The Rampant Storm

by J. Alan Field

  “Good thinking, Tom,” said Zevkov. “Very good thinking. And what about our recruits on Pontus?”

  “When it’s time, we’re sending the Celeste Star to pick them up. It’s an older starliner we reported as being mothballed last month. No one will catch the registration discrepancy until it’s too late.”

  Zevkov took a big swig of taffberry juice that a servant had just delivered on a tray along with some light fare. “Good. Oh, would you like something to eat? I know it’s the middle of the afternoon, but I’m running late on lunch today.”

  “No, thank you, sir. Speaking of schedules, I’ll need to be leaving soon myself if I want to make my flight at the aerodrome.”

  “Back to the frosts of Boutwell—I don’t envy you. I do, however, appreciate your delivering these reports,” said Zevkov as he took a bite of a roasted cucumber sandwich.

  “Considering the nature of what’s on those datatabs, I thought it best to take care of it personally. Everything is self-explanatory, but there is one item that should be brought to your attention.” Hoyt had not looked forward to this moment. “It is in the nature of a security concern, sir.”

  Zevkov stopped chewing for an instant, his tone suddenly less cordial. “Security concern? Exactly what kind of security concern, eh?”

  “We’ve noticed some software taps on our comm network, especially out of our Stellar March offices in Boutwell. Nothing associated with Project Arrow, just everyday business traffic. Our people tell me the taps have SSB fingerprints all over them.”

  “Hmm.” The older man paused from eating, reached for a cloth napkin and wiped his moustache and mouth in deliberate fashion. “Well, there’s a war on now. My guess is that the SSB has stepped up its snooping in response to wartime security concerns.”

  As Zevkov relaxed a bit, so did Hoyt. “Should we remove the taps?”

  “Of course not,” he said firmly. “You do that and you’ll have State Security inspectors climbing up our ass in no time.” Zevkov lifted his hand, palm down. “Keep calm and let them listen. As long as they’re hearing the right things, it will be fine.”

  “Yes, sir. I must say, Mr. Zevkov, I don’t know how you stay so composed.”

  “I don’t worry because I hire you to do that for me, Tom.” Zevkov flashed a reassuring smile. “We’ve come this far, and we’re almost to the big day. We just need to keep our composure and not do anything that will draw unwanted attention.” He lifted his glass to finish the juice, going into a toasting motion. “To Project Arrow—it’s what history will remember me for. Future generations will look back on us as heroes, you’ll see.”

  Hoyt tried to relax, sneaking a quick look at the time. “It’s just that the prying eyes of Mother Darracott seem to be everywhere.”

  Zevkov pushed away the tray and stood, prompting the younger man to rise as well. “In a few short weeks, we won’t have to worry about Darracott any longer.” The boss picked up the datatabs that had been delivered to him. “My afternoon reading,” he joked. “You can show yourself out,” he said as he turned away with a jaunty wave. Suddenly, Zevkov stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, and don’t forget Giselle, that is if you have the time, eh?”

  Giselle was still poolside and still naked as he walked to the helicraft. She smiled at him, giving him an inviting look as he passed the pool and turned to ascend the ramp toward the landing pad. He nodded back to her and reached for his mobile to check the time. Some quick mental calculations told him he had forty minutes to spare in getting back to the aerodrome to catch his flight. Mr. Zevkov is right—she is one hell of a distraction. His pace up the ramp slowed as he considered it, but he never stopped. Steadfastly, Hoyt forced himself into the passenger seat of the helicraft. As the vehicle slowly lifted off, he took one last look toward the pool. I am an idiot, he thought to himself.

  9: Grief

  Union cruiser Tempest

  In Earth orbit

  Lieutenant Rosa Taylor was a ten-year veteran. Petty Officer Alejandro Alvarez was the father of two. Spacer Sapto Yuswandari’s mother was a schoolteacher on Sarissa. Master Sargent Carmen Pompa held a ninth degree Jiu-Jitsu red belt. There were two-hundred fifty-three of them. Chaz Pettigrew went through each file, one by one, trying to absorb something of their lives.

  Most died on the two destroyed vessels, Sybil and Rasiel, but there were deaths all over the task force, including Tempest. He lost six of his own crew—the four that perished instantly in the engineering explosion and two others who died of their injuries later. For some time afterward, Pettigrew found himself cursing the Many Gods.

  As humankind ventured into space during the Diaspora, people brought with them the various religions of Earth. By the twenty-sixth century, there were still those who worshipped these faiths, however many did not. The term “Many Gods” had become a generic reference to all of humanity’s manifestations of a Supreme Being, be it the God of Christianity, Allah, Elohim, the deities of Hinduism, or any other. It was a catchall expression used by the irreligious to praise or curse—invoked when weeping with joy or crying in anguish. Pettigrew had used it frequently during the last few days.

  Tempest was in orbit above Earth, having spent the last two days undergoing repairs at the EarthFed spacedock. Some of the Union force was still standing watch over EarthGate, which came through the battle unscathed. The need for the Gate was greater than ever now, and so construction was being accelerated, with an estimated completion time of two weeks.

  The remainder of Task Force 19 was either in spacedock or in orbit above Earth. During the last several days, memorial services had been conducted throughout the fleet. Pettigrew attended each of the ceremonies, but this morning’s would surely be the most difficult—it was for the dead of Tempest.

  “All hands bury the dead” called the Officer of the Day over the ship’s speaker system. As most of the crew assembled on the shuttle deck, those on duty watched via monitors throughout the ship. Pettigrew presided over the ceremony.

  “You’ve heard it many times, that memorials aren’t really for the dead, for they have no need of such formalities,” the captain told his crew. “The ceremony is for the living. We need the rituals. We need the reminders. We need to remember that the only meaning life has is the one we consciously craft for ourselves.

  “This war has just begun, and it will get worse—much worse. Because any of us may fall tomorrow, we must live our best day today. Our fallen shipmates have no more days, but we do. To honor them, and to honor ourselves, we must pick up where they left off—protecting our starhold, its citizens, our families, and the comrades who stand beside you.”

  In their personal files, none of the lost spacers asked for a burial in the Black, so there were no dramatic scenes of coffins floating out of airlocks into the void of outer space. The remains of the deceased would be transported back to their homes—except for Taylin Adams. In her personal files, she left other instructions. To that end, Pettigrew and several of his officers boarded a shuttle and flew planetside directly after the shipboard service.

  In a pristine valley of the rejuvenated Earth, the small band of friends gathered to scatter her ashes. “As you all know, the commander was from Tezrina,” Pettigrew said to the group. “She once told me that no one could ever be laid to rest on her homeworld. She claimed it was such a hostile planet that no peace would ever be possible, not even for the dead. So here today we give our dear friend and comrade Taylin Adams to the care of Mother Earth, where she can finally rest in peace, as billions before her have.”

  * * * *

  Just after dinner, Pettigrew sat in his stateroom, staring at his computer console. He needed to get some work done, but things were gnawing at his mind. He had Ship play some of his favorite music, ancient tunes from around the late twentieth century. While switching from song to song, he was interrupted by the voice of the computer.

  “Captain, please report to Commander Swoboda’s quarters,” Ship said with her usual calm demean
or.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Captain, please report to Commander Swoboda’s quarters,” the computer voice repeated.

  Ordinarily, Pettigrew would have called the commander to see what was happening, but since he was restless anyway, he decided to take this excuse to visit Swoboda—maybe it would clear some of the fog from his mind.

  When he arrived, he was invited in by the surprised Swoboda.

  “Honestly, Captain, I have no idea. I didn’t call you here, sir,” the flustered new XO said.

  “That’s very odd. Well, as long as I’m here, do you mind if I visit for a few minutes,” said Pettigrew, trying to deal gracefully with an awkward situation. In fact, computer glitch or not, he was happy for the opportunity to talk with another person. Today had been a rough day, and maybe this was a good way to unwind.

  The two men discussed the memorial service, how the crew was reacting to events, and so on. It was all somewhat formal, a discussion they could have had on the bridge or in a staff conference. Eventually, an uncomfortable silence fell between them. Swoboda started to speak a few times, but nothing came out.

  “Damn weird about Ship calling me to your quarters,” said Pettigrew finally. “I think you should run a diagnostic first thing tomorrow morning, just in case we have a computer glitch.”

  “There’s no glitch,” said a female voice as the door opened. It was Sunny Nyondo. “My apologies, Captain. I coaxed the computer into giving you that message.”

  Nyondo entered and sat down on the cot next to Swoboda. Warship cabins weren’t noted for their spaciousness and comfort for entertaining guests, and the commander had yet to move into the XO’s stateroom—it seemed too soon.

  “Captain, I’m willing to be disciplined for misusing the computer, but it was important that the three of us to get together.” She opened a canvas bag she was carrying and produced a bottle of vodka and three shot glasses. Pettigrew didn’t know whether to be angry or laugh.

  “Lieutenant Commander Nyondo,” the captain said in the most severe tone he could muster before sliding into a gentler voice. “Sunny, what’s this all about?”

  The woman had been with Tempest for almost as long as Pettigrew. In that time, she had been a model officer—responsible and intelligent with a reserved personality. None of this was like her at all.

  “It’s about Taylin Adams,” Nyondo answered. “Since she died we’ve all been wandering around like zombies.”

  Swoboda gave her a harsh look. “So just exactly what did you expect? The XO was a special person.”

  Nyondo looked him in the eye and sighed. “The XO. The exec. The commander. We’re so shaken we can barely speak her name—Tay-lin,” she said sharply. “The three of us have been so busy organizing grieving that we haven’t really done any of it ourselves. We’ve performed the public ceremonies, cried in private, and held it all in the rest of the time. Now we need to be with each other and, I don’t know, swap stories about her and remember the good times. If Mullenhoff were here, she’d kick us all in the butt and tell you that I’m right. Let’s drink and laugh and cry and remember her—but tonight let’s do it together.” A tear trickled down Nyondo’s cheek as she grasped for what to say next. “I need this, damn it! And so do both of you.”

  The two men looked at each other. Pettigrew nodded. “She’s right. I’ve tried to say all the right words, but…”

  Looking at the bottle, Swoboda was skeptical. “I’m not sure alcohol is a healthy way to channel grief.”

  “It’s not about the drinking,” countered Nyondo as she poured. “It’s about the camaraderie.”

  “And it shouldn’t be about her death—it should be about her life,” Pettigrew added.

  “In that case,” Swoboda said, reaching into a nearby cabinet and producing another glass. “We’ll need four glasses.”

  Nyondo smiled. “Oh, David, that’s just grand,” she said pouring one for their absent friend.

  Swoboda blushed a little, as he always did when Nyondo called him by his given name instead of addressing him by his rank. “Sunny, do you even drink?” he asked.

  “No, but tonight I’m making an exception.”

  Swoboda threw an uneasy look at his captain, but Pettigrew only grinned. Just before they reached for their glasses, Nyondo put up her hands.

  “Stop—not yet. I almost forgot. We need some music—your music, Captain. Ship?”

  “Yes, Commander Nyondo. What do you require?”

  “Ship, play music in this cabin at volume level three—run playlist Nyondo Zeta, please.”

  In the background, the computer began to play one of the ancient songs Pettigrew enjoyed so much. This one was called Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress. The three picked up their glasses and held them high. The others expected the captain to make a toast, but he deferred. “The honor is yours, Ms. Nyondo.” She looked surprised, quickly thinking what she wanted to say.

  “To Taylin.” Nothing more needed to be said as they all slammed back a shot. Nyondo immediately started coughing, and Swoboda rose to get her a glass of water.

  “Just as a matter of curiosity, where did you get the bottle?” Pettigrew asked as the lieutenant commander was pulling herself back together.

  “Can’t confirm it, sir, but I may have acquired it from a Marine sergeant named Hiteshaw,” she answered between coughs.

  Swoboda laughed. “Well then, Hiteshaw is going on report.” Nyondo looked at him with alarm, but he winked at her. “Not for having alcohol aboard, but for having such bad alcohol.”

  She looked disappointed. “Is it really that bad? I mean, I don’t know—I just thought it all tasted that way.”

  “Sunny, this has to be the worst vodka I’ve ever tasted,” said Pettigrew. “Pour me another.”

  Out of nowhere, Swoboda started laughing and quickly got a look from his captain. “Oh, I’m not laughing at you, sir. Speaking of Hiteshaw reminded me of the time Taylin caught him trying to organize a betting pool for the Union Cup.”

  “I never heard about that,” admitted Pettigrew.

  “She didn’t bother you with the minor stuff,” Nyondo smiled, “but boy some of it was funny. Like when she caught Petty Officer Hale keeping a pet kitten down in the damage control supply room.”

  “Oh, I remember that,” said Swoboda.

  Nyondo laughed. “She and Mullenhoff kept talking about these funny noises they were both hearing…”

  The stories and vodka flowed throughout the evening, both intoxicating in their own way. Pettigrew left early since it wouldn’t do for the captain to be seen staggering though the passageways on the way back to his stateroom. As he excused himself, Swoboda and Nyondo were still trading stories, laughing, and remembering a cherished friend.

  Today had been a hard day, and he feared there were going to be more of them in the not too distant future. But tonight—well, tonight had been better.

  10: Strategy

  The Centroplex

  Esterkeep, Sarissa

  Darracott had only seen the Centroplex this busy one other time—the night of Victor Polanco’s assassination. On that horrible evening two years ago, there was chaos and confusion—people stumbling around in the dark, hoping it all worked out somehow. Today was different, however. Now there was organized action with bearing and purpose, and the Many Gods themselves were not going to be able to help those against which this effort had been raised.

  Passing an office with an open door, she noticed a paper poster tacked to the wall with the words ‘Face of the Enemy’ printed in bold letters beneath a picture of Brin Choi. Those sentiments were repeated on countless signs and e-boards all over town—all over the Six Worlds by now, courtesy of the Ministry of Culture. The propagandists were working overtime to find provocations that would arouse the citizens: anger, fear, patriotism, revenge. What was that old saying about the first casualty of war?

  Colonel Flood walked at her side through the halls of Central Command with two other Kaskian Guards
trailing behind. The First Consul’s security people wore dark blue business suits, which made them stand out in a building where nearly everyone wore some sort of uniform. Because Flood and several of Darracott’s bodyguards were Odessan, the colonel had named the unit after the highest mountain range on their common homeworld. The name was apt too, because lately Flood’s reception from many in this building was as cold as Kaskia Montes itself. Certain parties in the Centroplex had grown resentful of the colonel, believing her to be too close to the First Consul. Darracott chalked it up to jealousy and was fairly sure Ardith Flood didn’t give a damn about the insecurities of others.

  The Union leader herself still enjoyed great popularity among the military. As she walked down the hall, she was greeted by the smiling faces of soldiers and spacers just before they snapped to attention as she passed. The First Consul was seen as a strong ally of the armed forces. Why wouldn’t she be? She only held her position because the Directorate willed it, and the Directorate was a puppet of the military. To support the military was to support herself.

  Flood and her Guards peeled away as the First Consul entered the conference room. A staffer shouted “Attention!” and everyone got to their feet, including the admirals and generals. That kind of formality was new and took Darracott by surprise. Wartime protocol she supposed, but a thought quickly raced across her mind. It was something a political mentor once told her: “the more ceremony attached to your position, the less actual power you have.”

  “Welcome to Central Command, Excellency,” greeted Fleet Admiral Channa Maxon as Darracott sat down next to the auburn-haired commander of the Sarissan Union Space Force. Around the circular conference table sat various admirals and generals, either in the flesh or in holographic imagery. About thirty or so people were inside the room, counting the staff officers who unobtrusively flitted around the edges of the meeting.