The Oncoming Storm

by Christopher Nuttall

  She took a breath, knowing she was about to put her career on the line. “Admiral,” she added, “how can you ignore the growing threat to our shipping lines?”

  For a moment, she saw a trace of anger behind the admiral’s eyes, and then it was gone.

  “The decision to annex Cadiz was, in my view, a mistake,” the admiral said, finally. His voice was so flat she just knew he was using implants to keep it under control. That too was rude, at least in private conversation. “We did something very provocative, something that could have provoked a war, something that could have torn our government apart, purely for our own selfless interests. It would be smart for us to refrain from any other provocative actions in the future.”

  He cleared his throat, loudly. “Your ship will escort the convoy to the border in five days, once several pieces of cargo have been loaded onto the freighters,” he continued. His tone made it clear he considered the assignment a punishment. “After that, we will discuss your future . . . operations.”

  Kat fought down the urge to grind her teeth in frustration. How could the admiral be so blind? But the hell of it was that he had a point. The decision to annex Cadiz had come alarmingly close to tearing the Commonwealth apart, no matter the justification behind it.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, rising to her feet. “I will return to my ship.”

  “My aide will show you out,” the admiral said. He stood and then held out a hand. “And I do trust I will see you at one of my parties, Captain. I believe you have a great deal to offer.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kat said. She shook the admiral’s hand reluctantly. “But my starship always comes first.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Night was falling over Cadiz Spaceport as the shuttle dropped down to the landing pad and landed neatly, the pilot shutting down the drives moments later. William climbed to his feet, opened the hatch, and stepped through onto the tarmac. The air was cooler than the captain had reported, but there was a strange smell that bothered him more than he cared to admit. It reminded him of his homeworld.

  Behind him, the forty-nine officers and crew who had been assigned to the shore leave roster strode out of the shuttle. He turned round to face them, sighing inwardly. There was something about the prospect of shore leave that turned even the most disciplined spacers into a rowdy mob. He cleared his throat loudly and they quieted, knowing he could still bar them from leave, even now.

  “You should all have reviewed the safety briefing before boarding the shuttle,” he said, knowing some of them probably wouldn’t have taken the time to even skim the file. “Do not attempt to leave the spaceport or enter any secure zone. Should you do either . . . you’ll probably spend an uncomfortable night in the cells before I come and get you.”

  He paused as the sound of helicopters clattered overhead before fading away in the distance, then continued.

  “Do not spend more than you have on your credit card, do not come stumbling back to the shuttle drunk, and do not do anything you don’t want to appear on your service record,” he added. He turned and pointed towards the shore leave section. “Dismissed.”

  The crew cheered, then ran past him and through the gates. William snorted, knowing he’d been just as enthusiastic once upon a time, and then strode after them with casual measured steps. The thought of shore leave was hypnotic, he had to admit, but it wasn’t really what he wanted, not now. Forty-eight hours was hardly enough to relax properly. Once upon a time, he’d booked himself into a hotel and just spent four days in bed.

  He smiled as he passed through the gates and peered down the long road. It looked like any other strip of entertainment intended to keep spacers happy on shore leave: a line of bars, strip clubs, gambling arcades, and brothels. His smile grew wider at some of the memories, then he sobered as he caught sight of two armored marines patrolling the street. No matter how hard they tried to disguise it, the spaceport was a prime target for the insurgency. It wouldn’t be hard for a spy to slip through the gates and cause trouble.

  A line of spacers, the gold badges on their collars marking them as superdreadnought crew, came pouring out of one of the bars, heading towards the brothels. They’d clearly not spent much time on shore leave, William decided, recalling his own adventures. It was generally better to go to the brothel first rather than the bars or gambling joints. The only spacer he recalled spending much time gambling while on shore leave had been an asexual teetotaler, someone who wasn’t interested in anything else. Everyone else knew the games tended to be rigged, no matter what the house promised.

  He sighed, feeling too responsible to just go to a brothel and carouse, then turned and walked towards the bar at the top of the road. The title, emblazoned on the door in glowing letters, read OFFICER DOWN. It wasn’t particularly funny, he decided, as he pushed the door open, but it was unlikely any of the junior ranks would dare enter. The establishment was meant for officers and officers alone.

  No doubt there’s a higher class of prostitute here, he thought as he closed the door behind himself and glanced round. The interior looked like a high-class cafe on Tyre, one of the places that sold cakes and cream teas along with expensive liquor and fancy drinks. And I’m too poor to spend any time here.

  “William,” a female voice called. “It is you, isn’t it?”

  William stared. He knew that voice.

  “William,” Commander Fran Higgins said. “Long time no see.”

  “You too,” William said. He walked over and sat down facing her. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

  “I’d have called you if I’d known,” Fran agreed. She smiled as the waiter arrived, carrying a small notebook in one hand rather than a data terminal. “My friend here would like a Cream Plum, thank you.”

  The waiter bowed and retreated. William blinked in surprise, then looked at Fran. She looked almost as he remembered, with short brown hair and a face that was solid rather than pretty, but she looked tired. In a way, she looked older than William himself—and he knew she was ten years younger.

  “It’s good to see you again, Fran,” he said. “But why are you drinking here?”

  Commander Higgins gave him a sharp look. “Why are you drinking here?”

  “Touché,” William said. “I’m here because I don’t want to have fun in front of the crew.”

  Fran snorted, rudely. “Snap.”

  The waiter returned, carrying a small glass, which he placed in front of William. The XO eyed it doubtfully—it seemed too fragile for him to pick up—then reached for it and took a sip. The taste was surprisingly strong, but there seemed to have relatively little alcohol. But that probably shouldn’t have been a surprise. Officers were not meant to get drunk in public.

  He settled back and looked at Fran, taking in the signs of someone who had been worked to breaking point. Her hands twitched constantly, her eyes kept flashing from side to side and she looked . . . worn. He couldn’t help wondering if he should book a hotel room and implore her to actually sleep for a few short hours, perhaps with the help of a sedative. But he knew she’d kick him somewhere painful if he even dared hint she should take a break.

  “I only just arrived,” he said, once the waiter was out of earshot. They’d have more hope of keeping their conversation private in one of the louder bars further down the strip. “How long have you been here?”

  “Years,” Fran said. She eyed her drink, but made no move to take a sip. “Or at least it feels that way. I think it’s been round eleven months.”

  William felt a shiver of alarm. “You think?”

  “I try to forget it,” Fran said. “Defiant is not a happy ship.”

  “I see,” William said, after a moment. “But you’re her XO, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” Fran said. She tapped her uniform meaningfully, drawing his attention to the silver badge on her shoulder. “Only one XO and that’s me.”

  She sighed. “And a whole fucking pile of shit on my shoulders,” she added. “You want my ad
vice? Run. Run far.”

  “I don’t think that’s an option,” William said. He took a breath. “Fran . . . what’s happening here?”

  Fran sipped her drink. She was already marginally drunk, William realized, or she wouldn’t have let anything slip. The Fran Higgins he remembered had been a paragon of efficiency and emotional control. If she was turning to liquor . . . it wasn’t a good sign. Defiant—a superdreadnought—was definitely not a happy ship.

  “We were a good squadron when we were assigned to Cadiz,” Fran said mournfully. “The commodore might have been a political appointee, but he was a good man; the captain had years in the service, plenty of time to know what to do himself and what to leave to me. I thought a deployment to Cadiz would allow us plenty of time to train and exercise for the war. But I was wrong.”

  She shook her head. “It’s all fucked up, William,” she added. “Like I said, take your ship and run.”

  “I can’t do that,” William said. “What’s wrong?”

  Fran laughed, bitterly. “Where do I even start?”

  She shrugged. “No training exercises,” she said. “Half the crew on shore leave at any one time. Shore Patrolmen getting into trouble because they don’t have the sense to stay out of shit. The captain spending most of his time on the planet’s surface; the commodore kissing up to the admiral rather than sticking up for his crews. I can’t run regular maintenance cycles and the ship is practically unserviceable. We’re fucked if we have to get into a fight without at least a week to prepare for action.”

  William blanched. “It’s that bad?”

  “It’s worse,” Fran said. She took a long swallow, finishing her glass, then waved to the waiter. “Another!”

  “Water would be better,” William said, quickly.

  “You’re not the boss of me any longer,” Fran thundered. “You didn’t try to screw me. The captain is certainly trying to screw me.”

  Her voice slurred for a long moment, then recovered. “If someone inspects the ship, I’m screwed,” she said with heavy satisfaction. “I will take the blame.”

  She wouldn’t take the blame alone, William knew, at least if regulations were honored and the IG carried out the inspection. The buck stopped with the vessel’s commanding officer. But if the captain and the admiral carried out the inspection, it might be possible to blame Fran . . . assuming no one took a close look at the reports. And, with Fran a nobody, politically speaking, it might just be shoved under the rug.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Fran agreed. “Shit.”

  She met his eyes. “You have no idea just how many problems we’ve had,” she said darkly. “One of the Shore Patrolmen walked out an airlock, another was beaten halfway to death by someone—we still don’t know who. Exercises would help the crew pull back together, but I’m not even allowed to run them. Apparently, they cost too much money.”

  William winced. Naval bases had a specific budget each year. If there was a shortfall, canceling training exercises seemed an excellent way to save funds. But it was a false saving. Troops and starship crews who had no time to exercise tended to lose competency alarmingly fast. If they had to go into battle, they’d be screwed.

  He placed his hand on top of the drink when the waiter placed it on the table. “Is 7th Fleet combat capable?”

  Fran surprised him by laughing, hysterically. “I doubt there’s a single ship in the fleet that can move under her own power,” she said. “The superdreadnoughts certainly can’t without some hasty repair work.”

  William hoped—desperately—she was exaggerating. If she was correct, 7th Fleet was effectively a sitting duck. Cadiz had some planet-side defenses, but hardly enough to make a real difference if the Theocracy came knocking. Besides, the locals would definitely rise up against the occupation force—and move from the frying pan into the fire. The Commonwealth meant well, even though it had blundered badly. Theocratic rule would be far worse.

  He took a long look at her, feeling pity intermingled with rage. The Fran Higgins he’d known had been a capable officer, not a drunken wreck. She deserved better. Hell, the crews on the fleet’s starships deserved better too. They were wasting away because their commanders were more interested in partying than actually carrying out their duties.

  If any of her subordinates saw her like this, he knew they’d lose all respect for her.

  “Tell me something,” he said. “Have you not filed a complaint?”

  “Nine of us did,” Fran said. “We never heard anything back from the IG.”

  William swore under his breath. Admiral Morrison might well be able to prevent a formal complaint from ever leaving the system, assuming he had a crony or two in charge of the StarCom. But he couldn’t move against the complainers without ensuring they had their chance to face a court-martial board. Instead, he seemed to have just left matters as they were. It wasn’t a smart way to behave.

  He signaled the waiter. “I understand you have rooms upstairs,” he said. He placed his credit chip on the table. “I want one of those rooms and a sober-up injection, now.”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said. He took the chip with practiced ease, then stepped back. “If you will come with me . . .”

  William helped a protesting Fran to her feet, then half carried her through the door and up a flight of stairs. One of the doors on the next floor was open, revealing a naked man and a girl kneeling in front of him, sucking his penis. William was silently grateful he didn’t recognize him, even though he had to be a fairly senior officer. He knew, intellectually, that his superiors had sexual drives too, but he didn’t want to think about it. Thankfully, Captain Falcone didn’t seem to be interested in patronizing bars or brothels.

  The room was larger than he’d expected, certainly larger than any room in a more average brothel. He positioned Fran on the bed, took the injector from the waiter, and pressed it against her neck. She glared daggers at him as the injection shot into her system, then stumbled to her feet and into the toilet. Moments later, he heard the sound of vomiting as the alcohol left her bloodstream, along with everything she’d eaten over the past few hours. He waited as patiently as he could until she walked back into the bedroom, looking murderous.

  “You’re a bastard,” she said as she sat down on the bed and removed her jacket. Her uniform was badly stained. “You could at least have let me go back to the shuttle before I took the injection . . .”

  “Friends don’t let friends fly shuttles while drunk,” William pointed out. “Besides, I dread to imagine what would happen to your service record if you were found drunk and disorderly.”

  “Under the circumstances,” Fran said, “that wouldn’t be a problem.”

  She placed her head in her hands, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, William,” she said, refusing to look up. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that.”

  “I’m glad you still have some dignity left,” William said gently. “Besides, I can’t chew you out any longer.”

  “I suppose not,” Fran said. She paused. “How much did I tell you?”

  “Enough to worry me,” William said. How much had she drunk? Short-term memory loss wasn’t normally a problem. “Is your captain really leaving everything in your hands?”

  Fran looked down at the grubby floor. “Yes,” she said, finally. “But I don’t even begin to have the tools to fix this mess.”

  William, for the first time in far too long, found himself completely at a loss. He’d prepared himself on the assumption he would be doing most of the work on Lightning, an assumption that had rapidly proven false. But Fran . . . Fran definitely seemed to be doing most of the work, without the crew or authority that would make it possible. He honestly had no idea how to proceed. There were ways to handle a misbehaving crewman, even to manipulate a tyrannical commanding officer, but this . . . ?

  The IG needs to come here, he thought numbly. Like most officers, he hated the Inspectorate General, viewing them as a bunch of useless bureaucrats or desk
jockeys who didn’t have the slightest idea of how things really worked, but they were needed now. This isn’t one ship, this is the entire goddamned fleet.

  He looked at her. She shouldn’t go back to her ship, not in such a state.

  “Tell me,” he said. “How long until you’re due back on Defiant?”

  “Two days,” Fran said. “But I should go back earlier.”

  William let out a sigh of relief. “You can stay here and sleep,” he said, firmly. “I want you going back to the ship in tip-top condition.”

  “For what?” Fran asked, bitterly. “I can’t make it all better.”

  “You can try,” William said. “And besides, you owe it to yourself.”

  He thought briefly about telling her about the pirate attack and the worrying pattern behind it, but then decided it could wait.

  “I’ll get you a sedative,” he said, instead. “You can sleep here until you wake up naturally.”

  Fran objected loudly. William understood—he hated the idea of being sedated too, even with someone he trusted in the room—but there was no choice. In her state, Fran was unlikely to sleep very well without chemical aid. He keyed the console, requesting a sedative, then cast his eye down the list of other options. Some of them were truly alarming; others were merely amusing. What sort of commanding officer would want a pair of leather handcuffs?

  Maybe one who has dreams of whipping crewmen, he thought. It was understandable. There were quite a few crewmen he’d met who might have benefited from a whipping. Or maybe one who’s just a sadist.

  He picked up the sedative when it arrived, then held it up in front of her. “Lie down,” he ordered, firmly. “You’re about to go to sleep.”

  Fran sighed. “I feel like a failure,” she said. Her tone was so bitter that William almost insisted she see a counselor, but he thought better of it. Few officers would gladly visit someone who could have them removed from duty with a word. “I’ve failed the crew . . .”