Fleet Elements

by Walter Jon Williams

Presumably the intention was for the missile to be taken to another of the weapons bays and disposed through a functioning hatch, but Martinez wasn’t sure whether the long form of the missile could be maneuvered through the intervening corridors without getting jammed in a doorway or a corridor. Whoever was operating the robot would have to be very skillful.

  The cleanup in the missile bay continued. More robots arrived and began picking up wreckage and dumping it in bins. Torches were deployed to cut up debris too large for the bins, and one accidentally caused a fire in some spilled lubricant until automatic extinguishers tracked the fire and triggered.

  Then the broken robot, the one that had been hanging from a stanchion above the work party, lost its hold and began to fall. Maybe the draining hydraulic fluid had weakened its grip.

  In half a gravity it fell more slowly than it might have, but the slower fall just gave Martinez more time to appreciate what was going to happen when it hit. “Look out!” he called, but he wasn’t on a live audio circuit to anyone in the missile bay, and he only startled the others in the flag officer’s station.

  The robot came crashing down in utter silence, and even though Los Angeles was accelerating at only half a gravity, the machine still weighed tons, and Martinez watched as Alikhan and two other weaponers vanished under piles of cascading wreckage. He began unwebbing himself.

  “Santana,” he said, “tell Dalgleish to send stretcher parties and the ship’s doctor to battery one.” He unlocked his displays and pushed them above his head, then looked at Sula. “I’m going down there myself before we all blow up. I’m leaving you in charge here, and you have my authority to dispose the Fourth Fleet as needed.”

  Sula looked at him in surprise. “Yes, Lord Fleetcom.”

  He felt her eyes following him as he ran for the room’s armored door.

  Chapter 16

  The accident had started with the failure of a missile to launch from its tube—the precise causes would be determined later, after an inquest. The chemical rockets that were to carry the missile safely into space had already ignited, and if allowed to burn in the tube would melt parts of the missile and possibly damage the antimatter container.

  A switch tripped automatically, and the inner hatch opened, allowing the chemical rockets to burn straight into battery one—alarming and dangerous, but the area affected was hardened, and it wasn’t nearly as dangerous as allowing a missile to run hot in the tube. Normal procedure was for a weaponer to use a robot to pull the missile from the tube, then hold it harmless until the chemical rockets exhausted themselves, after which the missile could be disposed and disassembled normally.

  The robots resembled titanic sea creatures with a large array of tentacles, all hydraulically powered and strong enough to hold the robot in place against many gravities’ acceleration. There were two such robots in the battery, each controlled by an operator with several years of experience.

  The operator of the first robot had run dozens of drills with a dummy missile, but he had never handled one actually belching fire before, and it hadn’t occurred to him that he should be careful where to point it. He seized it with two of the robot arms and held it roughly at port arms, with the searing fire directed diagonally across the body of the robot. The blazing rocket exhaust sliced its way through the robot within seconds, hit the main hydraulic reservoir, and flash-boiled the fluid into a yellow-green fog that blinded the robot operators. The robot limbs, their fluid boiled away, failed completely, and the weakened robot came apart at the same moment. Half the robot, along with the missile, fell at three gravities’ acceleration into the second robot, smashing it to rubble. After which, violent maneuvering by Los Angeles kept redistributing the wreckage at high speed over the battery.

  In trying to reach battery one, Martinez found that all the ship’s elevators had been locked down once the ship had gone to general quarters, and he needed his commander’s card to override the lockdown and bring the elevator to the level of the flag officer’s station. He took the elevator eight decks down to battery one and was greeted by the sight of one of the small robots cradling the battered missile, waiting for the elevator doors to open. Martinez ducked around the warhead, pushed past a weaponer standing by the robot, and walked straight to the battery.

  Those weaponers still on their feet stood in attitudes of shock. Dust drifted in the air. Martinez began to give orders, then realized that no one could hear him with their faceplates down. He had to reconfigure his comm so the weaponers could hear him, and by the time he’d succeeded the weaponers had recovered from their own trauma and begun to clear wreckage from the bodies lying under the fallen debris. With some assistance from the damage-control robots, the largest piece of wreckage was shifted, and the three bodies were revealed.

  One was clearly dead, his helmet shattered along with his skull, but Alikhan and one other were still alive. Martinez knelt by Alikhan and looked through the cracked faceplate. Alikhan was pale and clammy and clearly in shock. One eye was open to reveal a pupil so dilated that it looked like a dark well leading directly into the brain. There was no response when Martinez tried to speak to him.

  The ship’s doctor arrived with a pair of assistants, and Martinez gestured her over. “This man is critically injured,” he said. “He needs to go to sick bay immediately.”

  The doctor—with her wide green eyes, dark brown skin, and freckles—looked so young that it was hard to credit she’d even attended medical school, let alone graduated. “If he’s badly injured,” she said. “We don’t want to move him right away. Moving him might kill or cripple him.” She looked at Alikhan’s feet and frowned. “Can you elevate his feet a little? That may help with the shock.” Seething with impatience, Martinez found a piece of rubble and put it under Alikhan’s heels. Meanwhile the doctor was using a specialized hand comm to read the vital signs automatically recorded by Alikhan’s suit. Then she paused, her lips moving in silence, and appeared to be reciting some kind of checklist to herself. Martinez wanted to scream at her to hurry. She looked up at him.

  “His helmet’s broken,” the doctor said, “and he’s breathing the air in here. How toxic is it?” She shook her head violently. “No. We’ll get him out immediately.” She gestured at a pair of stretcher-bearers.

  Martinez followed the stretcher to the door, then realized the doctor wasn’t following. He turned and saw the doctor crouched over the other living victim. He knew it was her job to look after all the injured, and he managed to resist the impulse to grab her and haul her to the sick bay. Instead he mutely followed the stretcher to the elevator, then up six decks to the sick bay. The room had a crisp disinfectant smell. Alikhan’s helmet was removed by one assistant while another held his head gently, and an inflatable brace was placed around his neck. He was scanned without having to take him off the stretcher or get him out of his suit. The doctor arrived with a second stretcher, and the second victim took Alikhan’s place in the scanner. The doctor viewed the scans while her assistants wrestled her out of her vac suit, then she recited more silent checklists to herself, and then stood.

  “Let’s get him out of the suit,” she said.

  They feared they would injure Alikhan by wrestling him out of his vac suit, and so some ingenious cutters were deployed to slice away the suit, along with the jumpsuit beneath. A drip was placed in each arm. Fast-healer hormones were injected, and Alikhan was covered by a viridian-green blanket to conserve his body heat. The doctor looked at the scans again and frowned, then turned to Martinez.

  “There are broken bones, but bones heal quickly these days,” she said. “My assistants will strap him up. There may be some internal bleeding in the abdominal cavity, but the evidence is ambiguous and I don’t want to go in unless I have to. What concerns me most is a subdural hemorrhage in his brain, so I’ve lowered his blood pressure to lessen the bleed, and I’ll keep him monitored to see if surgery is warranted.”

  “I see,” Martinez said. His tongue seemed unusually thick, and he had
to make an unusual effort to speak around it.

  She gave him a curious look. “Is he a particular friend of yours?”

  “He’s been in my household for fifteen years or more,” he said.

  She nodded, then turned to Alikhan. “I’d advise his retiring from active duty after this. After this, any high accelerations could be hazardous.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

  She called up the scans of her other patient. Martinez stood by Alikhan, still pale beneath his blanket. He held out a hand, then hesitated because he didn’t know which parts of Alikhan were damaged. He decided to put his hand on Alikhan’s arm, which at least had no bruising. Alikhan’s skin was still cool.

  I am no longer young, my lord, he remembered Alikhan saying. Some days I think I would do better to remain here on the ring . . .

  Martinez had talked Alikhan onto Los Angeles, and all the while wondered if he was killing him.

  He had an answer to that question now.

  “Well,” he said to Alikhan, “you heard the doctor. We’ll carry you to Zanshaa for the victory parade, and you’ll never have to leave the planet again.”

  Alikhan remained unconscious, his expression a little disdainful, his chin held high by the neck brace. His curling mustachios had suffered no damage.

  “I promise,” Martinez said, and he felt the hollowness of his words as he turned to return to his duties.

  Sula assembled the reports that came in and discovered that the Fourth Fleet now consisted of seventy-eight ships, of which nineteen were too badly damaged to be able to keep up with the rest. Two she suspected were derelict, because they were tumbling and nothing had been heard from them since the fight. Of the fifty-nine remaining, at least twenty would need a dockyard before being able to fight at full capacity.

  Missile reserves averaged 18 percent.

  In addition there were the sixteen defectors that hovered on the edge of the action. She supposed they could be counted as part of the Restoration now, at least in theory.

  Pinnaces rejoined their ships. Unlike the battles in the Naxid War, most of the pinnaces had survived—a larger percentage than the warships themselves, and homes had to be found for the pilots launched from ships that had been lost.

  Sula detached ships to aid the damaged warships, and to get a closer look at the ships tumbling away into the void. Other ships were detached to board and inspect the defectors. Sula pitied those who would have to board the Daimong ships and endure the rotting-flesh stench of the close-packed crew.

  Fortunately other races had long experience with Daimong, and ships’ pharmacies stocked a variety of drugs that would deaden the sense of smell.

  “Message, urgent and personal, from Captain Vijana,” said Santana.

  “Let’s see it then,” Sula said.

  Vijana’s pointed face and burning eyes appeared on one of Sula’s displays.

  “You survived!” Sula said. “Well done.”

  “Surely you’re not going to accept those monsters’ surrender!” he said. “Wipe them out when we’ve got the chance!”

  “We might find their ships useful,” Sula pointed out. “This war might not be over.”

  “Then kick them into space and take over their ships!” Vijana said. “This is all a part of some plan! They’ll stab us in the back the first chance they get!”

  “You think it’s a conspiracy?” Sula said. “A conspiracy that begins with sacrificing over four hundred of their own ships in order to get an inferior force close to us? I can’t help but think that’s unlikely.”

  Vijana snarled. “You’re not going to trust them, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.” An idea occurred to her, and she grinned. “No,” she said, “I’m going to compromise them so thoroughly that the Zanshaa government won’t take them back no matter how hard they beg.”

  “They’re up to something,” Vijana warned.

  Sula lost patience. “Lord Naaz,” she said, “you’re really addressing this protest to the wrong person. You should be talking to Fleet Commander Martinez.”

  “They said he was unavailable.”

  “He’ll be available eventually. Talk to him then, because right now I’m busy.” She ended the transmission.

  She was finding Vijana more exhausting than battle.

  It was then that she remembered that no report had been made to Harzapid. Raw images of the battle would have been broadcast through the wormhole gate, but there would have been little context, and maybe, with all the fireballs and radio blooms, Harzapid couldn’t even know which side had won.

  It was really Martinez’s job to make a report, but he had run off to the weapons bay, and if he was actually involved in saving the ship she didn’t want to interrupt him. Sula took a few minutes to compose a message, then turned to Banerjee and Santana.

  “Message to Fleet Commander Chen,” she said. “Use the Command cipher of the day. Message follows.” She took a breath, then looked into the camera. “Lady Fleet Commander, on behalf of Fleet Commander Martinez I am pleased to report a complete victory over the forces of Lord Tork. His entire fleet has been annihilated, with the exception of sixteen ships under Squadron Leaders Rivven and An-dar, which have joined the forces of the Restoration. Our own casualties are severe—a report will be attached—but in a short time we will advance on Zanshaa with something like seventy-four ships, which should be enough to overwhelm the twenty or so that Tork left in the system.

  “In the meantime, we need as many replacement missiles as possible. Our stocks are very low, so please send supplies as soon as you manage it.”

  The message had been sent when she received a communication from Dalkeith.

  “Can we stand down from quarters?” she asked. “We can maintain a state of high alert in Command, but I think we can safely send most of our crew to their dinner.”

  And me to the shower, Sula thought. She was smelling body odor wafting up the open neck of her vac suit and wasn’t enjoying it.

  But she was stuck here till Martinez returned.

  “Secure from general quarters, then,” she said. “What’s the status of the problem in the weapons bay?”

  “The missile was shifted to another battery and disposed of properly. Weaponers are safely disassembling it now, and all that remains is cleanup.”

  Missile? Sula thought. That certainly explained Martinez’s dash to battery one.

  “Do you know where Fleet Commander Martinez is right now?” she asked.

  “No. He hasn’t been in touch with me.”

  “Thank you. End message.”

  The first lieutenant’s voice barked from speakers to tell the crew they were relieved from quarters. Sula sent a message to the Fourth Fleet permitting them to do the same.

  “Page Fleet Commander Martinez,” Sula told her comm.

  Martinez took a few moments to answer. “Yes, Lady Sula,” he said.

  He didn’t sound like a commander who had just won the largest battle in the history of the empire. He sounded like someone so beaten he was barely able to set one foot in front of another.

  “I’ve been managing the Fourth Fleet as you asked,” Sula said. “Shall I make a report?”

  “Has anyone started shooting?”

  She smiled. “No. Though Vijana is urging me to wipe out the defectors.”

  “Well, unless he starts, you can secure from quarters and report to me later, in my office.”

  “Very well.”

  “End transmission.”

  Well, Sula thought, that was interesting. But she’d received permission to get out of her suit and take a shower, and she intended to take advantage of it.

  She unwebbed and stood, bouncing slightly in the low gravity. She put one hand on the acceleration cage and turned to the signals staff. “There’s going to be a lot of signals traffic,” she said, “and I’m going to have to leave all three of you to deal with it. I’ll have someone bring up some food and drink for you. Alert me if any important mess
ages come in, but otherwise put everything in my queue.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Santana, and Sula made her way out.

  In her quarters she found Macnamara and Spence waiting, and she sent Macnamara to her kitchen to make up some sandwiches and drinks to send to the signalers back in the flag officer’s station, while Spence assisted her in removing her vac suit. She took a few extra blissful moments in the shower and then dressed in a clean undress uniform and went to Martinez’s office, moving in the hopping shuffle standard in low gee.

  She found him behind his desk, paging fitfully through his messages with a distracted look on his face. Torminel wrestlers grappled on the walls. Martinez still wore his vac suit, with the gloves and helmet on his desk. He rose as she entered and spread his hands, as if in apology.

  “Alikhan usually helps me take the suit off,” he said.

  “Is Alikhan still in the weapons bay?”

  Martinez’s face was grim. “He was critically injured,” he said. “The doctor is doing her best.”

  “Ah. Hah. I’m sorry.” She raised her hands. “I can help you with the vac suit.”

  She helped him wrestle off the top half, revealing the sweat-soaked jumpsuit underneath. She tried not to recoil at the sour smell.

  “You can manage the bottom half yourself,” she said. “And I’d recommend a shower.”

  He looked down at himself as if he’d never seen his body before. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He went into his quarters, and while he coped with the lower part of the vac suit and the sanitary gear, she looked at her message queue. Some of the damaged ships were requesting particular parts or specialists for certain kinds of repair, and she did her best to coordinate a response.

  She finished the job and studied for a moment the wrestlers on the wall, comparing the techniques with what she’d learned in the Fleet’s close-combat course during the last war.

  The difference, she decided, was lethal intent.

  Martinez returned from the shower. He too wore undress and trailed a faint odor of lemongrass-scented shampoo. He sat behind his desk and glanced at his displays.