“We could buy the gear ourselves,” Kat pointed out.
“Measures are underway,” the First Space Lord said.
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “HMS Lightning and HMS Uncanny are being posted to the Jorlem Sector,” he informed her. “Our regular patrols through the sector have been withdrawn with the advent of war, so the normal trade routes have become increasingly lawless. Intelligence believes that pirate and smuggler consortiums have relocated themselves after pickings in our territory became rather slim.”
“Or the Theocracy may be trying to put pressure on the locals,” Kat offered.
“It’s a possibility,” the king agreed.
Kat scowled as she contemplated the situation. Theocratic forces hadn’t hesitated to sponsor pirate activity within Commonwealth space, hoping to weaken their targets before the war actually began. There was no reason they couldn’t do the same in the Jorlem Sector, with an additional nasty little twist. If the Jorlem Sector joined the Theocracy, those raiders could be sent elsewhere . . . but if the Jorlem Sector joined the Commonwealth instead, the Navy would have to divert patrols to protect the sector, putting yet another demand on the Navy’s very limited time and resources—just the sort of scheme that would appeal to the Theocrats. Whatever happened, whatever the sector’s governments did, the Theocracy would come out ahead.
“Ideally, you’ll be doing nothing more than showing the flag and assisting the locals in hunting down pirates and other threats,” the First Space Lord told her. “Six months of patrolling should do wonders for our reputation. If you can forge a set of alliances, we’d be delighted . . . but we’re not expecting it. Right now, it’s more reasonable to simply foster warm relations in the sector; we can worry about convincing them to apply for membership later.”
“Because we can’t defend them now,” Kat said.
“Yes,” the king said. “In the long term, yes; we’d like them to join. But for the moment, we’d prefer to keep them at a distance.”
“You’ll be given specific orders in the next couple of days,” the First Space Lord added. “Do you have any questions for the moment?”
“Yes, sir,” Kat said. “Why me? Why us?”
The king smiled. “There are several reasons,” he said. “First, you have a growing reputation for military skill—you saved an entire fleet at First Cadiz, practically won Second Cadiz singlehandedly . . . and then raided deep into enemy space, throwing them back onto the defensive.”
“Admiral Christian might have a few things to say about that, sire,” Kat said. “I didn’t win the battle singlehandedly.”
“No, but that’s what the media is saying,” the king said. “Are you suggesting that . . . that they’re fibbing? I am shocked!”
He went on before Kat could come up with an answer. “The point is that you are a military hero, a genuine military hero, and you have very close links to the aristocracy. Sending you to the Jorlem Sector is an excellent way of showing how important we consider the sector to be. You talking to their rulers on equal terms is a sign of respect. And you can talk to their militaries, discussing the exact nature of the enemy threat and how it can be defeated. Your reputation will precede you.”
The media will make sure of it, Kat thought darkly. She loathed the media.
“Your former XO, your fellow captain, is also an advertisement for social advancement within the Commonwealth, even though he wasn’t born on Tyre,” the king added. “He was knighted six months ago, which makes him a de facto member of the aristocracy, and he was given his own command. A heavy cruiser to boot. He’s living proof that noncitizens can and do advance within the system.”
“Of course, sire,” Kat said. “The fact that it was a struggle to get him promoted, after years of loyal service, is neither here nor there. The fact that Unlucky is on the verge of falling apart . . .”
“Of course not,” the king interrupted. He shot her an annoyed look. “We are trying to fight a war, Captain, while trying to patch over the holes in the Commonwealth’s structure. It needs to be handled carefully.”
“It does,” Kat agreed. “And what do we do if we encounter a predatory merchant?”
“Whatever you see fit,” the king said.
Kat resisted the urge to rub her eyes. There was no escaping the simple fact that a number of Tyre’s merchants had established trade links that effectively exploited stars and planets outside the Commonwealth. Their behavior was technically illegal, but it was difficult to prosecute them when they also tended to have allies in high places. The kingdom’s determination to protect its people, even at the risk of war, didn’t help. There was no way she could stand back and watch as a crowd threatened to lynch a Commonwealth citizen, but she didn’t want to risk her ship and crew to save someone who only deserved a quick trial and a one-way ticket to a penal world.
“I want carte blanche,” she said flatly.
“Already in your orders,” the king said. Kat had the uneasy feeling that someone had anticipated her demand. “We’re at war. The normal rules don’t apply.”
And they just dumped a hot potato in my lap, Kat thought. She was starting to suspect that there were other reasons for her appointment. No one could say she didn’t have ties to the merchant sector, not when her father ran, or had run, one of the largest corporations in the sector. But which way am I expected to jump?
“Thank you,” she said. She’d consider the problem later. “When do you want us to depart?”
“Ideally, a week from today,” the First Space Lord said. “But organizing a convoy to Vangelis may take longer. Spacers . . . are none too happy about the convoy requirements.”
“They wouldn’t be,” Kat said. She’d never served on a merchant freighter, but thanks to her family, she understood the logistical problems facing civilian skippers better than most military officers. “If they miss their due dates, they face fines . . . perhaps even the loss of their ships.”
“We’ve introduced emergency legislation to tackle the problem,” the king said. “But it’s stalled in the House of Lords. Too many people are suspicious of how it can be misused.”
Kat sighed. “Is there any evidence it will be misused?”
“Of course not,” the king said. “But who needs evidence when there are political points to score?”
“Touché,” Kat said.
She shook her head. In all fairness, she could see both sides of the debate. A merchant skipper in danger of losing his ship would run terrifying risks, if necessary, to make his scheduled deadlines. Even with stasis fields, certain cargos were all too perishable; they might arrive too late for anyone to want to buy them, but introducing legislation to override contractual requirements would open up a whole new can of worms. Either deadlines would no longer matter, in which case the merchant skippers could and would cheat at will, or each and every case would have to be decided individually, tying up the courts for years. It would be a political nightmare.
But a collapse of interstellar trade would be a nightmare too, she thought.
“You’ll receive your formal orders soon,” the First Space Lord said. “Good luck with your new XO.”
Kat had to fight a frown. She’d requested that her former tactical officer be promoted, but she’d heard nothing. Somehow, she suspected that the bureaucracy had found a reason to turn down her request. And that meant her new XO would be transferred from another ship . . .
“Thank you, sir,” Kat said. She had no trouble recognizing a dismissal. “I won’t let you down.”
CHAPTER THREE
William couldn’t help feeling, as the hatch started to hiss open, that he was stepping into the lair of a wild animal. The stench of alcohol and unwashed human body drifted past his nose as he took a step forward, peering into the darkened cabin. He would have wondered if the compartment was empty, if he hadn’t heard the sound of heavy breathing—it sounded almost like snoring—coming from within. The chief engineer didn’t sound healthy.
“Stay here,” he ordered Janet. “And don’t go anywhere.”
“Yes, sir,” Janet said.
William walked into the cabin and paused long enough for the hatch to hiss closed behind him. The lights should have brightened automatically as the room’s sensors registered his presence, yet nothing happened. Some officers disabled the sensors if they had to share a sleeping compartment with another officer, but the chief engineer slept alone. William allowed himself a moment of frustration, then touched the switch by the side of the hatch. The lights brightened sharply, revealing a truly filthy compartment. Clothes, tools, and items William couldn’t identify, items he didn’t want to identify, lay everywhere. Bottles, empty bottles, were littered all over the compartment, leaving it smelling faintly of shipboard rotgut. From the next room came the sound of breathing, breathing that was growing increasingly loud.
Bracing himself, William strode up to the open hatch and peered through. A man—the chief engineer, he hoped—was lying on the bed, dozing. His face was unshaven, his uniform was a mess, and he was clutching a half-full bottle in one hand. He turned slowly and blinked owlishly at William, as if he didn’t quite register his commander’s presence. Then he started to lift the bottle to his lips.
“No,” William snapped. He moved forward and yanked the bottle from the engineer, tossing it across the compartment. It struck the far bulkhead and shattered. “No more alcohol.”
“Fuck off,” the engineer said.
William felt his temper snap. He caught hold of the engineer by the lapels and hauled him to his feet, holding him a centimeter above the deck. The engineer stared at him in shock, clearly unable to formulate a response. William shook him violently, then half dragged him towards the medical kit on the wall. Unless the crew was truly suicidal, they’d have left the medical kit alone. There should be a sober-up spray inside. It wouldn’t be the first time some unfortunate officer had needed to sober up in a hurry.
“No,” the engineer protested, as William opened the kit and found the injector. “I . . .”
“Be quiet,” William snapped. He was tempted to smack the engineer, but he had the feeling the man was too far out of it to notice. “Take your medicine like an officer.”
He pushed the injector against the engineer’s neck, then pulled him into the washroom as the drug worked its magic. The man’s body convulsed violently. William barely managed to get the engineer’s head over the toilet before he threw up, spewing out everything in his stomach. Shaking his head, William poured the engineer a glass of water, but waited until the man was finished throwing up to offer it to him. Dehydration would be a very real threat for the next few hours.
“That was dirty,” the engineer protested as he downed the water. William passed him another glass without comment. “That was really dirty.”
“That was really dirty, sir,” William corrected sharply. “Name and rank. Now.”
The engineer stared at him. “Chief Engineer Calvin Goodrich, sir,” he managed. “Chief Engineer of Unlucky, and goddamn all who serve on her.”
“No, you’re the chief engineer of Uncanny,” William snapped. “And you’re going to do your job.”
Goodrich blinked at him. “Or what?”
William picked Goodrich up and shoved him against the bulkhead. “Shut up and listen,” he growled. “I don’t give a damn about your problems. I don’t give a damn about this ship’s reputation. I don’t give a damn if you think I’m a complete bastard who’s been sent here because he pissed someone off. I am going to get this ship into working order before we leave orbit, and you are going to help me.”
He allowed his voice to harden. “And if you don’t help me,” he added threateningly, “you’ll be wishing that you were merely tossed out of the airlock when I’ve finished with you.”
“I’ve done nothing,” Goodrich protested.
“That’s the point,” William snarled. “The air filters are clogged, risking the certain death of the entire crew. Half the consoles have been stripped or removed, rendering the ship unsuitable for anything but the scrap yard. I hate to imagine what would happen if we tried to pick a fight with a fucking gunboat in this condition! A civilian freighter with a couple of popguns could probably kick our asses!”
He took a moment to calm himself. “Right now,” he warned, “the only thing keeping me from tossing you out the airlock is the simple fact that everyone deserves a chance. This is yours! Help me get this ship back into fighting shape and I’ll overlook your . . . earlier problems. Or, if you decide to be a useless piece of shit, I’ll throw you out the airlock myself. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Goodrich managed.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir,” Goodrich said.
“Good,” William said. He glared down at the engineer. They were about the same age, he realized slowly. But Goodrich had really let himself go. “Take a shower and get dressed, and then join me outside. We have work to do.”
“Yes, sir,” Goodrich said.
William gave him one last warning look, then stepped back into the main cabin. Once again, he took in the mess: bottles everywhere, dirty clothes lying on the floor. A cleaning crew was supposed to wash the crew’s clothes. Clearly they hadn’t been bothering. Or perhaps they’d decided the endeavor wasn’t worth the risk of entering Goodrich’s cabin. The man was a mean drunk.
I need to get some extra crew in here, William thought. He rather doubted he could get any permanent crewmen, no matter what inducements he offered, but he should be able to borrow some temporary workers from the shipyard’s manpower pool. I must determine just how many crewmembers will need to be tossed off this ship.
He shook his head. He’d need more than just temporary workers. Marines would be nice. A company or two of marines would be just what he needed to keep the rest of the crew in line if he couldn’t distribute them over the rest of the Navy. But he knew he’d be lucky to get a platoon of marines, not when there were so many demands on their manpower too. Perhaps he could talk Kat into lending him a platoon. Shaking his head, he strode over to the desk, pushed a dozen bottles off the chair, and sat down in front of the terminal, keying a log-in screen. The computer was password-protected, but his command codes unlocked it, allowing him to check the maintenance reports. He wasn’t too surprised to discover that they hadn’t been updated in months.
They weren’t updated even before Captain Abraham died, he thought numbly. He might have died because he couldn’t be bothered forcing the crew to do basic maintenance tasks.
On impulse, he flicked through a handful of other files. No one had filed a readiness report for over six months, something that should have drawn attention from the IG. Filing a readiness report was a legal requirement, particularly when the starship was attached to Home Fleet. Crew reports hadn’t been updated either, another legal requirement. Goodrich, it seemed, hadn’t even been delegating the task of writing them. Nor had any of the other officers.
Leaving the terminal open, he rose and strode over to the hatch. Janet was standing outside, leaning against the bulkhead. She straightened up sharply when she saw him. William wondered at the strange mix of relief and fear that flickered across her face, then put it aside for later contemplation. Right now, she wasn’t his immediate problem.
“Clean up this compartment,” he ordered, beckoning her into the cabin. “Put the bottles out for recycling, send the clothing to be washed, mop the floor, and do whatever else needs to be done to make the compartment livable.”
Janet saluted. “Yes, sir.”
William allowed himself a moment of relief. He’d expected an argument. The captain’s steward often, at least in his experience, considered herself too grand to clean other cabins like
a common steward. Janet went right to work, though, gathering up the bottles and placing them to one side. William made a mental note to have a few sharp words with whoever was producing the rotgut—they’d clearly stepped well outside the conventional bounds—and then waited, as patiently as he could, for Goodrich. The engineer took nearly thirty minutes to freshen up and emerge into the main compartment.
“Captain,” he said, jabbing a finger at Janet, “what’s the Captain’s Whore doing here?”
Janet flinched. William cursed, inwardly. That explained a great deal.
“She’s here to clean up the mess,” he said. “And you will not talk about her in such terms.”
“But . . .”
William ignored the protest. “You are going to give me a tour of my ship. We’ll start with engineering.”
Goodrich looked as if he wanted to argue further but didn’t quite dare. “Yes, sir.”
“Janet, finish the job,” William ordered as Goodrich headed for the hatch. “And then report back to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Janet said.
William followed Goodrich through the hatch and down the long corridor towards Main Engineering, silently tallying a list of problems that needed urgent attention. A number of cabins looked uninhabited, their interiors stripped bare; a couple of storage compartments were empty, their contents removed and sent . . . somewhere. The handful of crew he passed looked sullen, or resentful, or even fearful. He wondered, grimly, just how badly the lower decks had decayed. Instead of cleaning up the ship, the Admiralty had sent every rotten apple it could find to Uncanny. The results had been disastrous.
“We lost one of our power cores two months ago, sir,” Goodrich told him as they walked into Main Engineering. “Captain Abraham didn’t bother to have it replaced.”
“Fuck,” William said. Replacing a power core took ten days, assuming nothing went terribly wrong during the procedure. “And no one thought to report it?”
Cursed Command (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 3) Page 3