Sassinak

by Anne McCaffrey

  As the ship came up to speed, all systems functioned perfectly—no red lights flared on the bridge to warn of imminent disaster. If she had not known about the damaged pods, and the patched hole in the port side docking bay, Sassinak would have thought the ship in perfect condition.

  Navigating through the planet's cluttered space required all her concentration for the next few hours. By the time they were outside all the satellites and rings, the Fleet attack force was only a couple of light minutes away. She elected not to hop it, but continued on the insystem main drives, spending the hours of approach to ensure that her ship and its crew were ready for inspection. A couple of minutes with the personnel files had reminded her that Commodore Verstan had a reputation for being finicky. She had a feeling he would have plenty to say about the appearance of her ship.

  Meanwhile, she noted that his approach to the pirate base followed precisely the recommendations of the Rules of Engagement. Two escort-class vessels, Scratch and Darkwatch, were positioned sunward of the planet, no doubt "to catch strays." The command cruiser, Seb Harr, and the two light cruisers formed a wedge; three patrol craft were positioned one on either flank and one trailing. They held these positions as the Zaid-Dayan approached, rather than closing with the planet system.

  Sassinak brought the Zaid-Dayan neatly into place behind the Seb Harr, and opened the tightly shielded link to Commodore Verstan. He looked just like his holo in the Flag Officer Directory, a lean, pink-faced man with thick gray hair and bright blue eyes. Behind him, she could see Huron watching the screen anxiously.

  "Commander Sassinak," said Verstan, formally. "We received signals from a Fleet distress beacon."

  Sassinak's heart sank. If he was going to take that approach . . .

  "But I see that was some kind of . . . misunderstanding. " She started to speak but he was going on without waiting. "Lieutenant Commander Huron had suggested the possibility that the apparent explosion of your ship was staged somehow, though I believe . . . uh . . . tradition favors disabling the beacon if this is done . . ."

  "Sir, in this instance the beacon's signal was necessary to fool the pirates—"

  "Ah, yes. The pirates. And how many armed ships were you facing, Commander?"

  Sassinak gritted her teeth. There would be a court of inquiry; there was always a court of inquiry in circumstances like these, and that was the place for these questions.

  "The first armed ship," she said, "was escorting the slaver transport. We did not know at that time if the slaver were armed—"

  "But it wasn't. You had the IFF signal—"

  "We knew the IFF of the escort had been falsified, and weren't sure of the transport. Some of them are: you will recall the Cles Prel loss, when a supposedly unarmed transport blew a light cruiser away—" That was a low blow, she knew: the captain of the Cles Prel had been Verstan's classmate at the Academy. His face stiffened, then she saw dawning respect in his eyes: he was a stickler for protocol, but he liked people with gumption.

  "You said 'the first armed ship,' " he went on. "Was there another?"

  Sassinak explained about the well-defended base, and the ships that had boosted off to join the battle. She knew Huron would have told him about the weaponry on the first ship—if he'd listened. Then, before he could ask details of the battle, she told him about the traffic in the system since.

  "They've had three Gourney-class transports land in the past few days, and there's a Hall-Kir in low orbit. One of the Gourney-class is definitely from a heavyworlder system, and it's made unclassified trips before. I think they're planning to evacuate the base; we monitored considerable shuttle activity up to the orbital ship."

  "Any idea how big the base is?"

  "Not really. We were on the back side of that moonlet, with only a small sensor net deployed for line of sight to the planet. The thermal profile is consistent with anything from one thousand to fifteen thousand, depending on associated activities. If we knew for sure what they were doing, we could come closer to a figure. I can dump the data for you—"

  "Please do."

  Sassinak matched channels, and sent the data. "If their turnaround is typical, Commodore, they could be loaded and ready to lift in another couple of days."

  "I see. Do you think they'll do it with our force here?"

  "Probably—they won't gain anything by waiting for you to put them under siege. Oh—that outer moon—did Huron tell you about their detection profile?"

  "Yes. I know they know we've entered the system—we also stripped their outer warning beacon. But that's exactly what I'm hoping for. Three medium transports, one Hall-Kir hull . . . we should be able to trail several of them, if we can tag them. If we wait another week, we may have more in the net when we attack. How about you?"

  She wanted to join the hunt more than anything in years, but Hollister was shaking his head at her. "Sir, my environmental system is overloaded, and my portside pods sustained considerable damage . . . the engineers tell me we can't do another long chase."

  "Humph. Can you give us a visual? Maybe we have something you can use for repairs?"

  Apparently one of the other cruisers had a visual on them, for before Sassinak could reply, she saw a picture come up on the screen behind Commodore Verstan. One of his bridge officers pointed it out to him, and he turned—then swung back to face Sassinak with a startled expression.

  "What the devil happened to you? It looks like your portside loading bay—"

  "Was breached. Yes, but it's tight now. Looks pretty bad, I know—"

  "And you're short at least two portside pods . . . you're either lucky or crazy, Commander, and I'm not sure which."

  "Lucky, I hope," said Sassinak, not displeased with his reaction. "By the way, is Lieutenant Commander Huron attached to your command, now, or are you bringing him back to me?"

  Verstan smiled, and waved Huron forward. "We weren't sure you were here, after all—but if you're in need I'm sure he'll be willing to transfer over."

  Huron had aged in those few weeks, a stern expression replacing the amiable (but competent) one he had usually worn. Sassinak wondered if he felt the same about her—would he even want to come back? She shook herself mentally—he was telling her about his trip with the slaver transport, the horrible conditions they'd found, the impossibility of comforting all those helpless children, orphaned and torn from their homes. Her eyes filled with tears, as much anger and frustration at not having been able to stop it as grief from her own past. His ship had been short of rations—since it had been inbound, at the end of a planned voyage—and to the other miseries of the passengers hunger and thirst had been added. Now he wanted to be in the assault team; as he had no regular assignment on the flagship, he had requested permission to land with the marines.

  "I'll come back, of course, if you need me," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. Sassinak sighed. Clearly his experience haunted him; he would not be content until he'd had slavers in his gunsight . . . or gotten himself killed, she thought irritably. He wasn't a marine; he wasn't trained in ground assault; he ought to have more sense. In the long run he'd be better off if she ordered him back to the Zaid-Dayan, and kept him safe.

  "Huron—" She stopped when he looked straight at her. Captain to captain, that gaze went—he was no longer the compliant lover, the competent executive officer whose loyalty was first to her. She could order him back, and he would come—but without the self-respect, the pride, that she had learned to love. She could order him to her bed, no doubt, and he would come—but it would not be the Huron she wanted. He would have to fight his own battles awhile first, and later—if they had a later—they could discover each other again. She felt an almost physical pain in her chest, a wave of longing and apprehension combined. If something happened to him—if he were killed—she would have to bear the knowledge that she could have kept him out of it. But if she forced him to safety now, she'd have to bear the knowledge that he resented her.

  "Be careful," she said at last. "And get
some of the bastards for me."

  His eyes brightened, and he gave her a genuine smile. "Thank you, Commander Sassinak. I'm glad you understand."

  Whatever she did, the battle would be over by the time she got back to Fleet Sector Headquarters for refitting. Sassinak hoped her answering smile was as open and honest as his: she felt none of his elation.

  * * *

  In fact, the trip back to Sector Headquarters was one of the most depressing of her life. She, like Huron, had itched to blow away some pirates and slavers . . . and yet she'd had to run along home, like an incompetent civilian. She found herself grumbling at Hollister—and it wasn't his fault.

  Her new executive officer seemed even less capable after that short conversation with Huron . . . she knew she criticized him too sharply, but she couldn't help it. She kept seeing Huron's face, kept imagining how it would have been to have him there. For distraction, such as it was, she kept digging at the personnel records, looking over every single one which could possibly have had access to the right area of the ship when the missile was fired. After Kelly came Kelland, and from there she plowed through another dozen, all the way to Prosser. Prosser's ID in his records had an expression she didn't like, a thin-lipped, self-righteous sort of smirk, and she found herself glaring at it. Too much of this, and she'd come to hate every member of the crew. They couldn't all be guilty. Prosser didn't look that bad in person (she made a reason to check casually); it was just the general depression she felt. And she knew she'd face a Board of Inquiry, if not a court martial, back at Sector.

  * * *

  Sector Headquarters meant long sessions with administrative officers who wanted to know exactly how each bit of damage to the ship had occurred, exactly why she'd chosen to do each thing she'd done, why she hadn't done something else instead. As the senior engineers shook their heads and tut-tutted over the damage, critiquing Hollister's emergency repairs, Sassinak found herself increasingly tart with her inquisitors. She had, after all, come back with a whole ship and relatively few casualties, and rescued a shipload of youngsters, when she might have been blown into fragments if she'd followed a rigid interpretation of the Rules of Engagement. But the desk-bound investigators could not believe that a cruiser like the Zaid-Dayan might be out-gunned by a "tacky little pirate ship" as one of them put it. Sassinak handed over the data cubes detailing the escort's profile, and they sniffed and put them aside. Was she sure that the data were accurate?

  Furthermore, there was the matter of practically inviting a hostile force to breach her ship and board. "Absolutely irresponsible!" sniffed one commander, whom Sassinak knew from the Directory hadn't been on a ship in years, and never on one in combat. "Could have been disastrous," said another. Only one of the Board, a one-legged commander who'd been marooned in coldsleep in a survival pod on his first voyage, asked the kinds of questions Sassinak herself would have asked. The chair of the Board of Inquiry, a two-star admiral, said nothing one way or the other, merely taking notes.

  She came out of one session ready to feed them all to the recycling bins, and found Arly waiting for her.

  "Now what?" asked Sass.

  Arly took her arm. "You need a drink—I can tell. Let's go to Gino's before the evening rush."

  "I feel trouble in the air," said Sass, giving her a hard look. "If you've got more bad news, just tell me."

  "Not here—those paperhangers don't deserve to hear things first. Come on."

  Sassinak followed her, frowning. Arly was rarely pushy, and as far as Sassinak knew avoided dockside bars. Whatever had come unstuck had bothered her, too.

  Gino's was the favorite casual place for senior ship officers that season. For a moment, Sassinak considered the change in her taste in bar decor. Ensigns liked tough exotic places that let them feel adventurous and mature; Jigs and Tenants were much the same, although some of them preferred a touch of elegance, a preference that increased with rank. Until, Sassinak had discovered, the senior Lieutenant Commanders and Commanders felt secure enough in their rank to choose more casual, even shabby, places to meet. Such as Gino's, which had the worn but scrubbed look of the traditional diner. Gino's also had live, human help to bring drinks and food to the tables, and rumor suggested a live, human cook in the kitchen.

  Arly led her to a corner table in the back. Sassinak settled herself with a sigh, and prodded the service pad until its light came on. After they'd ordered, she gave Arly a sidelong look.

  "Well?"

  "An IFTL message. For you." Arly handed her the hardcopy slip. Sassinak knew instantly, before she opened it, what it had to be. An IFTL for a captain in refitting? That could only be an official death notice, and she knew only one person who might . . . she unfolded the slip, and glanced at it, trying to read it without really looking at it, as if this magic might protect her from the pain. Official language left the facts bald and clear: Huron was dead, killed "in the line of duty" while assaulting the pirate base. She blinked back the tears that came to her eyes and gave Arly another look.

  "You knew." It wasn't a question.

  "I . . . guessed. An IFTL message, after all . . . why else?"

  "Well. He's dead, I suppose you guessed that, too. Damn fool!" Rage and grief choked her, contending hopelessly in her heart and mind. If only he hadn't—if only she had—if only some miserable pirate had had a shaky hand . . .

  "I'm sorry, Sass. Commander." Arly stumbled over her name, uncertain. Sassinak dragged herself back to the present.

  "He was . . . a good man." It was not enough; it was the worst trite stupid remark, but it was also true. He had been a good man, and being a good man had gotten himself killed, probably unnecessarily, probably very bravely, and she would never see him again. Never feel him again. Sassinak shivered, swallowed, and reached for the drink that had just been delivered. She sipped, swallowed, sipped again. "He wanted to go," she said, as much to herself as to Arly.

  "He was headed for that before you ever got the Zaid-Dayan," said Arly, surprisingly. Sassinak stared at her, surprised to be surprised. Arly gulped half her own drink and went on. "I know you . . . he . . . you two were close, Commander, and that's fine, but you never did know him before. I served with him six years, and he was good . . . you're right. He was also wild—a lot wilder before you came aboard, but still wild."

  "Huron?" It was all she could think of to say, to keep Arly talking so that she could slowly come to grips with her own feelings.

  Arly nodded. "It's not in his record, because he was careful, too, in his own way, but he used to get in fights—people would say things, you know, about colonials, and he'd react. Political stuff, a lot of it. He wouldn't ever have gotten his own ship—he told me that, one time, when he'd been in a row. He'd said too many things about the big families, in the wrong places, for someone with no more backing than he had."

  "But he was a good exec . . ." She had trouble thinking of Huron as a hothead causing trouble.

  "Oh, he was. He liked you, too, and that helped, although he was pretty upset when you didn't go in and fight for that colony."

  "Yeah . . . he was." Sassinak let herself remember their painful arguments, his chilly withdrawal.

  "I—I thought you ought to know," said Arly, tracing some design with her finger on the tabletop. "He really did like you, and he'd have wanted you to know . . . it's nothing you did, to make him insist on going in. He'd have managed, some way, to get into more and more rows until he died. No captain could have been bold enough for him."

  Despite Arly's well-meant talk, Sassinak found that her grief lasted longer than anyone would approve. She had lost other lovers, casual relationships that had blossomed and withered leaving only a faint perfume . . . and when the lover disappeared, or died, a year or so later, she had felt grief . . . but not like this grief. She could not shake it off; she could not just go on as if Huron had been another casual affair.

  She was not even sure why Huron had meant so much. He had been no more handsome or skilled in love, no more int
elligent or sensitive than many men she'd shared her time with. When more details of the raid came in, she found that Arly's guess had been right: Huron had insisted on joining the landing party, had thrown himself into danger in blatant disregard of basic precautions, and been blown away, instantly and messily, in the assault on the pirate's headquarters complex. Sassinak overheard what her own crew were too thoughtful to tell her: the troops he'd gone in with considered him half-crazy or a gloryhound, they weren't sure which. But the more official reports were that he'd distinguished himself with "extreme bravery" and his posthumous rating was "outstanding." Still, this evidence of his instability didn't make her feel any better. She should have been able to influence him, in their months together, should have seen something like this coming and headed it off—it was such a waste of talent. She argued with herself, in the long nights, and carefully did not take a consoling drink.