The Odyssey and the Iliad (Kinsella Universe Book 7)

by Gina Marie Wylie

  “Wait a few,” she told Makaa.

  A sensor officer spoke up, “That big ship, probably the London, just dropped from High Fan.” A second later he reported, “Their fans have gone dark; they are no longer detectable. It looked like a normal shutdown, not a malfunction.”

  “I have come to like the Federation term -- malf. Short and sweet like such a thing is not,” Makaa observed.

  “A captain is supposed to be unmoved by such events. This captain sighed with relief,” Captain Moore said.

  Suddenly the transmissions from the Fleet ships changed to encoded.

  Finally, it was over. “The London has once again gone to High Fan. They are on a skew course. The only place close to their line will be the Federation colony known as Snow Dance,” the sensor officer reported.

  A voice that Trevor recognized came on the circuit. “Since the war started the Federation has suffered from what are euphemistically called ‘command failures.’ I take no pride in having had to deal with one aboard London.

  “We are bound for the place where the computer AIs have a base; we will turn over their sister to their care. In the meantime, it has been rendered inert. Admiral Cathcart is indisposed, and is likely to remain indisposed for the foreseeable future.

  “Trevor, we will leave one ship trailing you out at seven light minutes. Shortly the Antietam will transmit a set of coordinates to you. If you would, please drop from fans when you get them, reorient and then go there. You will be trailed, but not attacked. There will be a new team to talk to you. Please, give them due consideration.”

  “Yes, Kristopher, you can count on it.”

  “That’s Colonel Felsen, I’ll thank you,” the man said. “And I do thank you for making a sorry sad sack into a passable Marine.”

  Chapter 6 -- Wanna Fly?

  Steve Yardley finished annotating his physics notes for the day and was internally debating what to do next in the ten minutes left of the Literature period. He’d read Silas Marner a couple of times; he didn’t need to do it again. Physics was fun -- he could work on that all day.

  Kevin Jessop passed his desk and dropped a note on it. How many centuries had kids been passing notes in class? Five or six? You’d think they’d have gotten better at it. He glanced at it and shrugged. “Hot Tip: check the jobs forum.”

  Their high school maintained a number of forums for jobs, careers, colleges, scholarships and a myriad other topics they thought seniors would be interested in. Steve was pretty much committed going to the local community college and praying for some good luck.

  His mother had died the same day he was born. Six years later, his father was badly injured in an accident while he’d been outside, in vacuum. He’d only breathed vacuum for a few seconds, but the sudden pressure drop had ruptured a lot of internal membranes -- membranes that surrounded organs. It didn’t kill him quickly, it took another six years, but it did kill him.

  Steve had been sent back to Earth and a dirty-foot uncle whose only attachment to Steve was the check he received every month for taking care of Steve.

  Well, he had a couple of minutes to kill, so he checked the forum.

  WANNA FLY?

  This is a unique opportunity for the finest, bravest young men and women of the Federation.

  The Federation is offering a limited period of open enlistment for volunteers to train as fighter pilots. Enlistment is open to anyone who at least is eighteen years of age, has a secondary education certificate and at least one college acceptance.

  Enlistments will be for the duration plus a year and a day. The prospective recruit would complete officer training, fighter transition training and would go out to the Fleet as an ensign. Complete one deployment and you would have the choice of any assignment in the Fleet -- including assignment in the Fleet Academy Corps of Cadets.

  This offer won’t remain open long -- there are a limited number of slots. Applications will be reviewed on a first come, first served basis.

  There was an email address for more information and an application. Steve’s hands trembled as he imported the form, set the permissions and had his comp fill out the application. Two minutes later it was winging its way through the ether, a request for the “more information” attached to it. He turned and caught Kevin’s eye. He sketched a salute, making it look like he was scratching his forehead. Kevin grinned and gave him a thumb’s up.

  Steve had all but given up hope of getting a position in a Fleet Academy or even a slot in the reserve officer program. In spite of the largest war anyone had ever imagined, in spite of the fantastic expansion the Fleet was going through, it still had more volunteers, now more than ever, than slots. At least for officers, which was what Steve wanted more than anything.

  He was a Rim Runner, bound to this stupid rock because of an accident to his father. He had loved his father; he had respected his father like no other, and the accident that put Steve here had been someone else’s fault. But the fact remained that he was here, and his one hope -- until now -- was community college, where he’d study electronics and qualify as a tech. The Fleet never had too many techs, and he’d have been sure of a slot -- just not doing anything he wanted. He’d thought he’d have to settle for that.

  Now... He’d do whatever he had to do, jump through any hoop that they put in front of him. He hastily checked the comp. The average deployment duration was a daunting two years, but that wasn’t surprising when you thought about it. Half the time was getting there and coming back... the alien planets found so far were dauntingly far away.

  The period ended and his day was finished. Kevin grinned one last time and was gone. Steve walked outside and then the two miles home. It was mid-April, and the days in Phoenix were already more than hot enough.

  He did like he did most days -- he spent the evening, except when he was called for dinner, in his room. He knew the desire to go to space colored his perceptions, but he had found a genuine love of physics and calculus. Physics was the study of how the universe worked, and calculus was the language the results were written in. For the last two years he’d burned a lot of midnight oil -- and just about every other hour of the day or night he could find the time -- studying them.

  He got the response to his information request back. It was less recruitment-oriented and more pragmatic. You had to pass the flight physical -- that was more thorough than a regular Fleet physical, but basically the only way you flunked it was if you had a disease or condition that might unexpectedly render you unconscious. Probably one in a thousand people had such conditions -- and they were almost invariable much older. In his age cohort, it was more like one in a hundred thousand. Since he had both Rim Basic and Advanced Flight Certificates, he was even less likely to have a problem now. And he’d kept his flight certificates up, along with every other one of his Rim Certificates.

  But the few additional caveats he read were equally unimportant.

  The evening wore on and he steadily grew more hyper. How long would they take to respond to his application?

  The next morning he found out: at four AM, Arizona time, they sent him an appointment at the Fleet Liaison Phoenix, this coming Saturday, for his flight physical. His heart soared; his mind was on nothing else.

  Until he got to school.

  Kevin saw him before school started. “I hope you didn’t jump at that enlistment thing,” Kevin told Steve. “It’s a trick.”

  “I can’t believe that the Federation, given the war, would engage in tricks,” Steve said with assurance.

  “Have you looked at the casualty numbers among pilots?”

  Steve shook his head.

  “Rome, on its first sortie, lost more than ninety percent of her pilots. Most carriers, since then, lose at least half on a deployment. Yeah, I want a shot at the Academy -- but I don’t want the odds of making the Academy equal to the odds of dying.”

  Steve chuckled. “The ancient ‘Is the glass half full or half empty’ conundrum. I rate my chances of getting in, without th
is, as zero. A fifty-fifty chance I’ll make it? Yes!”

  “Even if the flip side is that you’ll be dead?”

  Steve looked at Kevin sadly. He’d always known his friend was a dirty-foot and had overlooked it. There was no clearer, starker, display of the difference in mindset. “The human race wins or loses this war if enough of us can perform at above one hundred percent. I’m not going to drag the rest down by being a tech, less than half of what I’m capable of.”

  “Sure, you’ve got better grades than I do -- but better to be a live tech than a dead pilot.”

  Steve shook his head. Kevin would never understand. Saturday he went to the liaison office, which was filled with hundreds of people of all ages -- there to take the physical. Almost from the first, he could tell that a lot of people weren’t that enthusiastic. Evidently they’d heard the same things that Kevin heard, and were hoping that they’d bust the physical. That was a bad choice!

  This was the Twenty-fifth Century! Everything you did in public went into your public records, available to anyone at anytime.

  At the end, he was one of hundreds going past a series of people there to tell them individually what was next. “You will return in two weeks to this building at 8 AM. Breakfast and lunch will be provided. That will be the orientation session. If you have any questions, they will be answered then.

  “After the orientation you can enlist -- or defer to a later time.” Steve looked at the man briefing him, knowing exactly what the other meant. There would be no later time.

  He didn’t exactly jump and skip on the way to back to his uncle’s, but he was tempted.

  He still didn’t say anything to his uncle, but it turned out that his uncle said something to him. Not about his dreams, but about his future. “You graduate in five weeks, Steve. Have you given any thought to how you are going to live then?”

  “I’m making arrangements. My plan, if nothing else comes along, is to go to Scottsdale’s Community College and enter the electronics program.”

  “I will continue to supply room and board for six weeks after graduation. After that, you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

  “I understand, sir.” Steve knew how large the check his uncle got for his keep. It was double or triple what his uncle actually spent. His uncle wasn’t a stupid man -- he hadn’t overspent on his family... not where Steve could see. That would come, Steve was sure, once he was long gone and far away. There was nothing to be gained by making it an issue, so he kept his mouth shut.

  When he announced he’d be gone for another Saturday, his uncle was curious. “Sir, I’m doing research. Hopefully I’ll find some good roommates to live with.”

  Orientation was Kevin, with exclamation marks. The person running the orientation was a diminutive woman of about twenty-five, wearing the Federation Star around her neck.

  She held up her right arm when she started to speak. “For you ignorant dirty-feet, the three full stripes on my sleeve are the insignia of a Fleet captain. The wavy stripe furthest from my hand is the insignia of an officer who commands a warship. The two stars on my sleeve define my specific rank as a rear admiral. The dangle dangling around my neck is something else again.

  “I am Fleet Rear Admiral Donna Merriweather, currently commanding the carrier Thebes. Thebes isn’t done yet -- it will be in a few months. Those of you listening to me, if you pass out of this program, you’ll come to me.”

  She lifted her “dangle.” “I hope to God everyone knows what this is. The Federation Star. Usually a captain earns it by surviving when he or she gets most of their crew killed. I was lucky; I only lost a couple dozen of my crew, all Marines, earning it. Pity about the hundred thousand souls on Grissom Station we couldn’t get to in time.”

  The rogue computer that had killed so many people, a few months before! The news had had a lot of stories about how many had been killed and their bravery, but not much about anything else. It made Steve’s brain ache -- it was clear a lot wasn’t being said, but he had no idea what.

  “I have served with the best of the best. My first squadron operations officer was Hannah Sawyer. She was the first person to earn the Star after she died. One of my successors was Lynn Shapiro, who has been nominated and has since joined that very exclusive club -- nominated for the Star but who refused the award. Mongo Zodiac, Fleet Marines, Captain Shapiro’s exec, was also nominated. I was serving aboard Dragon, when Zodiac saved some of us, at the cost his own life. Sophie Heisenberg commanded Dragon, Willow Wolf was the weapons officer, I was just the XO.”

  Two pictures flashed on the wall behind her. A battle moon -- and the same battle moon after it had taken a massive hit. About a third was gone; another large part was slag. “This is Dragon, before and after we took a near miss from a gigaton weapon. God knows how we managed it -- two thirds of the ship was junk. We only lost half of every man and woman aboard. The captain was as far forward as she could be; I was as far aft as I could be.

  “I have since served, however briefly, with Captain Cindy Rhodes. She has the Star as well. Almost everything she did to earn that is code word top secret and beyond. Hannah Sawyer was an operations officer because what her title was was of no consequence. Captain Rhodes is the best living operations officer in the Fleet -- and the best fighter pilot of us all -- and she’s never once been in fighter combat. You’re going to be fighter pilots -- those of you who qualify. In your dreams, you’ll be a tenth as good as Cindy Rhodes. She’s a flag captain now to the deputy commander at Adobe.

  “I could go on and on about the heroic acts I’ve seen and the heroic people I’ve met. I was on First Rome -- we returned with less than ten percent of our pilots. It was counted as a signal success when we brought back a half of our second complement of pilots.

  “Other deployments have trod our path since then -- although they’ve had better results. Mostly we get more than half our pilots back now. Mostly.

  “You will be going out with Thebes. You’ll come back when I come back -- and I intend to be back as early as I can.

  “I’m the titular Empress of Campbell’s World -- but my father usurped the crown. One day I’ll set that right -- but not until the war is over. I have high hopes of not being old and gray when I come back. I really want to pay that bastard father of mine back, and see the look on his face when we take him to the closest wall and shoot him.

  “Now, questions. I have a dozen minions to help. Ask them general questions; talk to me only if you dare.”

  It wasn’t anywhere close to lunchtime; obviously they expected a lot of questions, Steve thought.

  It was true, he learned shortly. There were long lines in front of the ‘minions.’ Steve debated on something to say, but couldn’t come up with anything appropriate. A little after lunchtime he resumed his seat, staring sightlessly into the distance.

  He had no idea how long he sat there. Then someone nudged him. “Do you have a question? Or just stomach cramps?”

  Steve focused; he wished he hadn’t. A Fleet captain.

  He spoke softly. “My only question is, do I have to wait until I graduate? I’d rather go today.”

  “Let me see your records,” the officer requested. He sighed and kissed his future in the Fleet away. She passed the thumb drive to a Fleet chief, who scanned his papers.

  The chief turned to the captain standing beside him. The chief grinned. “He’s yours, sir. He has a Rim Advanced Flight certificate and couple of others. He’s ours to play with, sir!”

  The captain glared at Steve. “Yes or no, do you really want to go right now?”

  “Yes, I want to be in the Fleet.”

  Where had the Marines come from? Two seemed to sprout from the ground. The woman captain waved at Steve, speaking to the master chief.

  “Escort this person to his home of record. He is authorized a ship bag of personal items. Deliver him to Maunalua Shuttle port before 2100 Maunalua time, to be delivered to Grissom station forthwith, eggs scrambled but not broken. I’ll arrange for h
im to be met.”

  The chief saluted. “Aye, aye, sir. May I explain to the subject individual his mistakes?”

  “No! Let him contemplate things. He’s to be assigned to the OC class that’s due to start Monday.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Sir, with apologies, you are hogging all the fun here.”

  “Chief, contemplate a Rim Advanced Flight certificate. Contemplate... oh contemplate a lot of things. Contemplate not knowing a great many other things, unless you bothered to look to them up first.”

  “You want me to contemplate a dirty-foot faking Rim Certificates? Not a pleasant thing.”

  “Never assume, Chief. You were ordered to see to some things. See to them.”

  Steve looked at the chief. “I used public transport to get here. My home is about eight miles away.”

  “Ah! Test number one! You say you have an advanced flight certificate. I’ll just borrow a shuttle and we’ll see. If you don’t have such a certificate, tell me now. If you sit down in the left seat of the shuttle without one -- that’s a capital offense. You will be shot.”

  “If you’ve seen my public records, they have my records on maintaining my certificates. All of them.”

  “No problem, then.” The chief turned to the officer. “Captain, I’d be more comfortable with this if you administered his oath before we commenced with things.”

  “Repeat after me, Yardley,” the captain told Steve -- and then ran through the oath of enlistment. “See that he gets to Grissom. Don’t ding my shuttle -- I’ll hitch a ride with the admiral. She has a much nicer shuttle than mine, but I don’t want to see dings in mine.”

  Steve was led outside. He’d been sure they hadn’t been kidding him about putting him in the left seat of a shuttle; they weren’t. “Home, James!” the chief ordered Steve.

  “Traffic clearance?”

  “A pilot knows these things, Yardley. You either are or you’re not.”