He held out a placating hand to silence her. “It’s okay, Jen… just… please don’t do that again. You’re a girl, for Christs sake. Ick. Double ick.”
That elicited a smile from her, a small, wry one, and for one brief instant, Troy understood what it was that his twin saw in the opposite sex… not that he could put it into words, or even get aroused by it. “I’m sorry, Troy. I shouldn’t have done it.”
He nodded at her. “It’s okay, Jen.” He finally smiled. “Save it for the genuine article. He’ll probably enjoy it more.”
“I will… and he’d better.” Suddenly buoyed, she took a step away from him, back into the confines of her apartment. “You know, considering how much practice you’ve had… you’re a lousy kisser.” And before he could burst a blood vessel at the insult, the door slammed shut.
*
“I hate November.”
James Hunter made the pronouncement out of nowhere, for no particular reason, as he stared at the kli’nat that adorned the wall behind his desk. He’d hardly heeded anything David Garret – the only other occupant in the room – had said in the seven minutes Garret had been present; instead, James had spent most of that time facing away from his colleague.
“Why is that?”
“I hate it cos it means next month is December, and that means Christmas…” James sighed, waving his comment off as he reached out and gently caressed the kli’nat. “And that means New Years is around the corner.”
David had no immediate comment on that, and just stood watching, waiting, as James continued his forlorn stare at the weapon. For long moments the only sound was that of the thrum of the Vindicator’s engines – James and David had been assigned to the newly-repaired dreadnaught to oversee its operations in this theatre of the war.
So far, they’d hardly seen any sign of the N’xin. It was like they’d abandoned this sector – James couldn’t blame them, as Commonwealth interests in this area had disappeared five years earlier. Unless the dynamics of the war changed, this sector was a low-priority. Still, I want to complete scouting the remaining systems before falling back.
“What is your fascination with that sword?”
James smiled, more to himself than anything. It was a question he got asked a lot. “You know, Jennifer asked me something similar a few years ago,” James admitted quietly, his voice dreamy. “After that business on Titus… I said something rather vague and clichéd…” He finally spun around and faced David, who was staring at him implacably. “Honestly, David, I don’t know…” James leaned back in his seat and smiled ruefully. “But you didn’t come here to hear me wallow in self-pity. My apologies, David: you have my complete attention.”
David arched an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly,” James replied, cocking his head. “Are you married, David?”
David chortled, his eyes narrowing as he ran a hand through his sandy-coloured hair. He sank into the seat James proffered him – he was too bulky to fit into it properly, but he seemed comfortable enough.
“No, I’ve never been married,” David said airily, before sobering. “There was a girl… well, a few girls… but…” David shrugged. “That was a long time ago.” He nodded at the direction of the family hologram that slowly hovered over the top right corner of James’ desk. “I don’t need to ask you if you are or not.”
“Almost thirty years,” James admitted, as he leaned back in his seat and planted his feet on his desk. “But that isn’t why you’re here.” He waved David on. “You were telling me about the scouting missions in the Terekhov Sector?”
“Not much to tell, actually,” David said snidely, even as the data scrolled across James’ virtual-vision. “The systems we scouted over the last seven weeks are rather unremarkable… and strategically unimportant, either in terms of location or what they would offer to the war effort. The Hegemony has a minimal presence in those systems.”
“So, not worth our devoting any resources to?”
“Not particularly, not even for those feints you are so fond of,” David affirmed. “If we attack them, the Hegemony will simply absorb the losses… or retreat.”
“Terrible bait, in other words,” James said, more to himself. “Very well. Would you concur that we should withdraw elements of the Eighth Fleet from sectors near that theatre and reinforce another front?”
David nodded. “But we can’t make that area appear too weak, obviously.”
“Obviously…” James trailed off as his concentration focused on drafting the memo, his eyes flashing softly as his VA worked. “Was there anything else?”
David nodded and handed over a datapad. “These are the latest crew transfers to the task force. Captain Shanthi wanted you to look over them, see if there were any problems or changes.”
James glowered at the datapad as he reached over for it, his opinion of Shanthi taking another blow. This sort of task was usually performed by the ship’s First Officer – a position not currently held by James, who was supposed to be only attached to the Strategic Operations Command. And yet, here we are…
James skimmed the list, not really paying attention to the names – after all, why would there be problems – until he came across the name Clinton O’Dwyer. James ordered his VA to call up the personnel file, and swore loudly as the data swam past his vision. He only had to see the photo of the man to know who it was. He arched an eyebrow at David in bewilderment.
“Any idea why we have a convicted serial killer headed our way?” James held up the datapad suggestively as David looked at him quizzically. “Clinton O’Dwyer. I busted him for multiple rape/murders just before the war started. He should be in prison… or stasis… for at least another century.”
David nodded slowly in understanding. “New recruitment policy – convicted felons are being given reprieves if they sign up for active combat duty on the front lines.”
“I didn’t think things were that desperate?” James was aghast… and furious. Appalled, even. The scum of the Commonwealth, many of whom James had helped put away, working under him? The thought churned his stomach as he contemplated making an official protest… for all the good it would do.
“It was floated under President Ansara, but no one got around to actually making it a policy until about six months ago.” David gestured at the datapad. “This is the first batch…” He trailed off, James’ expression leaving no doubt as to what James was feeling. “If it makes you feel better, consider them as expendable troops.”
James sat on that for a moment in contemplative silence, letting his thoughts bounce around in his head. As tempted as he was, and try as he might, he just couldn’t reduce sapient lives to the role of cannon-fodder. He’d spent the better part of his civilian life putting people like that away – selfish people wanting material gains.
I’d like nothing better than to do that, James thought bitterly, his memory casting back – unaided by his VA – over the six murders that Owen Peters committed, the nine children murdered by Hussef Saab, and the eight rape/murders committed by Clinton O’Dwyer. They were all crimes that had outraged the conscience, had outraged the community… they had outraged James’ conscious, who, at the time, couldn’t fathom such barbarity.
It was one thing to kill an adult – he could, at least at an intellectual level, understand what could drive a person to do that… but children? Even in the modern age, the human propensity for vileness couldn’t be consistently curtailed.
James had been relieved when he put them away… but he still hadn’t been able to bring himself to back a renewed push for the death penalty. As much as that archaic practice belongs in the past, I do understand the want for it.
“I’ve never really been able to view any person as expendable, David.”
“Well, I suggest you start trying, James, or else you’ll go stir-crazy over-thinking this.” David smiled apologetically.
“I’ll try to do that, David,” replied Jam
es neutrally, his mood decidedly more sour.
“You don’t sound very hopeful,” David said mirthfully. “I thought the idea of saving innocent lives would appeal to you. It does to me.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, David… there’s a lot I don’t know about myself.” James’ gaze dropping back to the alien weapon, and he resisted the urge to reach out and stroke it. “I’m not hopeful.” He shrugged, trying to make the gesture look casual. “But I guess I’ll have to deal with it. We made deals with criminals all the time when I was a prosecutor… I suppose I’ll just have to try and treat this as merely an extension of that tradition.”
“You didn’t like it then, did you?” asked David teasingly.
James looked at him coldly, not reciprocating the good vibes in the least. His stomach was too busy turning in disgust, as he’d just come across another name: Corey Atherton.
Otherwise known as the son-of-a-bitch who had killed James’ mother. He’d been put away for vehicular manslaughter and a string of prior armed robberies… and now he was out of prison, a not-quite-free man.
And he’s been assigned to the garrison on the Adjudicator… James mood soured even more, knowing he wouldn’t be able to kill the man who had taken so much happiness out of James’ life.
“David, I hated it then, and I hate it now… I just hope this scum get the worst assignments possible…” He winced, ashamed at his lapse in controlling his emotions.
David arched an eyebrow at him, his cheer wilting away like a tree in the summer heat. “You sound… rather vindictive there, James. Are you sure everything is okay?”
James wrinkled his nose and dismissed David with an imperious wave of his hand. “I’m fine, David. Just tired. Dismissed.”
2438-2439: End Game
“They wrote in the old days that it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. But in modern war, there is nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying.” – Ernest Hemmingway
“You’re giving me the Carpathia?”
James was, for once, at a complete loss for words. His promotion to Fleet Captain four months earlier had been something of a surprise, but considering his new-found importance in Admiral Hawthorne’s staff, not exactly unexpected. At least he was now no longer the most junior officer among that group of ‘elites’.
But being given command of a task-force… that was unexpected, and James had almost had to use one of the chairs in the Ready Room to prop himself up from the shock.
“No use being a Fleet Captain if you don’t have a fleet to command,” Admiral Hawthorne said, smiling softly as he leaned back in his leather seat. “She’s still undergoing a final out-fitting, but she’ll be ready by the end of the month – as will the rest of the task force.” He picked up a small box and threw it at James gently, who caught it deftly. “Your new rank insignia, by the way.”
“What’s my assignment?” James asked, opening the case and taking out the star-shaped insignia. He began fastening them next to his existing insignia on the breast of his jacket – his epaulettes would have to be done later, of course. “I trust you’re not going to have me garrisoning some backwater shithole the N’xin would only attack out of boredom. If you are, you can have these stars back, then.”
“Of course not,” Hawthorne said sharply, “But I’ll be sure to use that as a punishment, if needed.” He picked up a datapad and handed it to James, who took it and scanned over it. “I’m assigning you to help hold Sectors 253 and 254. Officially, you’ll be under the command of Admiral Nogura, based out on Outpost Ten, but you have leave to plan and implement your own operations… within reason, of course. There’ll be no private-little-wars, no major offensive actions taken unless the SOC authorizes it.”
“Naturally,” James agreed rather absently; his mind was still racing, and he was already trying to type out a letter to various family members on his virtual-array to tell them the news. “Do I have any senior staff yet?”
“Your Chief Engineer, Flight Operations, and Chief Surgeon have already been picked for you – the Carpathia was meant to go to Fleet Captain Anderson, and he’d started the ground work of assembling a crew, but… well, the Pegasus is still missing, and after a month, I think we all know what that means.”
James nodded. The Pegasus – and the its two escorts – was most certainly destroyed – or so badly damaged that her FTL drive had failed… and in the depths of space, that was as good as dead, since you had a better chance of finding a needle in a haystack than a hunk of metal in the cold vacuum of space.
Probably worse than death, since dying alone, in the middle of nowhere, won’t be quick or easy. If James had to die, he wanted it to be like his mother – quick.
“But you still have to choose an Executive Officer,” Hawthorne finished, distracting James from going down that morbid path of remembering the pain of his mother’s passing. “Anderson seemed intent on Commander Sato but… well, she’s MIA too.”
“Should be easy enough,” James said, more to himself, his draft letter still occupying some of his attention. “Though I think I’d prefer someone higher than a Commander, if it’s all the same to you, sir. They’ll essentially be running the ship while I run the fleet…”
Hawthorne nodded slowly, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Very good, Captain. Make it happen… assuming you have someone in mind? It’s not like we have a great many candidates lying around of that rank…”
James offered a slight smile and a single nod, adrenaline coursing through his body. “Of course I have someone in mind, Admiral.”
*
Captain David Garret had been bored out of his mind for more than two hours, and was tempted to put off writing his report until the morning – maybe, with a decent night’s sleep and a cup (or more) of coffee, he’d be able to concentrate on it better… but it was such a long slug, and he really wanted to sleep…
It’ll serve you right for leaving it to the last minute. Fleet Captain Shanthi had asked for these casualty lists a week earlier, but thanks to a few skirmishes, he’d managed to put it off without having to try hard for an excuse.
Maybe if they weren’t so boring, he mused, but he knew that wasn’t what was making him procrastinate. It’s the ages. So many of these kids are… well, they’re kids. Although the rate of attrition in the war was at its lowest point since 2422, that still meant that thousands of people were dead or maimed on a weekly basis… and so many of them were young people, under the age of 40, many of them on their first or second tours of duty.
The slaughter sickened him… but then, it sickened just about everyone else, too. Only the most war-hungry psychopaths could call this a good war, but at least, David mused, most of those same psychopaths were active servicemen. I don’t mind them being pro-war, as long as they’re willing to stick their own necks on the line.
War was a risk that had cost him one of his cousins – Lieutenant Catherine Fischer of the Ivanhoe, KIA in 2426 when the N’xin had pulverised Outpost 23 – and an uncle, Captain Roger Garret of the Deliverance, in 2429 at New Baltimore. He’d never been close to either person – in fact, he’d hardly known Fischer – but the pain these losses had meant to his family had been painful to watch as any genuine feeling of mourning he may have otherwise felt.
And while that was bad enough, at least he hadn’t seen most of his family decimated like the Coulter’s (five people, spread across three generations), or the Feng’s (eight people over four generations). There were several other families that had suffered heavy casualties… and those were just military deaths that they could confirm. He didn’t even want to contemplate the devastation wrought on the civilian population.
At this hour of the night, the Officer’s Mess on the Vindicator was practically deserted, the only other occupants being a pair of junior engineering officers in a far corner; David was seated near the forward viewports, though his attention wasn’t on the starscape, or the Dark Horse Nebula that swirled murkily a couple of hundred light-
years away.
“Got a minute?”
David smiled as he saluted with his coffee mug, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “For you, James, I can spare two.” He waited until James had sat down before continuing. “By the way, congratulations on the Carpathia, you deserve her.”
“That’s actually why I wanted to see you, David,” James said, running a hand through his hair – since his promotion to Fleet Captain, he’d grown it out, beyond the scope regulations usually allowed. It was a conceit most senior officers imbibed in, since it separated them from the common rabble. “I need an XO… and I want you for the job.”
David couldn’t resist as a smile blossomed across his face. He’d been angling for another command for a while, but he had been content for desk work – which was certainly safe enough, unless you were politically assassinated. David also enjoyed helping devise strategies, provided he could keep his mind from acknowledging the fact that his decisions could get people killed – something he also had to do as the CO of a warship.
Despite those complications, however, David still viewed the role as an XO as a demotion, even if he would be the First Officer of a dreadnaught.
David frowned, finally finding his voice. “Why?”
“I know you were hoping to get either the Rhode Island or the Dallas when they roll off the production line, but I’d appreciate it if you’d be by my side.”
“Yes, so you’ve indicated,” David replied evenly. “You still haven’t said why. This would be a demotion, for all intents and purposes.”
“No, it isn’t, Dave, it would be a step-up from serving as, what? Third-in-line? Fourth?”
David cocked his head in acknowledgement. “Fifth, technically. Numberi outranks me by about two days… but he isn’t always on board.”
“I rest my case,” James replied sardonically. “And I want you because you’re not a Yes-Man. Although we usually agree on things, David, you’re not afraid to say no to me… unlike some others we work with.” David privately wondered who among the Strategic Operations group he was referring to. “I need someone to keep me on my toes while I’m out there, waging war. I don’t… I don’t want to go too far again.”
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