Mitchie refilled it. “You did the right thing.”
“I don’t know. Chief just fell down. Didn’t even get a bruise. Is that worth killing a man?”
“If we had twenty guards and the prisoners were all in cells, no. We’re outnumbered about fifty to one by the prisoners. If that guy had stayed on his feet two dozen Fuzies would’ve unzipped their bubbles and rushed you. Then where would we be?”
Setta shivered. “I shouldn’t have missed those shots.”
“Hitting with two out of four is better than the infantry hope for.” Mitchie sipped her whiskey. “Get some sleep, PO.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
***
Mitchie was alone on the bridge when the call came in. She was taking long shifts to free Mthembu for prisoner duty.
The radio announced, “Persia to Macy. Come in, Macy.”
She answered, “Macy reads Persia loud and clear.” The time lag let her look up the caller in the code book. “11th Destroyer Squadron” didn’t explain why they’d be calling her.
“Macy, we’re in a stand-off with the Fuzie ships over Bonaventure. They won’t believe we won the battle. Can you put a high-ranking prisoner on the radio to explain it to them?”
“We’ll find one, Persia. Might take a while.”
Mitchie had already put Setta on the search by the time “We’ll wait” came in reply.
The crew had noticed officers among the prisoners while giving out water and food. They just hadn’t bothered keeping track of them after zipping closed their identical bubbles. Two hours of searching found a full commander. There was a captain in the pile somewhere but Mitchie decided the standoff shouldn’t wait.
Commander Wong was in the same condition as the rest of the prisoners—fed and watered enough to not be ill, and stinking of sixty hours of being rolled about in her own waste products. Mthembu hung well behind as he escorted her up the ladder. Mitchie let the commander use her own shower and dressed her in a set of Guo’s old utilities.
Persia had been busy arguing with his Fuzie opposite number. When Mitchie let Commander Wong introduce herself the first response was a Pintoy-accented voice listing a dozen questions. Mitchie hastily wrote them down.
Wong didn’t need any time to prepare her answers. “Nine. A Chief’s way of saying he thinks an ensign is an idiot. Ten. I don’t know, never watched that show, but we can go ask a third class if you really want to know. Eleven. Academy hand to hand instructor, retired six years ago. Twelve. Bar by the Priam Yards. God, I could use one of their margaritas.” She put down the mike and took a deep breath.
“Tell them what happened to you,” said Mitchie.
Wong looked over her shoulder at Mthembu, who had his pistol at low ready. She picked up the microphone again. “I commanded the Anubis. The ship went dead, all systems shut down. We were breathing soup by the time a Disker cruiser came by to pick us up. They put us in bubbles and transferred us to a freighter. Which, I’m told, is taking us to Bonaventure.”
A few minutes later came the question, “Do you think they won?”
Wong rolled her eyes. “If they’re recovering enemy casualties, they’ve won. If they’re bringing freighters in, they’ve won. And if it’s been three days and you have to ask me what happened, they’ve won.”
Another wait. “Ma’am, this is Lieutenant Commander Fieris, on the Dashing. The General says not to surrender but he doesn’t have authority over Navy units. You’re the senior Navy officer. What are your orders?”
“As a prisoner I have no command authority. I will advise you to not be an idiot.”
Wait. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mitchie gave Wong a dinner of soup and pudding (solid food went to the bubbles). By the time they finished Persia reported a peaceful surrender.
“Thank you,” said Mitchie.
“I didn’t do it for you,” said Wong. “I did it for them.”
“I’m thanking for them.”
Wong went back to her pudding. She spent the rest of the trip in the container with the wounded. Mitchie allowed her to perform the funeral for the kidney-shot prisoner the next day.
***
A few hours out from the planet Mitchie radioed Persia for landing instructions.
“Stay ten thousand klicks clear of the planet,” came the reply. “The Fuzie Marines are still holding out. They’re firing anti-ship missiles whenever one’s close enough.”
“Crap. I need to off-load my prisoners. We’re out of food, and about everything else.”
“There’s surrender talks going. Shouldn’t be much longer.”
Joshua Chamberlain performed wide loops around Bonaventure at two gravs. Freefall would leave prisoners choking on globs of urine floating through the air. The gentle thrust, Mitchie hoped, would be enough to keep them under control.
To her dismay the Planetary Defense Commander ordered them to receive an inspection party. She kept the free-fall time to just enough for the shuttle to dock, unload passengers, and separate.
Mitchie saluted the BDF brigadier as he floated through the airlock. He wore a dress jacket over fatigue pants and civilian hiking boots. After him came a Fusion Marine lieutenant in full dress uniform. Next was a BDF captain in a scruffier version of the brigadier’s outfit. Three armed guards completed the group. Only their bearing was military.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” said Mitchie.
“Thank you, Captain,” answered the brigadier. “As you were.”
As if in response to his command everyone settled to the deck. Hiroshi had fired the torch as soon as the shuttle was clear. The visitors seemed to appreciate it. Between freefall and the utter stench of the hold they’d looked ready to vomit.
The brigadier waved the Marine forward. “There they are, boy. Talk to them all if you want.”
Mitchie called up Commander Wong as the first interviewee. As they talked the brigadier explained to Joshua Chamberlain’s crew that the Marine Commanding General refused to believe the space battle was over. The negotiation team had convinced him to send an observer.
The lieutenant took his work seriously. After hearing Wong’s story he picked some bubbles at random. The stories were boringly similar. After an hour he declared himself convinced.
“Good,” said the brigadier. “Are you also convinced that every one of these bubbles has one of your people in it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then tell your boss this. If he executes his prisoners he’s getting this lot dumped on his head. At a hundred klicks per second!”
The Marine nodded, jaw clenched tight.
The shuttle took them away again. A different one arrived from Persia. It held fifty cases of ration bars and two dozen spacers to give Mitchie’s exhausted crew a break. When the newbies had the routine down the rest were freed for a full shift of sleep.
It was the first time Mitchie and Guo had been in their cabin together since the battle. She met him with a towel as he stepped out of the shower. Once he was dry they cuddled on the bed. Both were too tired for sex but desperately wanted touch.
“That was a scary threat the brigadier made,” said Guo.
“I hope it works. Persia told me the Fuzies are holding tens of thousands of prisoners. The commanding general is threatening to execute them all if we launch a ground offensive.”
“Still, two wrongs doesn’t make a right.”
Mitchie sat up. “There has to be something to discourage them from committing atrocities. If we play too nice it gives them an incentive to push harder.”
“I’ve put a lot of effort into keeping those people alive.” Guo’s voice was firm. “I’ll be damned if I’ll help kill them.”
“They’re still enemy troops.”
“They’re helpless people. It’s bad enough we’re letting them stew in their own shit. We need one of those Geneva things so we have rules for prisoners.”
“We’re doing the best we can. Hopefully we’ll get a peace treaty out of this battle and we
won’t need a Geneva Convention.”
“Until the next war.” Guo looked into Mitchie’s eyes. “If the General orders you to execute prisoners, will you obey?”
She looked away. “He can’t give us orders. We’re under Admiral Galen’s command. If he wants Galen to do something he has to ask the DCC.”
“That’s good.” He didn’t sound completely satisfied with her answer.
Bonaventure, gravity 10.1 m/s2
A ceasefire was announced, specifically allowing ships to land in safety. Mitchie decided the Marine lieutenant had given a convincing report.
Setta took the rope ladder down as soon as Hiroshi shut down the turbines. She could see vehicles approaching across the spaceport. The locals looked to be bringing everything the captain had asked for. A mobile ramp led the parade.
She took a deep breath of her homeworld’s air. It was summer in this hemisphere. She recognized the scents of grass and rain. And smoke. More smoke than she ever remembered smelling without a fire being in sight.
Setta waved to a tech to open the cargo bay doors. The cargo net covered most of the opening to keep the bubbles from falling out. She guided the ramp to the port side gap. A tractor pulled a string of three empty luggage carts. It couldn’t handle the ramp. Setta ordered it detached. Joshua Chamberlain’s crane could pull them up.
Portable showers were quickly set up, hooked into the water line normally used for filling ships’ reaction mass tanks. It would be cold. Setta felt sure the prisoners wouldn’t mind.
She waited at the bottom with the crane’s remote. When Mthembu called “Full!” she pressed the LOWER button. The winch unreeled cable as the carts came smoothly back down.
Bonnies gathered around the carts, lifting out the bubbles and unzipping them. Most backed away quickly when they caught a whiff of the inside. Fuzies squirmed out and stripped, leaving wet clothes on the pavement. As they headed for the showers Setta yelled, “Grab your ID cards! And anything else you want to keep.”
A Bonny asked her, “What do we do with this stuff?” waving at the piles of empty uniforms and bubbles.
“Burn ‘em. Well, right now shove them over there.” She pointed at a spot of empty pavement, far enough away to accommodate a big pile.
“How?”
Why do I have to figure everything out? thought Setta. Right, because I’m a petty officer now and he’s untrained militia. A second cart-load had been sent to the showers by the time she solved it. An unneeded privacy panel from the showers made a plow blade on the front of the tractor. When the string of carts came down for the third time most of the discards were cleared out of the way.
Freshly rinsed Fuzies were spreading out over the pavement. Some lay down to bask in the summer sun. Others ran about to stretch cramped legs. Many huddled together to comfort each other after the horror of the passage.
Someone approached in almost an actual uniform. Warrant officer pins, medical corps patch, nametag “BINGRONG.” Setta recognized the Joshua Chamberlain’s former first mate. Setta couldn’t remember the rules on warrants. She saluted to be safe. “Greetings, ma’am!”
Bing sloppily returned the salute. “How dare you. How dare you treat people like this! This is the worst abuse I’ve ever seen. I am disgusted with you. I’m going to see the JAG to file charges on all of you!”
Setta stepped back under the blast. “We did the best we could. We don’t have facilities for that many.”
“You could have let them out of the bubbles to go piss in a pot!”
“No, we couldn’t. We can stack bubbles. Let them out and they’d’ve been standing room only in the cargo hold.”
“So what? I’ve worked this ship. You can fit hundreds in there.”
“They wouldn’t have room to lie down. They’d be peeing on the floor because we don’t have pots for that many. We couldn’t put guards in without getting rushed. So as soon as someone tried something—maybe a tech opening up a wiring conduit—all we would be able to do to stop them is open the hatch and space them all.” Setta waved at the nudists. “This way most survived.”
The medic kept glaring but didn’t have an answer to that.
“Problem?” The captain looked down at them from the ramp edge.
“Hello, Michigan,” said the warrant officer, failing to salute.
“Hi, Shi,” said the captain. “I’m glad to see you looking well. We were sorry to hear about Billy.”
“He always rose to the occasion when he had to. How’s Guo?”
“He’s fine. Want to come on board when we’re done unloading? He’d like to see you.”
“No. I have a dozen patients who developed pneumonia from aspirating fecal matter.”
“I’ll let you get back to them, then.”
Bingrong gave the captain a nod and walked away.
The captain turned to Setta. “The carts are full.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Setta lowered them down.
***
The ship smelled of soap now after three weeks of a different smell.
After offloading the transmitters, their associated fiddly bits, and the technicians into the grim-faced custody of an SIL Victrix battalion the squadron had been disbanded. The local quartermasters promptly besieged the freighters with demands for urgent deliveries. Every one was the most important item needed to clean up war damage, prevent Fuzie sabotage, or prepare for the upcoming offensive.
Mitchie let Setta choose the missions. For the next week her duties as captain were limited to teaching the pilot and co-pilot how to balance efficiency with safety when landing.
Guo focused on cleaning.
“How’s the new bot working?” asked BM2 Setta. The duct cleaning robot came aboard as “incentive” for choosing a delivery of mine-clearing gear.
“It’s finding gunk. I clear the filters every run. But the damn smell’s just as strong.”
She nodded. Every time she came back on board it was clear the prisoners had left their mark.
“I don’t know if we can get it out without an overhaul,” he said.
“Can we afford one?”
“It’s not money. It’s finding a shipyard that has time for us. They’re all full up with battle damage repairs.” He sipped his tea. “Wish we could find one. The crew needs a break.”
Setta suspected by crew he meant captain. “Would the skipper need to sign off before I could schedule one?”
“If you see a slot, grab it.”
“Aye-aye, Chief.”
Two more “urgent” deliveries were followed by collecting fifteen containers from the BDF main warehouse and delivering them to an equatorial island. As offloading began local troops came aboard carrying boxes.
“I need to what?” asked Mitchie.
“Box up anything you don’t want cleaned, ma’am. They’re going to launder all the clothes and linens then scrub the surfaces.”
“Right.” She carried an empty box to her dresser. “We needed it, but why are they doing it?”
Setta shrugged. “Sergeant major told me, ‘They’re that bored,’ ma’am.”
A few chats revealed why. The BDF had decided the extinct volcanic island was strategically positioned to intercept transport routes. When the invasion started the beach resort was evacuated and two battalions deployed in intricate tunnels.
They’d prepared so well the Fusion chose to isolate them rather than attack. Over a thousand of the BDF’s best regulars spent the occupation listening to reports of the militias fighting the war.
So boredom plus survivor’s guilt.
The troops had kept the resort in repair. Joshua Chamberlain’s crew stayed in suites. Mitchie declared a week’s shore leave.
Fleet Headquarters seemed to have lost them in the chaos of victory. Lt. Commander Long would let them find her.
***
Admiral Galen’s staff tracked them down at the end of the leave. No mission. They were ordered to the Bulkwark Spaceport to participate in an award ceremony. A rear admi
ral Mitchie didn’t know declared her a full commander and pinned a valor medal on her. She felt prouder of the one that came with it, a solid black ribbon declaring she’d been in a space battle. A gold star indicated her second one.
Guo made senior chief. A performance medal honored his efforts to keep the prisoners alive. Setta made PO First Class and received a valor medal for killing one. A Shishi officer presented Hiroshi with a wooden rod to mark his promotion to Pilot-Centurion. A valor medal honored his suppression of the Lapis hijackers. Mthembu made Coxswain’s Mate 3rd Class. Everyone received the black ribbons.
Whoever requisitioned the food for the reception afterwards lacked Setta’s gift for scrounging. The locals who’d lived through the occupation shared their joy at the sight of unrationed bread. Meat and sweets were scarce. The ship crews stifled their complaints.
Alcohol was plentiful. Mitchie held a beer as she accepted congratulations from a stream of strangers and acquaintances. Questions about the citiationless valor medal she deflected. One of Galen’s ops staffers had an award for missile defense tactics. She maneuvered him into making a questionable assertion about the effectiveness of laser counterfire. The resulting debate gave her cover to duck out.
Instead of returning with a refill she went back to Joshua Chamberlain. Reporting in at headquarters let her datasheet collect messages for her. After opening a few dozen randomly Mitchie gave her mail system rules to delete most unread. A worried note from her mother survived the purge. She sent off a reassuring one.
She was asleep when Guo came home.
Chapter Thirteen: Extortion
Guo woke with a milder hangover than he’d expected. I must be getting used to Master Chief’s parties. “Wetting down” his new rank used lots of booze. As long as Guo kept buying nobody checked if he actually drank the stuff.
He found Mitchie in the galley wrestling with her datasheet. After a good morning kiss he asked, “What’s that?”
Torchship Pilot Page 28