“Well, sir…” How to phrase it? Do I? Well, on one hand, I do. Something doesn’t feel right about the Orca, but I just can’t put a finger on it. The crew is top notch. The captain, though eccentric, is a gifted tactician and leader. I’d be hard pressed to study under someone as talented.
I look up and see the commodore studying me.
“Take your time, young man. But remember, a senior officer makes a fine mentor. You might think they simply manufacture rear admirals, but I was once your age.”
So I tell him. He listens as I lay out my thoughts, all except the bit about mistrusting the Orca. But even mistrust isn’t the right word. It’s just a hunch.
“Well, Karl, your records until now are fairly mediocre. You’ll never get much of a command, and I doubt you’ll even get a civilian post when your term is up.
“But you’ve shown a damned bit of initiative and potential. I’d not have believed the tale if I hadn’t watched your suit recording myself. I applaud you for that, but be aware that the Orca, and those on her, are not a normal crew. They are fanatics, martyrs in waiting, and though successful, they are willing to pay the ultimate price. Are you ready for that?”
Fanatics. Martyrs. These are not terms you normally use to describe a naval crew. In fact, they rather discourage it. An expert sailor is infinitely more useful than a dead one.
“If you remain with the Orca, you will definitely be on a command path. Magnus is well respected in some circles.”
I can’t resist asking. He’s offered some bait. “And in others, sir?”
The commodore forces a hard smile. “In those, he’s seen as a madman.”
So there it is. A madman with a ship of fanatics. And here is my chance to walk. But he said what I already know about myself. This is my key to unlock a new part of myself. If I don’t, then someday I’ll be a broken-down wreck with too many gambling bills and not enough motivation.
It’s a terrible moment when you gaze into yourself and don’t like what you see. This is my chance to change that.
“I’ll stay with the Orca, sir.” My heart beats faster just saying it.
“I commend you, Mr. Jager.” He beckons to the door, and I stand. “Will you watch for the navy, then?”
Now what does he mean by that? “Sir?”
“You see, I consider Magnus a madman, not a genius. I can’t argue with his results, though. But should he place his crew, or the ship, into a position counter to orders…”
“You’re asking me to take command?”
I see a smirk on his scarred face. “No, but it would do to have someone remind him of his duty as a captain. If you tried to take his ship, he’d shoot you himself.”
“Yes, sir. I can do that.” I owe him that. And it also explains why he wanted to speak with me alone.
“And just so you know, Master Engineer Henna is staying with the ship as well. She thinks highly of you.”
I leave with more questions on my mind. On the way back, I swing through the mess hall and scoop up a massive platter of pastries. I need an excuse for my absence. It isn’t a lie if no one asks where I’ve been. But I don’t feel comfortable about that conversation.
And everyone loves donuts.
The farther I walk, the more I realize that the commodore had given me a few hints of what to expect—none of it any good, other than my career outlook. But what good is a posthumous promotion?
No one comments on where I was beyond thanking me for donuts. They don’t look like fanatics to me, just like tired sailors.
Huttola leads the way, but this time I’m sent off to another task by Yao. The ship is taking shape, and we’re halfway through the whole operation. A pipe fitter explains that normally this is a month-long operation followed by a month of trials. He’d heard of the Orca before and knew she’d be a wreck. The tradesmen are working nonstop to get it ready.
And that’s probably why Hallverson snaps.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I’m in the midst of helping a few pipe fitters to install the new galley when I hear the yells. They’re far enough away that I can’t hear the words, but I know the voice. The fitters stop working and listen to howls of rage and loss.
“The fuck is that?” one of the fitters says.
I grab one of our crew by the arm. “Get the doctor!”
Then I sprint past boxes and half-installed pipes. All along the way, the tradespeople have stopped working. They stare down the hallway. By now I can make out the words.
“Anastasia! Get the children! Oh God!” Captain Hallverson bellows. “Viola! Samantha! Marcus!”
I can’t see him yet. The voice is coming from his cabin, except his cabin is disassembled. An electrician stands with his mouth wide open and points through a gap in the metal. “Crazy bastard’s in there.”
A millwright shakes his head. “Fucker took a swing at me.”
“He almost hit Wallace too, with a number-four wrench,” the electrician adds.
I lie. “He’s drunk.”
This seems to calm them a bit. One thing the trades understand is a good drunk.
“Now clear out, eh? And send any crew forward. I’m going to need some help.”
They leave, and it’s me alone with a madman thrashing about. How do you subdue someone like this? I could wait for the doctor, but I have a hunch there’ll be a security detail along soon. Those marines are good at wrecking shit, and sometimes they don’t care what. If the navy gets him, his career is over.
“Marcus!” Hallverson’s voice wails in sadness. “Oh God, Marcus!” Sobs follow a second after.
By all rights, I should leave him for the security teams. I almost step back and let him be. What do I owe him?
My life.
He rescued me and let me be a part of his crew. It would’ve been easy enough for him to just leave me to die in space or pick me up and drop me off. Instead, he gave me a chance.
I step through the half-completed bulkhead.
His cabin is nearly torn apart. One wall is stripped right down, the piping behind it laid out like veins and arteries. The other half is heaped with personal effects. There, on the floor, is a broken picture frame that flickers photos of children.
Now I understand.
Captain Hallverson smashes an electric box against the wall and claws at bolts. It’s like he’s trying to push his way through the steel. He slams his fists and howls: “We have to get them out! They’re burning to death!”
“Captain! Get a hold of yourself, dammit!” I yell. I stay back one step, the memory of his grip strong in my mind. If it comes to blows, I’ll need to box, not wrestle.
He turns to me. “Get the fire extinguishers! They’re burning! Save my family, man, save them!”
That phrase strikes me right in the heart. He thinks he’s back on the orbitals the day the White Queen struck. Somehow he got out and his family didn’t. This isn’t going to end well. This is a deep mental trauma that’s led directly to a flashback.
“We need to get you out now. This will all be fine. Now let’s go.” I try to sound calm.
Hallverson spins and leaps right at me.
I wish I could say it’s a good fight. That I somehow get him into a chokehold and lay him out nice and gentle.
Except it doesn’t go like that.
Hallverson rushes me. I drill him with two punches. Both hit, and hit hard. His head snaps to one side and then the other fist smacks it the other way. You know you hit someone hard when their eyes cross.
Now I’ve seen people angry because they were drunk. I’ve seen them angry about losing a boxing match. I’ve seen them angry about finding another man sleeping with their girl. But I’ve never seen someone angry thinking I’d try to kill their child.
Hallverson drops me to the floor and tears at me like an animal. He head-butts me until my eyes cross. Colby runs in, gets a punch to the gut. Then Yao; Hallverson punches him right in the crotch. The first officer falls like a sack of shit and clutches the family jewels.
He mews like a wounded animal.
More crew rush inside and finally pull him off me. They pin him down by heaping on top of him. And still, he thrashes.
By this point, I’m a bag of meat, pounded and punched.
Dr. Mohammad stabs a hypo into Hallverson’s neck, and finally he’s out. The last things he whimpers are the names of his children.
The kind doctor helps me up, hits me with a dose of painkillers ,and moves on to Yao. Hartford tucks an arm under mine, and we stumble out. A security detail from the refit freighter marches past. Colby meets them, and I catch a glance of her holding them back with a wrench in one hand. We stumble past med teams, tradesfolk, an angry foreman, and the scowling eye of the commodore.
“What happened in there, Mr. Jager?” The commodore is red with anger.
How do you explain that? I almost blurt out the truth, and by God I should, but Hallverson saved my life. So instead, I lie. “Bulkhead collapsed as we were taking it down.”
The commodore wears a look of disbelief that is so profound he can’t even speak. Luckily, Hartford pulls me away and into our crew quarters.
I wash up and stand in the jets of the showers. The steamy air and water pressure make the bruises sting, but at the same time I feel better. After what feels like an eternity, I stumble out and smear the condensation off the mirror. I’m a patchwork of bruises and torn skin.
Eventually I have to leave the bathroom and face some hard questions. So I dry off and dress in the cleanest uniform I have left. Thanks again, Winkelman.
By the time I walk out of our dorms, there are two security officers waiting for me. They quietly escort me into the commodore’s office. He doesn’t look much happier. Yao sits with a large bag of ice cooling his jewels. Dr. Mohammad frowns back at the commodore. I’ve just walked into the unhappiest place for a dozen light-years.
The commodore levels his gaze at me and scowls hard enough to crack stone. “The first officer can’t talk because his balls are crushed. The doctor won’t talk because of some damned oath of privacy. And you”—he raises up a claw of a hand at me—“are full of shit. I’ve got a damned war to fight. There’s a packet of orders that require this ship to be out on patrol. And by God, that’s not happening with the captain in the med bay!”
“Once that bulkhead fell, we couldn’t stop it. Then it hit us both, but mostly Captain Hallverson.”
“Bullshit!” The commodore almost falls out of his chair, he’s so angry.
I had to get that bit out. Now Yao and Mohammad are on the same page.
The commodore steams in his chair for a minute. “None of this matters, anyhow. The Orca isn’t going anywhere.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“A Tyrolean pawn just docked up. This is neutral territory, and they have as much right to be here as we do. The Orca is trapped until we get an escort out. And you three…I don’t know if you still have careers in this navy or not. Now, get the hell out.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Pawn is the three-dollar word for destroyer. They are a few hundred meters away, docked up in the same import-export ring that we are. Both sides make ample use of the neutral ports scattered throughout the border. So far, no one has gone to shooting neutrals; they are just too useful.
Neutral is a term to be used lightly. Profiteers fits better, maybe even primitives in space. It’d be unusual to have so many races so close to each other technologically. Instead corporations, governments, even nonprofits, set out to “help” those poor savages.
When this particular planet was first encountered, its inhabitants were about where humanity was in 6000 BC. The very first cities with more than a few hundred inhabitants were coming about. In a matter of decades, they were ushered into the modern era and given a space station.
Do the Tyroleans know we are here? Maybe. If they have an agent in station, or a drone, they could have watched us dock inside of the freighter. The commodore later admits that this sort of thing happens often. In fact, about every time an Orca-class ship comes in for a refit, one of the pawns comes to visit.
Normally, the Second Fleet would pop in for a holiday and make sure that the Orca could make it out unmolested. But now, with the Second Fleet battered and headed toward friendlier space, there is no one to see us out the door.
Don’t think work has stopped on the Orca. Not one single bit. The foreman figures the captain was drunk. This he understands. In a matter of an hour, they are back at it with welders welding and electricians wiring.
I go down to what they call the Officers Club. The floor is old red carpet that’s seen better days sometime last century, and there’s a row of file cabinets that passes for a bar.
Not that we have paper files, but the cabinets lock up the alcohol quite securely.
I slide onto a barstool. There aren’t many choices, so I ask the civilian to pour me something fancy and stick it on my tab.
“The drinks are free,” he replies.
I’m not about to explain the joke, so I let it go. Around the room are empty tables and the smell of yesterday’s booze. Two pipe fitters sip on shot glasses. Must be the night crew coming in for first drinks. Rumor has it that the first one to the bar in the morning gets a free drink.
Yao waddles in. A bag of ice conspicuously bulges in his pants. Dr. Mohammad is just behind. They are talking between themselves but stop as soon as they see me. I raise my glass and wave them over. Colby comes in after them.
“How’s the, uh…”
Yao cuts me off. “Sore.”
Dr. Mohammad frowns and waves the bartender away. “You shouldn’t be drinking. The painkillers are going to knock you out.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I reply.
Colby slides onto the stool next to me.
I’ve have enough about now. They are thick as thieves, all locked up in whispers and innuendo. I came onto the ship an outsider, and still I don’t know what the hell is happening. Time for some answers.
“Lay it out here, all of it. I went to bat for the captain, took one hell of a punch, and laid my career on the line. What’s his problem, and why the hell do you keep standing up for him? He’s safer somewhere else, getting treatment.”
“It’s the stress,” Yao says. “He’s worn thin; all of us are. We’ve been stretched for so long.”
Dr. Mohammad rubs his face with both hands. But he doesn’t speak.
Finally, Colby breaks the silence. “You know the Orca is a coffin, right?”
I don’t respond. She has that look like she’s about to get into a story.
Dr. Mohammad frowns at her. “Martina.”
“He should know. He’s part of the crew. If it wasn’t for him, they’d have the captain in a straitjacket.”
“Fine, but he won’t like it,” the doctor says quickly.
“So after the Queen hits the orbitals, we all sign up for that Doolittle raid.” Her eyes sparkle as she speaks; she wears a frown and an odd sort of smile. “None of us expected to survive.”
“But we did,” Yao says. “The captain promised that we’d kill the ship that did it.”
“The Queen,” I say.
“That’s right,” Colby says. She leans back, and the scowl returns. “So every time we go out, we do our duty, follow orders. But we need to kill the Queen.”
“Look at it this way,” the doctor says slowly. “You have someone who wants to commit suicide but can’t until the circumstances are proper. How long can you keep that up?”
I blink at the good doctor. “Do you all want to commit suicide?”
Yao shakes his head. “Not anymore, but…well, if it came down to it, I’d sacrifice myself.”
“As would I,” Colby and the doctor both say.
I look at the three of them, and they are dead serious. “You could do that on any ship. You don’t have to tie yourself down to a madman.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Jager,” Yao says. “If I’m going to fight and die, it’ll be wit
h a man who’s lost as much as I have.” He gives a look at Colby. “Or woman.”
“And I’m the outsider.”
Yao nods.
So everything I’ve done has just enabled a ship full of nutjobs to keep being nutjobs. Fucking great.
“You’re all crazy. All of you,” I say, my voice rising. “You could all be on other ships, as captains or training others. You’ve survived more than anyone! Anyone! And here you are, wallowing in your own self-pity because the captain is going mad.”
“I lost everything!” Yao shouts back.
“And you aren’t the only one. It’s not about some damned old Tyrolean ship; it’s about winning. It’s about peace. It’s about getting out to make a new life.”
They look at me like I’m the crazy one. I’ve hit a nerve. The future. They say a person who truly plans on committing suicide doesn’t make plans for the next day. So to point out the future to these three just highlights the fact that they’ve all signed up to die. Shame, maybe? Hell, I don’t know. It’s not something I understand.
The doctor holds up a hand. “Pointing out our choice and mocking it doesn’t change the situation. We’re stuck here.”
“And what of Captain Hallverson?” I ask.
“Normally, Yao would assume command,” Colby says. “But since we’re in port, it’s up to the commodore.”
“So that’s why the glum faces,” I say.
“That’s right, and then they split us all up and find a new, fresh crew for the Orca.”
Yao stands slowly and drops the bag of ice onto the bar. He stretches gingerly and straightens himself out into a man that looks like an officer, not some old, half-beaten hulk of a man. “Mr. Jager, I have no intention of giving this ship up to some wet-behind-the-ears relief captain. Only one way out of this mess, and that’s to get the Orca out into space and back on patrol before the commodore has someone else who can take the reins. Now, are you in? Or are you going to sit on your ass and wait for a better offer on some cozy starship?”
Cloak of War Page 10