the body was a bleeding pulp, but there was no mistaking the President’s space marshal uniform. Santiago had succeeded.

  At the limo, they tossed Ray into the back seat.

  “This one yours?” they asked the driver.

  “Oh, Ray, when I heard the explosion, I thought…I was afraid…” Rita’s tears covered his face.

  “Get them out of here. We got bigger problems.”

  The driver slowly wound his way past other parked cars, moving security rigs, and arriving emergency vehicles. They were the only one going out. They might not have made it, but Rita had been memorable on the way in that morning, and now her tears and Ray’s condition opened gates that might otherwise have remained closed. Thirty minutes after the explosion, Ray was being settled onto his bed.

  Rita reached for the phone. “Give me the captain of the Oasis in orbit.”

  “Ma’am, calls are restricted to national security issues.”

  “This is a national security issue. I am Senior Pilot Longknife and I must speak to the captain of my ship.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Captain Rose” came quickly.

  “Captain, there has been an explosion at the Presidential palace.”

  “How is the President?”

  “I do not know.”

  “The President is dead.” Ray cut the words hard. “I saw his body. He is dead.”

  “The major says he saw the President’s body. He is dead.”

  “I will send a shuttle for you and the major immediately.”

  “Thank you,” Rita said as the line clicked. There were words Ray wanted to say, but they were not for the listening mikes. Rita held him close, painfully tight. Ray began to shake. Once more he and death had brushed elbows. Once more others had done the dying for him. The future had damn well better be worth the lives paid for it.

  • • •