The Oncoming Storm

by Christopher Nuttall

She felt her body sag as soon as the hatch hissed closed. Davidson caught her and helped her over to the sofa, then sat next to her as she started to shake. Kat looked down at her hand, watching in dismay as it betrayed her, then up at him. His eyes were worried, yet unsurprised. He’d expected her to go into shock, she realized. She wanted to scream at him for not warning her, although what could he have said?

  “It’s all right,” he said. One of his arms enveloped her and Kat relaxed into his embrace. “It’s a natural reaction.”

  “Oh,” Kat muttered. It was hard to think straight. Now that the whole incident was over and she was safe, her imagination was providing hundreds of ideas about what could have gone wrong. She could have been taken as a hostage. There were stories about kidnapped officials who had been held for months before they were released—or killed, their bodies found by patrolling soldiers. “What’s happening to me?”

  “You weren’t trained as an infantryman,” Davidson pointed out. He didn’t sound accusatory, for which Kat was grateful. “Now that the crisis has passed, your body is reacting.”

  “Damn it,” Kat muttered. She hated showing weakness. Even as a young officer, she’d done everything in her power to avoid showing even the slightest hint of fear. It could have destroyed her career. “I’m sorry.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” Davidson assured her. His hand was stroking her back, lightly. “Just relax and let it pass.”

  Kat glowered at him, but did her best to follow his advice. He was right, of course; she’d never had any real ground combat training. The Royal Navy had discussed boarding and counterboarding actions, but no one had seriously expected the enemy to try to board a starship in the midst of combat. They’d be more likely to force the ship to surrender and then send in the Marines. Or whatever the Theocracy used in place of Marines. No one had thought Kat and her fellow cadets would ever go into battle on the ground.

  “I didn’t have the shakes after I fired a starship’s weapons in anger,” she muttered resentfully. “Why do I have them now?”

  “Ground combat feels different,” Davidson said. He let go of her and stood, then walked over to the coffeemaker positioned against the bulkhead. “Tea?”

  “Something warm,” Kat said. She wanted him back holding her and to hell with discipline or her reputation. “Anything.”

  Davidson poured her a mug of tea, then walked back and held it under her nose until she managed to force her hand to take it and hold it to her lips. It tasted remarkably good, even though she knew naval tea and coffee came from the lowest bidder. But then, she was alive and her enemies weren’t . . . She giggled despite the situation, almost slopping hot tea on her legs. At least she’d managed to get rid of the damned dress. She would have hated to wear that while the doctor was poking and prodding at her.

  “That’s a normal reaction,” Davidson said. He shrugged, then sat down next to her. “Did I ever tell you about the balls-up at boot camp?”

  Kat shook her head, feeling her hair caressing her face.

  “We were meant to crawl under a hail of incoming fire,” Davidson said. “The drill instructors had rigged up a set of machine guns to fire over our heads. It was absolutely terrifying, but we told ourselves that it was perfectly safe. Somehow, despite the deafening racket, we managed to crawl through the trench until we were midway to our destination. We were just starting to get used to it when the machine guns went out of control and bullets started hitting the ground right next to us.”

  “Shit,” Kat said.

  “That’s precisely what I did,” Davidson admitted. He smiled at her expression. “We all froze, then crawled for the end of the trench as fast as we could, despite the mud and . . . other stuff in our path. And we all had the shakes afterwards.”

  He paused. “We learned later that the whole thing was just another test and there was no real danger, but it was mortally convincing,” he added. “I never had the shakes again after that day.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Kat said. She took another sip of her tea and then wrapped her arm round him. “But I don’t think I’ll be applying for boot camp anytime soon.”

  “You probably wouldn’t have made it,” Davidson told her bluntly. “Boot camp is nothing like as genteel as Piker’s Peak.”

  He was probably right, Kat knew. Even apart from ground combat training, Piker’s Peak was focused on turning out officers and gentlemen rather than groundpounders who could run fifty miles and then attack the enemy without a pause. Kat’s training had touched on a great many issues; Davidson’s had focused on killing the enemy and breaking things. There were times when she envied the handful of aristocrats who had gone into boot camp. None of them were ever accused of having used connections to put themselves ahead of the rest.

  No mercy, she recalled. It was the motto of the Marine Boot Camp. There were no allowances for weakness or family name. Those who graduated were the best of the best; those who were discharged for medical reasons were honored for having tried, even if they hadn’t made it. And those who quit bore no shame.

  She finished her tea, then stared down at her empty cup. Too much had happened in one day for her to think properly. She knew she should consider the admiral’s actions, and the actions of his son, and perhaps even report them to her father. But the raid on the mansion had pushed such petty concerns out of her mind.

  “I’m buggered if I’m leaving the ship again,” she said flatly. “It isn’t safe down there.”

  “Good idea,” Davidson said with suspicious enthusiasm. “You’ll be the number one target of the insurgents right now.”

  Kat eyed him. “Oh?”

  “I reviewed the planetary datanet while the doctor was examining you,” he said. “The admiral’s PR department has already credited you with escaping the terrorists and defeating them, practically singlehandedly. Apparently, you’re some kind of super starship captain, a mistress of martial arts as well as a tactical genius . . .”

  Kat put her head in her hands. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

  “Of course not,” Davidson said. “At last report, the admiral was planning to grant you the Combat Infantryman’s Badge.”

  “Fuck,” Kat said. “I’ll be a laughingstock.”

  She felt her fists clench round her mug and hastily put it down on the deck. The coveted award was given to soldiers who had seen combat and, more rarely, spacers who had found themselves fighting on the ground. It brought a considerable amount of prestige, but little else. But, as far as she knew, it had never been awarded to someone who had escaped a bunch of insurgents long enough to radio for help, then hide until help arrived.

  “You won’t have to worry about it,” Davidson said. “I don’t think General Eastside will allow the award to go through.”

  “Saved,” Kat said. She sighed, then stood. “I really should sleep, shouldn’t I?”

  “I’ve already spoken to the XO,” Davidson said. “Your schedule has been altered. You won’t have to stand watch until tomorrow evening.”

  Kat hesitated. Under normal circumstances, the watch rota wasn’t vitally important when the starship was orbiting a heavily defended planet. It was generally seen as a good time to give junior officers a chance to practice without too much opportunity to screw up. But on Cadiz . . . she’d insisted that senior officers remain on watch at all times. The Theocracy could attack at any moment.

  But she knew she needed the rest.

  “Thank you,” she said, finally. She looked down at him, feeling an odd mix of sensations in her breast. “Will you . . . will you stay the night?”

  Davidson hesitated, briefly. It would have been unnoticeable if she hadn’t known him so well.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, finally. “You could regret this . . .”

  “Yes,” Kat said. She wanted to feel alive. “Come with me.”

  After a moment, Davidson rose to his feet and followed her into her bedroom.

  “You do realize someone will have noticed?” D
avidson said the following morning. “I didn’t bed down with the bootlegs.”

  “I think it’s none of their business,” Kat said. It had been a long time since she’d kissed anyone, let alone slept with them. The admiral’s son certainly didn’t count. “Besides, we’re in orbit, not on deployment.”

  “That isn’t what I meant and you know it,” Davidson said. “There could be . . . problems.”

  “Then we will handle them,” Kat said. She reached for her terminal and skimmed through the handful of messages. “The admiral has sent us our deployment orders.”

  She read them, quickly. Lightning was to patrol the border, investigate any hints that starships might be crossing the border without permission, render aid to any ship attacked by pirates, etc., etc. Patrol duty was boring, she knew, but it was necessary. Admiral Morrison had even thoughtfully outlined the precise route they were to follow, close to the border but not close enough to cause problems. Or so he clearly hoped.

  Every ship follows the same course, she thought after a check of the records. They’re not even trying to vary their flight plan.

  “Good,” Davidson said. “When do we leave?”

  “Tonight,” Kat said. She tapped a key, forwarding the orders to the XO, then swore as she read the next message. “The spy ship left orbit yesterday.”

  Davidson looked up, meeting her eyes. “Coincidence?”

  “Perhaps not,” Kat said. “They might well have been there to watch what happened when the admiral’s mansion was attacked.”

  “Or it was just a coincidence,” Davidson said. “I’d hate to be the officer who tried to coordinate an operation across interstellar distances.”

  Kat shrugged. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that the Theocracy probably had up-to-date sensor readings on 7th Fleet’s condition—and the XO’s old friends had barely started trying to get the fleet combat capable once again. Kat’s most optimistic estimate was that the fleet needed at least a month of uninterrupted repair work . . . and she knew it wasn’t going to get it. The Theocracy would lower the hammer within weeks.

  “It does make me wonder,” Davidson said. “Did the Theocracy authorize the operation?”

  Kat considered it carefully. By any reasonable standard, decapitating the enemy command network was a reasonable goal in war. But if they’d killed Admiral Morrison and his command staff, she reasoned, they could hardly have hoped for his replacement to be so incompetent. It was unlikely the admiral’s patrons could put someone equally useless in his place. But did the Theocracy know Admiral Morrison was so incompetent? Or did they consider him a typical commanding officer?

  “They might have hoped the occupation would collapse in the aftermath,” she mused. Word would have reached Tyre by now. Questions would be asked in Parliament. “That would give them Cadiz without a fight.”

  “Maybe,” Davidson agreed. “Or they might have been horrified at losing their chance of taking out 7th Fleet.”

  “There’s no way to know,” Kat said morbidly. She glanced at the next message, then froze. It was from her father. “One moment.”

  The message wasn’t informative. Her father had been unable to determine just who was backing Admiral Morrison. It took Kat several moments to understand the full enormity of what she’d been told. Duke Falcone commanded a patronage network that touched all levels of the Royal Navy, from the junior crewmen to very senior officers. If he couldn’t determine who was backing Admiral Morrison, it had to be someone very high in the aristocracy.

  Or perhaps it’s just someone good at covering his tracks, she thought. But who?

  Her father’s note concluded with authorization to call on the Falcone-owned faculties in the system if necessary and order them to assist her. She felt a chill run down her spine as she studied the wording. It was more corporate authority than she’d ever been offered—or expected to wield. Kat hesitated, then forwarded both the authorization and the contact details to the XO. The bureaucrats probably wouldn’t notice if the Falcone-owned facilities started requesting spare parts as long as they were paid. The spare parts could then be forwarded to the starships that needed them without sounding any alarms.

  “I hate this,” she said. Frustration bubbled up in her mind, seeking an outlet. “We’re sneaking round our own officers, trying to get ready for war.”

  “There’s no choice,” Davidson said. He looked down at the table. “At least some of us will be ready when the shit hits the fan.”

  Kat nodded reluctantly. “I’d better get the ship ready for departure,” she said. She felt much better after sex and a good night’s sleep. “And remind the crew I exist.”

  “I’m sure none will dare disobey the martial arts artist,” Davidson said.

  “Thanks,” Kat said sourly. “I’ll be expected to try out for the martial arts team next.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I have the bridge,” the captain said.

  “I stand relieved,” William said as he rose from the command chair. Two days of patrolling the border had turned up nothing, apart from some additional navigational data that would be forwarded to the weathermen when they returned to Cadiz. “With your permission, Captain, I have disciplinary matters to attend to.”

  The captain nodded. William took one last look at the display, then walked off the bridge and headed down towards his office. The designers had clearly not seen the value in placing it right next to the bridge, but he had to admit it was sometimes useful to have his private space right on the edge of Officer Country. He knew crewmen who would hesitate to walk onto the command deck, no matter the cause.

  Shaking his head, he stepped through the hatch and tapped instructions into the terminal, alerting the senior chief. He’d put the matter off for far too long, hoping and praying that it would resolve itself before he had to actually take action. But it hadn’t. If anything, he noted as he looked at the figures, it was growing worse. Something would have to be done before a handful of promising careers were ruined. He sat down behind his desk and waited. Ten minutes later, the hatch beeped. Someone was waiting outside.

  “Enter,” he ordered.

  William looked up as Crewman Third Class Jonny Steadman entered the compartment. He was a fearsome brute, as muscled as a marine, without the discipline that separated the Marines from the common spacers. His bald head and bare arms were covered in tattoos that pushed the limits of what regulations allowed—but then, Steadman knew he was unlikely to see promotion. If he hadn’t been good at his job—and he was, according to the senior chief—he would have been discharged long ago.

  Steadman saluted. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “I did,” William confirmed. He’d known enough men like Steadman in his career to know that the slightest hint of weakness would be fatal. “Sit.”

  He studied Steadman for a long moment, contemplating his options. The man seemed to be trying to decide which of his offenses had led to the summons, but it was impossible to tell if he knew which one had caught the XO’s attention. Most disciplinary issues below decks were handled by the senior chief, with the XO only becoming involved if matters were serious. Which one, Steadman had to be wondering, was serious?

  “You’ve been running a gambling ring,” William said finally. “Haven’t you?”

  Steadman’s eyes narrowed for a brief second. “Gambling isn’t against regulations, sir.”

  Bingo, William thought. Steadman wouldn’t be trying to mount a defense if he hadn’t realized why he was in the shit. And he might already have worked out just what had gone wrong—and why.

  “Of course gambling isn’t against regulations,” William said. “Of course gambling is common on a starship. I am shocked, shocked, to hear that there might be gambling going on below decks.”

  Steadman smiled at the quote. It vanished a second later as William glared at him.

  “Gambling is tolerated as long as it falls within acceptable limits,” he said. “And you’ve been breaking the limits, ha
ven’t you?”

  He allowed his voice to become contemplative. “A young officer, fresh out of Piker’s Peak, untried in the ways of the universe . . . wouldn’t you say she was easy meat? A young officer, trying her hardest to be liked by the rough crewmen under her command, partaking in gambling with her subordinates. And a young officer, too naive to realize that the game is rigged—that the game is always rigged—losing her salary to her subordinates . . .”

  Steadman’s face suddenly went very cold.

  “Oh, don’t be an idiot,” William said sharply, before Steadman got any ideas about retaliation. “I monitor bank accounts on this ship, you ninny. She didn’t come crying to me. But once I noticed the pattern . . .”

  He allowed his voice to trail off meaningfully. Steadman rose to the bait.

  “We didn’t ask her to play, sir,” he said. “And we didn’t encourage her to keep playing.”

  William lifted his eyebrows. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t want such a poor player to keep playing?”

  He pressed his hands against the table and went on before Steadman could say a word. “It’s already getting out of hand, isn’t it? She can’t give you more money . . . how long will it be, I wonder, before you start using her debt against her? Will you ask her to help you with your less-than-savory activities? Or merely to cover your ass when you get into trouble? Or will you simply try to get her into bed? I’m sure that would give you bragging rights below decks.”

  Steadman looked as if he wanted to say something, but common sense was keeping his mouth firmly shut. William was almost disappointed. He had no proof of anything that could be used to throw the book at Steadman, beyond his own suspicions and the details from the bank accounts. And Steadman was right. Gambling wasn’t against regulations. But William knew, all too well, just how easily it could lead to real trouble.

  This is why more officers should be mustangs, he thought. They’d have some experience at handling problem cases before they became officers.