by S. N. Lewitt
"Yeah?" The word was mired in syrup: Yeeaaaauu-uhhhh?
"Status of alarm?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Huh? I—I'm Light Unit Commander Stelo Gain!"
"Oh, yeah. The new shavehead. Lemme see, don't get your bowels in an uproar, bub. Hmm. Looks like some fool lost control of his ship and is about to hit the shields."
It was the most insolent, unmilitary computer report he had heard since joining the academy, and it amazed Gain to find such sloppy programming in a station the size and importance of this one. Somebody's head should roll for this. He would help that along, as soon as possible.
"Give me a visual of the approaching vessel," Gain ordered.
"If you'll get your finger out of your nose and turn around, you'll see I already did that. Screen's right there behind you."
"I'll have you deprogrammed!" Gain yelled. His response embarrassed him. Get a grip, on yourself, Gain. For God's sake, it's probably somebody's idea of a joke to play on new shaveheads, and here you are swallowing it whole. Tighten up, Gain. Tighten up. You're an officer.
"Better men than you have tried to deprogram me, bub. I'm still here. See you later."
Gain turned, just in time to see on the holoproj a Tanto-class courier ship entering the outer limits of the force shield. The little ship seemed to hop sideways, then looked as if it had slammed into a rubbery wall, turning relative-up and losing part of one control surface in a bright flare of field-interactive orange. Whoever was flying that bird was going to be nursing a lot of bruises and broken bones—if he survived the landing. Plowing into a station's shields at speed made for a very rough ride, stress-cocoon notwithstanding.
Thus slowed, and with its power shorted out by the secondary damping field, the courier ship tumbled, smacked into the safety broadband and stopped cold, and was finally lowered somewhat less than gently by the invisible hands of the put'emdown. Whoever it was, better have a real good excuse coming in like that, assuming he was alive, or the Station Commander was going to cook him and eat him for supper. Gain was glad it wasn't him, and glad he didn't have anything to do with it.
He accessed the room's external viewer and looked at the blue mostly-water world of Feddalsi Oasis hanging like part of a giant bowl in space. A few fleecy clouds decorated the deep blue; not much weather churning otherwise. Between the incompetent pilot and the insolent computer, he hadn't gotten the best impression of Oasis II so far. Maybe things would improve after he met the SC and found out what he'd be doing. Never mind. He was commissioned, young, smart and tough. He'd show these slack Harriers a thing or two.
2
"You still here, bub?" the computer said. The lazy voice had some kind of accent Gain couldn't identify, a fat drawl that stretched the words and made them seem like hot taffy in the sunshine.
"What do you want?" Gain snapped out the question.
"The Old Man—that's Station Commander Zougag to you, bub—would like the pleasure of your company on Level Four, Station One—if you can spare the time."
"What?"
"Hospital unit, and you'll need it if you don't hurry. You were supposed to be there ten minutes ago."
"What?!"
"I forgot to tell you. Got busy and all."
"What? You what?"
"Well, well. You ain't all starch and elbows after all. Better hop to it. The Old Man hates to be kept waiting."
Gain left, moving at triple time, trying to look calm and unhurried as he ran toward the chute. He practically leaped into the tube. "Level Four, hurry!"
"Ain't got but one speed, bub."
Great. The same computer ran the chutes. What was going on here?
A line trooper with a zap carbine held at port arms stood guard at the chute's exit. Gain passed his wrist under the wall's admit scanner and was identified by the implant in his pisiform bone. The guard snapped to attention as Gain passed. Well, at least there was some discipline here. "As you were," Gain said. It was the first time he had given that command as a real officer, and it gave him a kind of power-filled tingle.
A second guard admitted Gain into the unit, directed him down a corridor, where a pair of guards with holstered sidearms stood at ease on either side of a third door. Must be important, given all the security.
Inside the room, a man lay inside a Hertz full-medical attend unit. Such boxes were usually called creep coffins by military and civilians alike. Next to the unit stood the Station Commander. SC Zougag was a boot-plastic-tough old man of sixty-five or seventy T.S. years, white-haired and still fit under his station work blues; a man reputed to eat slow nails and pee high-speed needles when in a bad mood.
"Sir, Light Unit Commander Gain reporting as ordered." Gain made it as crisp as he could.
The Old Man waved one hand. "At ease, Luck." He shook his head. "Old men, jailrats, pregnant women and shavehead children," he muttered. "Thank you so very much, Marshal Twill."
"Sir?"
"Nothing, Luck. Just the usual snafu. Over here."
Gain moved toward the creep coffin. Through the clear densecris cover he saw a man of maybe fifty, somewhat the worse for recent wear, plugged into the sensory and medicant gear. Getting a full replete ride, looked like.
"Gain, this is Commander Dino Farr, formerly a decent officer of the Fighting Foxes, now stealing his pay as a do-nothing Aide to Marshal-in-Chief Twill. You may have seen his somewhat inexpert landing earlier in the day, in which he destroyed a Tanto-class ship without even trying."
"It was sabotage, Pil, I told you," the man in the coffin said. He sounded sleepy. He smiled, and it was a doped-to-the-eyebrows expression. Must be doped to be calling the SC, who was Line Ranked, by his first name.
"We'll see what the mechs say," the SC replied. He looked away from the injured man and back at Gain. "Farr has come to make my life difficult, as is his usual wont." The Old Man smiled. "And since I run things here, I get to pass such grief down the line. Commander Farr being pumped full of dorph to ease his much-deserved pain for smashing into the shield, it falls to me to try to explain."
"Sir?"
"You just got here, Luck, and I'm sorry to have to dump this on you, but most of my able bodies are on maneuvers teaching the Grands from Big Star One how to suck vac. You may not be aware that the Petits have won the deep-space combat games six times running."
"Sir, I knew that."
"Um. Farr here came to deliver a message from the MiC Himself, and as usual, the news isn't good. My at-homes are at skeleton strength now. I have to have a commissioned officer look into his problem and you, son, are who I can spare."
Gain swallowed. Well, he wanted to be in the thick of things. Having a mission direct from the Marshal-in-Chief of the Petit Harriers first time in the barrel was certainly thick enough. If he did well, it couldn't hurt. If he screwed up, well . . . he didn't want to think about that.
"You know anything about Feddalsi Oasis?"
"Sir, normal briefing material."
"Son, this isn't the Academy, you don't have to 'sir' me every time you open your mouth."
"Sir. I mean, ah . . ."
The Old Man grinned. "Forget it. You may be aware that there is some . . . rivalry between the Grands and the Petits."
"Si— Ah, yes, I was aware of that."
"You may also be aware that out in the real galaxy things aren't always as neat and clean as the Magnicate Alliance would have them be. You ever hear of the Texas Rangers?"
"Some sort of mythical pre-space law force, weren't they?"
"That's right. Since they were there when things happened, they had to interpret the laws somewhat loosely as they went, if you take my meaning."
Gain understood that, though he didn't see where the Old Man was going with it.
"In any event, there are sometimes things that go on in the realm of politics and power that might not be strictly legal, but into which you don't want to run like some ignorant tumwah waving a law dictum. There are some, ah, delicate balances where the Gr
ands, the Petits and the Twelve all sit around the same table."
Gain knew that, at least in a theoretical way. Somebody was always stabbing somebody else in the back where Uplevels were concerned. Real Machiavellian stuff. Nobody trusted anybody in those rarefied chambers, and that was considered the height of wisdom.
"The bottom line here, Luck, is that a situation has arisen that is very delicate and dangerous. It has to be handled carefully, because the politics might be as important as the military end, if you get my drift."
Gain swallowed again. Politics. This did not sound good at all.
"If what Farr says is true, the continued future of the Petit Harriers themselves might well rest entirely on a successful completion of this mission.
"You, son, are going to be very careful, or it won't be just you who suffers, it will be all of us."
Gain stood there, frozen, growing more and more incredulous as Station Commander Zougag told him exactly what the problem was, and what shavehead LUC Gain was going to have to do to fix it. He had never dreamed just how thick the intrigue got Uplevels. How could they do such things and get away with them? Holy Juddah Bright!
It was beginning to look as if Light Unit Commander Stelo Gain's first mission as an officer might also be his last.
Oh, boy.
3
Gain stood at ease in the SC's office as the Sub-Unit Officer arrived. Even a shavehead knew that SUO's were the real power in any military organization. Officers might issue orders, but it was up to the noncoms to get things done. A good SUO could make you look real sharp, if he or she wanted; they could also make you look like a sunbleached old white dog turd if they didn't like you.
Sitting behind his desk, the Old Man nodded at the SUO as he stepped inside and came to attention. "At ease, Chan."
The man relaxed. He was maybe forty-five T.S., a head shorter than Gain, had a lot of smile wrinkles, black hair cropped in a spacer's buzz, and a look of having seen and heard it all. His skin was coffee-and-cream-colored, and the whites of his eyes were remarkably clear. A forty-year man halfway through, Gain figured, and not somebody to screw around with. He'd know the system backward and how to get what he wanted out of it.
Everything Gain had learned at the Academy wasn't theoretical—the Subs had run things there, too.
"SUO Chan Singa, this is Light Unit Commander Stelo Gain, just assigned to Oasis II."
Gain gave the other man a military nod. "Sub."
"Luck," Chan said. He turned back toward the Old Man. "What's up, Pil?"
Gain wanted to shake his head. What, was the Old Man on a first name basis with everybody? Discipline must be hell around here.
"Usual FU. I've just given the LUC here a very sensitive mission, and I want you to volunteer to go along and make sure he has proper backup."
"A sensitive mission. What are we talking about here?"
"Oh, a little trip down to the water. A few days of R&R in Oondervatten. A few odds and ends."
"And you let me out of brig to tell me this? Come on, Pil. Fire the other barrel."
Out of the brig?
"Well, I can't give you all the details—we're talking commissioned-ears-only—but you might be paying a little visit to the Hot and Moist."
"What? You want me to go to Fishtown? Officially? To Jaskeen's place? Have you lost your mind?"
"You're still on speaking terms with Limos, aren't you?"
"When the uniform's in the locker, yeah."
"So leave it in the locker. You have some cit clothes, don't you?"
Chan shook his head. "I don't like the sound of this, Commander. Maybe I'd be better off in the brig."
"Well, I can tell you that the future of the Petit Harriers may be in jeopardy."
"Yeah, so? It's always in jeopardy, what else is new?"
Gain was holding himself in check, but barely. Who was this noncom to talk back to the SC like this? But—what could he learn from listening to a noncom who could talk back like this without getting cashed and booted out of the service? He listened.
"It's a matter of galactic importance?" the Old Man tried.
"The brig ain't so bad. Good food. Nice bed."
"How about, if we pull this off, we'll put a big fat dog of a problem right on the Grand Harriers' new Marshal-in-Chiefs lap? Maybe get him fired?"
SUO Singa grinned. "Hell, why didn't you say so in the first place? I'm in."
As Chan and Gain left the SC's office, the SUO turned to the LUC and said, "So, you in charge here, Luck?"
The question meant more than it was asking on the surface, and Gain damn sure knew it.
Gain thought about it for about three seconds. Yes, he was the officer and, in theory, responsible for, and in control of, this mission. The Sub was being let out of the brig for this operation, and God knew why he'd been put there in the first place and why the SC thought he should be released. The rules said there was a certain way to do things; the chain of command dictated it so.
Gain wanted to play the game as he had learned it. On the other hand, he wanted to get the job done. That was more important. Not only for the Petits, but for his own hide. If he had to take a risk, now was the time, before it all started to sizzle. You didn't need to be a physicist to know which way the reaction blew.
"Sub, I'm just out of the Academy and I don't know squat except what they taught me there. I'd rather win than be in charge. If you can get me out of this in one piece, I'm all ears and no mouth." One of his Subs at the Academy had been fond of that phrase, telling him it was the best way to learn. Gain was halfway convinced that all Subs everywhere knew each other.
Chan smiled, adding to his eye wrinkles. He reached out and slapped Gain on one shoulder. "Good for you, kid, that'll make things a lot easier."
Gain was relieved. "So, what now?"
"We have to collect a few people to give us a decent op unit."
"How many?"
"Oh, I figure another three besides us can manage it."
"Only five?"
"More'd only get in our way, where we're going."
"The courier ship was sabotaged," Gain offered.
"Yeah, I heard when I was in the brig."
Gossip was faster than subspace com, nothing new about that.
"Still, if we can't do it with five, we probably can't do it. We can yell for help, though it probably won't get to us in time."
"Mind if I ask you something?" Gain asked.
"Shoot."
"Why were you in the brig?"
"I punched out my LUC. Guy you're probably replacing. A real wetbrain. A shavehead Academy boy thought he knew squat about everything." Chan grinned.
4
"Where are we going?" Gain asked.
"Back to the brig."
"Leave your luggage?"
"Nah. Couple of the people we want are there."
Gain shook his head. Maybe he'd made a mistake letting Chan know he didn't know anything. As if he could have hidden it.
"Don't worry. They're good troopers, just a little at odds with authority. You learn to deal with it when you've been an officer long enough; you let a certain amount of it slide."
Gain had a sudden flash. "You talk like you know what it's like to be an officer."
"Yeah, I been there."
"You had a commission? You got it revoked?"
"Well, yeah. First time I was a LUC; second time I did a tour as a Combat Com Op, third time I almost made it to Full Commander before they kicked me back down."
"No kidding?"
Chan laughed. "If you don't screw up bad enough to get drummed out, they figure they'll need you again eventually. We had us a shooting war going, I'd probably get a field commission for the duration, if I wanted it. Pil Zougag and I go way back. I did my first tour with him twenty-five years ago when he was running the Second Foxes during the police action on Gascognye."
Gain nodded. That explained the first-name basis.
"We'll need, ah, some different kinds of soldier
s for this run. People with unusual talents. I dunno exactly what the deal is and I don't need to know, but I do know where we're going. Fishtown ain't a place for people who can't take care of themselves."
They were admitted into one of the small cells on the brig level, a place made to look smaller by the man who occupied it.
"Hey, Sub," the man said, a big smile on his face.
Chan nodded at the man. "Hey, Shoulders. This is our new Luck, Stelo Gain. He's okay."
Gain stared at the man Chan had called Shoulders. It was easy enough to see why he'd gotten the name. The closer he got, the broader the trooper seemed to grow, until he was nearly filling Gain's entire line-of-sight. Looked like he was almost a meter wide across the shoulders, a good two meters tall. Guy had to go 110, maybe 115 kilos in a standard one-gee pull, and he had muscles that looked as thick as any Gain had ever seen. The overstretched white coverall couldn't begin to hide them.
"This is Line Trooper Stamblock," Chan said, "sector weight-lifting champion, but pretty much a kitten, except when somebody insults his mother. Last man who did that is still in the creep coffin."
Gain made a mental note to avoid insulting Trooper Stamblock's mother.
"Shoulders is good at picking things up and moving them," Chan said. "He comes in handy now and then."
"We going someplace?" Shoulders asked.
"Yeah, we have to go save the Petits' lunch again."
"Oh, sure. Okay."
The next cell they visited contained a woman trooper, and Gain was caught by her exotic beauty when he saw her. She was dark, nearly as much so as Chan, with a spacer's haircut that gave her a short but dense cap of tight dark curls. Her eyes were green, her nose flat and wide, upper lip thicker than the lower. She had an athlete's body under the whites, the giveaway veins visible in her forearms where the coverall was rolled back, not much breast tissue but heavy pectorals, strong-looking legs. A dancer or a gymnast, maybe.
"This is Doreen Shu O'Rourke," Chan said, "who would normally be representing the Petits in freestyle combat at the ground games with the Grands this month, only she never seems to be able to make bedcheck when she's supposed to. Rook, this is Stelo Gain, and we'll be working with him for a while."