With the Lightnings
Page 40
Daniel swallowed. “Ms. Enery,” he said, “I would be pleased to accept a line appointment under an officer of your abilities. Greatly pleased.”
The courier was an officer wearing what she had heard Daniel call a 2nd Class uniform. That gave the corvette’s crowded bridge a remarkable range of clothing styles. Adele wondered whether the same thought had caused the smile at the corners of Daniel’s mouth.
The courier held a document tied with ribbons which had been sealed with wax. Enery reached for it.
“Excuse me,” said the courier with irritation. “I have orders here for Lieutenant Daniel Leary.”
“Good God almighty!” blurted a sailor in the corridor outside.
Enery went pale. She slid aside. Daniel took the document and broke the seal with a sideways flick of his index finger. He looked as though he’d been sandbagged. He read the text, then raised his eyes to meet the gaze of those around him.
“It is the Senate’s pleasure,” Daniel said in a trembling voice, “through the agency of its servants in the Navy Board, to appoint me to the command of the corvette Princess Cecile for the purpose of carrying her to Harbor Three on Cinnabar where she will be surveyed by a committee of naval assessors.”
He lifted the document again. “So help me God,” he said in a wondering voice.
Lieutenant Enery bowed. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Captain Leary,” she said in a choking voice. She had to wait for Daniel to recover enough to take her hand; then with her confused nephew in tow she propelled herself down the corridor to the main hatch.
Enery had behaved with a decency equal to Daniel’s own, Adele thought. It was a pity that the crew couldn’t hold their cheers until the embarrassed officer had left the corvette.
* * *
The crew had its orders; there was no reason for the captain to be on the bridge. One could tell a great deal from the command console about the way a ship was handling as it entered sponge space, but one could tell even more from just below the tip of a fully extended ninety-seven-foot mast.
Daniel very deliberately stretched the fingers of his left hand outward, feeling the crackling pressure of the universe against their tips.
Eighteen of the Princess Cecile’s twenty-four masts were extended in whole or in part. This first entry into sponge space was a test of both the ship and the way the crew handled her. Petty officers stood at the base of mast clumps to relay the bosun’s semaphored orders and to judge the performance of the ratings carrying them out. There shouldn’t be any problems, but better to learn while still in the Kostroma system than when unexpectedly confronted by an Alliance cruiser.
Squadron Logistics had granted the Princess Cecile five missiles for self-defense on the voyage to Cinnabar. Chief Baylor had two full magazines, twenty rounds, instead of the allotment. Several of the squadron’s missileers had expended a few practice rounds on their books rather than by launching them through the tubes, and Daniel had taken an advance from his prize account. If there was a better way for a captain to spend money than in turning his command into an effective fighting unit, Daniel Leary hadn’t heard of it.
Around him shimmered a golden light that only spacers saw: the wobbling glow of Casimir energy, visible only at the margins of reality. What looked like stars beyond the veil were not that nor even galaxies: each separate point was a universe in itself, as complete as the sidereal universe from which the Princess Cecile was even now edging.
A hydraulic semaphore spread its arms. A rating in the bow cluster made a manual adjustment, and the tip of a mast near Daniel cocked forward thirty degrees from the topmost joint.
The Princess Cecile, driven by the greater pressure of Casimir energy on one aspect of the ship than on the other, slid fully into the gap between universes. Her captain, Lieutenant Daniel Leary, reveled in his first command.
The light of all existence flared about him.
AFTERWORD
I’m sometimes asked, “Have you read Patrick O’Brian?” Darn right I have: I’ve read Patrick O’Brian’s novels and I love them. Some reviews have referred to my Leary/Mundy series as an SF version of Hornblower. That’s not correct; I did an SF version of the Aubrey/Maturin series, Patrick O’Brian’s superb knockoff of Forester’s Hornblower. (If you want an SF version of Hornblower, Dave Weber does and David Feintuch did excellent but conceptually distinct takes on that paradigm.)
I write a lot of military SF. With the Lightnings is something quite different: space opera. When I was 13 I encountered Poul Anderson’s Flandry series which started in the pulps. Those tales and not, say, Starship Troopers and Dorsai! stood as godparents to With the Lightnings.
It was marvelous fun to write. I’ve done many sequels and hope to do many more. I hope Patrick O’Brian would have approved.
— Dave Drake
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m afraid that I use machines and people very hard when I’m focused on a project. The machines tend to break; the people, my friends, do not. Sincere thanks to Dan Breen; Jim Baen and Toni Weisskopf; Mark L. Van Name and Allyn Vogel; Sandra and John Miesel; and my wife Jo.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Drake was attending Duke University Law School when he was drafted. He served the next two years in the Army, spending 1970 as an enlisted interrogator with the 11th Armored Cavalry in Vietnam and Cambodia. Upon return he completed his law degree at Duke and was for eight years Assistant Town Attorney for Chapel Hill, North Carolina. He has been a full-time freelance writer since 1981. His books include the genre-defining and bestselling Hammer’s Slammers series, and the nationally bestselling RCN series including In the Stormy Red Sky, The Road of Danger, and The Sea Without a Shore.
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